#i should probably stop buying fleeces | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

alrightberries · 4 years ago

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dante’s inferno

request: wassup homie could you maybe write a college au fic where levi and reader are rommies, then one day reader brings home an adopted cat without levi's prior knowledge? You could decide what happens next lol. Tysm 🥺

❈ pairing: levi ackerman x reader

❈ genre: fluff, semi-crack ❈ word count: 4k

❈ summary: college au. in which you bring a stray cat to your dorm and your neat freak roommate won’t let you keep it.

alternatively: a compilation of college shenanigans where you and levi are best friends who are bad with feelings (ft. an unamused cat named dante)

❈ trigger warnings: profanity. mentions of alcohol and smoking. implied smut.

a/n: this was supposed to be loosely based on the nine circles of hell according to inferno by dante alighieri— hence the title— but i did my research wrong so now it’s loosely based on the seven terraces of purgatory according to divine comedy. i’m keeping the title tho.

Inspired by this art by @ryuichirou on tumblr.

Permission to repost art was granted by the artist. Do not repost/edit the art without explicit permission from the artist.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

i. first terrace: pride

“We’re not keeping it.”

“But why?”

“We’re not keeping it.”

“But why.”

Levi’s tongue clicks in annoyance. His eyes glance next you where the offending creature lay on your bed; tail curling, paws kneading at his your favorite fleece blanket. Quite frankly he’s a little offended when the little shit has the audacity to glare at him back.

He’ll never admit it, but his ego’s a bit bruised because the cat’s glare was slightly better than his.

“I said no,” he firmly replies, looking back to you. “It’s bad enough I have to share a room with an anarchist who has no respect for boundaries—“

“One time, I forgot to use a coaster that one time!”

“—and now you expect me to share a room with a dirty fur ball who does nothing but eat, shit, and sleep?”

“He’s a cat, Levi.” You murmur, scooping the cat into your arms. “And he has a name,” you give a nervous smile when you see your rommate grit his teeth. He feels a headache coming.

“You named it?”

“Dante is not an ‘it’.”

Levi makes a move to step closer but immediately stops when the ‘Dante’ hisses at him.

“Aw, he likes you.” You coo.

“Clearly,” he replies unenthusiastically. “Listen,” he sighs. “I respect your cat’s pronouns but that doesn’t mean he’s allowed to stay. Or do I need to remind you of the mac and cheese incident?”

Okay, maybe he was on to something. If you got caught with a pet in the dorms you’d breach your third and final warning, and you’d be forced to dorm off-campus. The fact that you were still here after the mac and cheese incident was solely because Levi pulled some strings (aka asked Erwin, golden boy of the campus who owed him a favor, to pull some strings).

But you couldn’t just let Dante go. There was something about him that felt so familiar; something about his black fur, thin silver eyes, unamused snarl, and overall grumpy demeanor. Especially endearing was the way he’d grumble and pretend to be annoyed whenever you tried to cuddle him but would complain if you stopped.

You just couldn’t figure out who or what he reminded you of.

Maybe you would’ve figured it out too if you weren’t so distracted with watching Levi and Dante stare at each other. Your eyes dart back and forth between the grouchy cat sitting on your bed and your grouchy roommate sitting on his desk. Both were slightly crouched over with their heads tilted up in a show of dominance; they were engaged in what seemed to be a glaring contest, gunmetal irises unamused and mouths taut in a snarl as they protected their territory.

You sigh. You really, for the life of you, couldn’t figure out why Dante felt so familiar.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

ii. second terrace: envy

Levi is not jealous. He’s not.

At least that’s what he tells himself as he sulks alone on his bed. His arms are crossed and his lips are in a pout, eyebrows knitted in distaste, occasionally glancing to your side of the room where you sat up on your bed. He’s sure whatever movie you chose to watch together is interesting and all, but right now all he could pay attention to was that stupid cat. Sitting on your stupid lap. Getting its fur stroked by your stupid hand. Getting all the love and affection his stupid self should be receiving.

It was him you should be cuddling, not Dante. Saturday nights were reserved for him and you, not you and a cat while he happened to be in the room. He’s been trying to make a move on you since high school and he can’t fucking believe he’s losing your attention to a cat. Sure, he’s always been too chicken to make a move and had to suffer seeing you get together with assholes— as per your type during your emo high school days— but this was a new low. He can’t wrap his head around the concept that he’s losing his longterm crush to a motherfucking cat.

When you coo at how adorable the fleabag was for what felt like the 50th time that night, Levi decides he’s had enough of the cuddle-hogging piece of shit.

Wordlessly, he crosses to your side of the room and lifts the cat from its perch, ignoring your protests as he sets it down on the floor and tells it to ‘scram, you little fuck.’ He uses a hand to dust your lap free of any microscopic cat particles Dante probably left behind before lying down his head down once he was satisfied. He grabs your hand to put it on his hair.

“Stroke.” He orders, eyes closing.

“What? No! You pushed off Dante.”

“He was in my spot.”

“You couldn’t have given up your lap pillow for one night?”

“One night?” He scoffs and turns to look at you. “You’ve been abandoning me for two weeks. That disgusting, tic-infested, rabies-carrying slob has no business sitting on your lap.”

“He’s not disgusting, you gave him a shower before you agreed to let me keep him. And I took him the vet to make sure he had all his shots. He’s clean, Levi.”

“Tch, good. Now throw him out and let him find someone else to freeload from.”

“Okay, what’s going on?” You guffaw. “You’ve been grumpier than usual. And why’re you being such an ass to Dante? He’s just a cat.”

“Don’t think he’s special in some way. I’m an ass to everyone.”

“Then why does it feel like you’re always extra mean to him?”

He doesn’t reply. His lips are downturned into a frown when he looks away with a click of his tongue, and you realize with a sigh you won’t be getting an answer from your cryptic roommate soon. Your fingers start mindlessly stroking his undercut when you get lost in your thoughts— a habit you developed through years of Levi using your lap as a pillow. He always complained the first few times you did it but you knew it calmed both him and you, and that it put both your minds at ease. Moreso Levi right now, apparently.

You’re keenly aware of how he seems to curl up into you the more you keep going. You watch as his shoulders slump down when you stroke the side of his face, and his eyebrows relax slightly. From your angle, you could even see the way his eyes close in content. Maybe even a tiny smile if you were being delusional.

Your lip twitches upward.

“Oh my god, Levi, are you jealous of a cat?”

“Shut up and play with my hair.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

iii. third terrace: wrath

“You owe me a new cravat.”

You blink up at your roommate. “What?”

“You owe me a new cravat.” He repeats. He pulls from his pocket a white piece of fabric— barely recognizable— torn into shreds, releases it mid-air. It gently lands on your open palm.

“Wait, did Dante do this?” You ask, eyeing the slik in your hands.

“Unless you went feral in the middle of the fucking night and decided to cut up my clothes, yes.”

“Oh my god, Levi, I’m so sorry. I swear Dante will never—“

“You actually owe me three cravats,” he interjects. “The first two I overlooked since they weren’t that expensive but I draw the line here.” His lips are downturned into a frown, eyes poorly concealing his clear distaste. “This one’s my favorite and it was made from silk.”

You eye the fabric in your hands once more before nodding in understanding, setting down the once beautiful cravat before taking out your wallet. It was only fair that you paid him back; he was being more than generous with letting your cat stay and keeping it a secret, and now you wonder how many bad things Dante’s done that Levi’s overlooked or simply never brought up with you.

“Sure, I’m really sorry. How much do I owe you?”

Levi doesn’t say anything. Instead he pulls out his phone and types something on what you could only assume was google, most likely looking for the same brand of the cravat your cat had just torn into shreds. You weren’t entirely sure how much those could cost, but surely you could afford—

“What the fuck!” You screech, eyeing the page with very, very hefty price tags listed. Holy fucking hell where did he even get the money to buy something so expensive. Gulping, you nervously look up at your unimpressed roommate. You already knew he was taking it easy on you; his aura was the only thing intimidating, at least he wasn’t giving you the murder eyes. And even though he was a man of his word, you were thankful he hasn’t reported Dante.

Still, it didn’t change the fact that Levi looked pissed beyond belief.

“Uhm... can I pay you with a check that’ll definitely bounce?”

“You will pay me in cash.”

“Fuck, fine!”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

iv. fourth terrace: sloth

Levi silently works on his desk. His laptop’s open in fromt of him, numerous notes from classes and books from the library surrounding him. The gentle sounds of clicking and clacking echoe throughout the room as fingers typed at the keyboard, eyes concentrated and lips pulled taught as he focuses on his task. He’s on a roll. He’s almost done with this part of his research, nothing could snap him out of this, he just needs to—

“Levi, when do you think Dante will come back to me?”

He stops typing and grits his teeth.

This is how it’s been the entire night. Ten minutes of peace before you ask him some stupid questions that could’ve been answered with common sense.

“Fuck if I care.”

“Do you think it was something I did?”

He resumes typing. “Yes.”

“Do you think he’ll come back?”

“No.”

“Even after all we’ve been through?”

“Still no.”

“I miss him,” you sigh. “I miss him so much.”

“Then you shouldn’t have left the door open.”

It’s been a week since Dante escaped the dorm and Levi doesn’t understand why you’re still so depressed about it. I mean, you only lost a cat that you loved and treasured and treated like family. Surely a week of moping around in your pajamas and eating nothing but chips and soda was catharsis enough.

He hears you shift in your burrito blanket, presumably to turn away from him so you can sulk into the wall next to your bed. Good. Now he can get back to working on—

“Levi do you think Dante-“

“Enough.” He grits, slamming his laptop shut.

“Where’re you going?” You ask, eyeing the way he hurriedly stuffs papers and books into his bag along with his laptop.

“Out.” He replies, grabbing his keys and his coat. “I can’t stand this shit anymore.”

Your head is burried in your blankets when he slams the door shut and all you could do was slump down because great. You lost Dante, and now you’ve royally pissed off Levi.

Great. Just fucking great.

Unlike your cat, however, your roommate comes back hours later, just before curfew. He doesn’t bother with a hello— he never does— and neither do you, opting to stay hidden underneath the sheets. Though suddenly, there’s a dip in the mattress followed by a pur next to your head.

Could it be?

“Dante?” You murmur, lifting your head from underneath your cocoon of fabric. Small black paws and silver eyes meet your gaze. “Dante!” Immediately sitting up, you pulled him to your lap, scratching his little head and cooing about how much you missed him as he purred and curled into to you.

Levi would never say it, but he missed seeing you smile at the little fleabag.

You turn to look at your roommate. “How’d you find him?”

“Asked around the campus. He wandered into another dorm building and probably thought it was ours.”

“Well yeah but... I thought you hated him?”

“I do.” He replies instantly.

“Then why’d you find him?”

“I hate him, not you.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

v. fifth terrace: avarice

“I fucking hate both of you,” Levi grumbles, staring at the dorm.

Towers of boxes lined his supposed to be clean dorm room. He had a hard time prying the door open since it was blocked, and he wasn’t even sure how the boxes weren’t blocking out the light from how high they were piled. Dante’s sat on a stack of box directly next to the door, purring and flicking his tail around. Levi squints his eyes and glares at the little shit.

“You especially.”

“Mrow?”

Levi’s day had been, with no irony or sarcasm at all, amazing. He got a good grade on his research paper; the guy in front of him at the cafe accidentally ordered an extra serving of (coincidentally, Levi’s favorite) tea and gave it to him for free; and he got full marks for the presentation he’s been worrying about for weeks. His class even got dismissed early so he had an extra hour for lunch. He knew you didn’t have classes, so in honor of his great day he thought he’d do something nice and take you out for lunch. His treat, of course.

But any trace of his good mood vanished when he went back to the dorms and got greeted to a room that looked like it came from an episode of Hoarders.

This is what he gets for trying to be nice.

“Levi! Is that you?” You called out.

“What the fuck happened?”

You laugh sheepishly— at least Levi thinks you do. He couldn’t see you beyond the hundred boxes that took up your shared room. He hears some rustling and the sound of things being moved around before finally your head pops out from behind a wall of brown, smiling at him apologetically before walking towards him (and tripping a few times).

“Remember when I said I’d order some toys for Dante as a surprise?”

Levi’s eye twitches. “Don’t tell me—”

“I accidentally ordered 10,000 instead of 10. Online shopping struggles, am I right?” You nervously chuckle at his pissed off face. Levi was not in the mood.

Your smile widens as you make twinkly gestures with your hands. “So uh... surprise?”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

vi. sixth terrace: gluttony

The clinic is still when you first entered.

The harsh smell of alcohol and sterile metal makes your nose grimace, and the coldness of the thermostat brings goosebumps to your arms. Behind the wall, somewhete in the waiting room, cats are hissing, dogs are barking, and you could even hear the sound of birds angrily chirping and rattling their cages.

Dante cowers in fear on the silver table, and your heart aches. His ears are down and his fur’s standing on its ends, but you couldn’t comfort him. Not right now, at least. The veterinarian still needed to do a few more checks.

You gulp, “how’s... how’s Dante looking, doc?”

“Not good,” she murmurs. Her eyebrows are furrowed, and she takes a deep sigh as she eyes the information on the chart. “It’ll take months before he can walk properly again, possibly more if we don’t do anything about it soon.”

“Don’t tell me... is he—-”

“I’m sorry, my dear,” she sighs. “But your cat is heavily obese.”

The corners of your lips twitch down into a frown, and your palm is warm when you start to stroke Dante’s fur. He calms down a bit from your touch, less on edge but still guarded as he warily eyes the doctor’s gloved hands.

“But I don’t understand,” you reply. “I’ve been following the recommended diet you put him on, and I haven’t been feeding him anything other than the cat food and vitamins you recommended. How’s he still obese?”

“Well, we could look into other solutions, but for now I think we ought to look at whether or not Dante has an underlying health problem.”

Levi tunes out the chatter between you and the vet, bored eyes staring into nothing. He’s leaning against a wall and he’s watching the cat carrier. Your bag’s slung over his shoulders and your coat’s in his arms, and he was sure you didn’t even need him to be here for “moral support.”

He mentally scoffs. You probably just needed a chauffeur to drive you for free, and honestly, Levi would rather feel like a chauffeur than a coat rack.

His eyes make contact with Dante’s, and all the fear in the cat’s eyes is suddenly gone, replaced with a steely glare and bared teeth. A warning, one no one else notices but him.

Levi gives him a solitary nod, understanding what Dante wanted to say.

Don’t tell Y/N I’ve been sneaking to the neighbors.

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vii. seventh terrace: desire

There’s something about the buzz of alcohol and nicotine that makes Levi confident—- the liquid courage in his veins and the smoke in his lungs clouding his judgement. Perhaps that’s where he finally gets the balls to cross the room, drunken eyes on your equally intoxicated ones, before he pulls you in for a kiss.

The kiss starts slow, with lips just interlocking and lightly testing the waters. But then he feels your tongue make its way inside his mouth and your fingers weave into his hair to tug him closer, and Levi loses the last threads of inhibition he has. His tongue massages yours and one of his arm wraps around your waist, the other comes down to grope and knead your ass. He feels you walk backwards and your hand pulls at his tie, dragging him with you. Suddenly he’s trapping you against a wall, lifting one of your legs up to wrap around his hips so he could grind his crotch into yours.

Levi doesn’t expect his first kiss with you to be like this; messy and full of tongue and spit, full of fingers clawing at clothes and small grunts escaping your lips. He was hoping it’d be more romantic, with warm cheeks and fingers softly intertwining, shy kisses exchanged through little smiles.

But he’s not about to complain—- he’s wanted to be with you for years, and god he loved having you like this. Loved having you all hot and desperate, trapped between his firm chest and the wall. His cock is hard in his pants, and he just about growls when he feels you start to undo his belt, the fly of his pants coming down as you got on your knees and stared up at him with innocent eyes as you pull out his aching boner. There’s a cheeky grin your face when you pump at his length, and your tongue peaks out of your mouth before—

“Levi, are you okay?”

His eyes snap open, and he’s greeted to the sight of your worried face directly above his.

“Fuck!” he yells, and his forehead slams into yours when he flinches away. “Sorry, sorry” he quickly ammends when you yelp in pain.

He’s covered in sweat, he notices. Chest heaving, heart beating a little too loud for his liking, and he silently pulls the blankets over his cum stained boxers when you sit beside him.

God, he was really hoping you wouldn’t notice the fact that he came in his pants like a high schooler. And it was before dream you even got to suck him off. How much more pathetic could he be.

“Are you okay?” He asks, and you nod.

“Yeah, m’fine, it’s just...” your eyes are distracted, staring off into space. Fingers trace his thighs, and you sigh. “You were having a nightmare,”

Levi blinks. “What?”

“You were having a nightmare,” you repeat. “Kept tossing and turning and groaning in your sleep. And you kept making these... funny faces,”

“...right,” he nods. Sure, a nightmare. A nightmare he never wanted to wake up from.

It takes about ten minutes to reassure you that yes, he was fine, don’t mind the way his cheeks are flushed, he was just... shaken up from his nightmare, is all. Then you’re back to bed, sleeping the night away, and twenty minutes later he’s on his way back to bed too; this time with a fresh pair of boxers and a content look on his face, all thanks to him finishing off his fantasies in the communal bathroom during his shower.

The door makes a quiet click when he shuts it behind him, and he freezes when he catches sight of Dante sat up on your bed, tail flicking behind him as he gives Levi a knowing look.

Levi squints his eyes, and he threateningly whispers, “you tell no one.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

epilogue

The half empty room brings a frown to your face, and all you could do was pout as you sealed up the last of the boxes.

“Why do you have to leave again?” you ask, and Levi turns around as he finishes folding the last of his clothes. He shrugs. “Cats aren’t allowed in the dorms.”

You owed him your entire college career, that much was sure. The RA’s found out about Dante, and Levi had taken the fall to spare you. He wasn’t required to move out since it was only his first strike, but he insisted on doing so so that Dante wouldn’t be alone, saying he already found an apartment nearby and he’ll never hear the end of it from you if he didn’t take Dante with him.

Bullshit. Levi had a soft spot for Dante, you knew that much. He wasn’t doing it for you, he was doing it for himself. Though normally you’d be overjoyed to know that Levi really did secretly like the cat he pretended to hate so much, this time, you were just pissed. You couldn’t believe a fucking cat was stealing away the guy you’ve been in love with since high school. Sure, you were too much of a coward to ask him out, but he was basically your boyfriend already—- the entire campus knew you inadvertently had dibs on each other.

“Yeah but... do you have to leave me alone?”

“I asked you to come with me, and you said no.” He points out. “I still don’t see why when we’ve been roommates since we were freshmen.”

“It’s different off-campus!”

“How?”

“Because it’s like... it’s like we’re moving in together, y’know?” you reply. “And it seemed wrong to move in with you when we’re not even dating.”

“Let’s do it, then.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighs, handing you a spare key to what you could only assume was his new apartment. You glance between him and the key in your hands, and he rolls his eyes when he realizes that you still don’t get it.

“I know we’re doing this backwards since couples don’t typically move in before the first date,” he says before gesturing to Dante. “But we already have a son, and I know you’re his favorite parent. We can share custody until you can move in with me.”

You blink. “What?” Your brain stopped working when Levi referred to you as a couple, and you’re pretty sure your heart stopped beating too. At this point, anything he said went in one ear and out the other. He flicks your forehead.

“Hey— ow! What was that for?”

“You weren’t listening.”

“And you’re being a prick!” you grumble. “It hurts, y’know.”

He scoffs. “What do you want me to do? Kiss it better?” he scoffs.

Your mouth moves faster than your brain, “I’d rather you kiss me.”

Wait. What?

Before you could go back on your words, Levi shrugs. Warm palms gently grab your cheeks, pulling your face closer to his. Your eyes widen and you momentarily freeze, brain definitely not working anymore. He hesitates when you don’t make a move, but then you’re shyly leaning forward, and that was all the confirmation Levi needs.

“If you insist,” he whispers, and suddenly your words die on your tongue when his lips interlock with yours.

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#levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader #levi ackerman imagine #levi imagine #attack on titan x reader #aot x reader #attack on titan imagine #aot imagine #shingeki no kyojin x reader #snk x reader #shingeki no kyojin imagine #snk imagine #writing

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tomtenadia · 3 years ago

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Remember Us - part 6

Monday surprise!

As some of you might have read from my post from yesterday, I officially finished this fic and it will have 10 parts. this was the original plan and I am glad I kept it. The idea of having many more chapters of Rowan not recognising his family was far too painful.

Chapter 9 and 10 are so sweet that they will probably give you cavities, but I just thought they deserved the best happy ending.

Also, i got very attached to Thomas and he is a great fan of his parents.

Well, I hope you will enjoy this.

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Rowan had been staying at Lorcan’s while Aelin still kept her distance. It had been two weeks and they had been horrendous. She had blocked him off of her life. She was not answering his calls or texts and apparently had told Elide not to tell him anything about her. He was furious. They should be together and face such a tragic moment in their lives, together. But Aelin would not listen. He had tried everything to talk to her.

Someone knocked on the door and, since he was home alone, he went to open it.

On the other side he found Aelin. But the woman in front of him had a lifeless stare and deep shadows under her eyes. She was the ghost of his wife.

“Ro…” she said in a thin voice and then broke down in heavy sob.

Rowan didn’t even think. His arms pulled her at his chest and kissed her head. The sight of an Aelin so heartbroken was a shot to his heart.

“I am sorry.” She added, hiding her face in his chest and inhaling his scent that always gave her comfort.

“Shhh… I am here. I am never letting you go again, no matter how much you shout at me.” Another tender kiss “I am coming home and we’ll get through this.”

Rowan was in bed and staring at the ceiling after the dream woke him up. The Aelin from the dream was a shell compared to the version sleeping at his side. He turned his head and stared at her sleepy face and a deep part of him hoped she was fine. That the baby was fine. Because he knew for sure he didn’t want to see her again in the conditions she had been in the dream. Seeing Aelin in pain or sad hurt him.

He sighed and got off the bed and walked to the kitchen but once he got there he realised he had no idea where anything was. Aelin had said he would make pancakes but could not remember the day she had said.

A splitting headache hit him and Rowan sat down on the sofa, head in his hands and then for a moment he felt disoriented and could not recognise his surroundings. Panic hit him. He looked up and saw a boy staring at him. He jumped up and almost fell.

“Dad.” The boy’s voice was almost tearful.

And as quickly as the moment of disorientation came, just as rapidly it went away and lucidity returned.

“Tom,” he ran to the boy and hugged him to console him as soon as he started crying. He had scared him “I am sorry I frightened you.” Thomas hugged his father and stopped crying and Rowan relaxed for an instant.

“Do you want pancakes?” He asked his son, still not letting him go.

“It’s not Saturday.” Said the boy, looking at his father in his eyes.

“Shhhh…” said Rowan with a finger against his mouth “You can have pancakes all the time.” He lifted the boy in his arms “but you need to tell me where everything is.”

Thomas grinned and pointed to the kitchen and once in there he started pointing at the doors and Rowan finally found a pan. Then he grabbed his phone and searched for a recipe, grabbed eggs and milk from the fridge and joined Thomas back at the counter who, in the meantime, had grabbed a chair and was kneeling on it so he could follow his dad.

“Will you be my assistant?” the boy nodded eagerly.

After ten minutes he was mixing the batter making sure it was smooth as the instructions recommended.

“Ok, Tom, are you ready for the first one?”

“Pancakes,” he shouted happily and Rowan smiled. He might remember a very few things about his son but he was definitely going to cherish that moment. It didn’t matter if it had been only a day. He was already in love with the two children. He just hoped he could become a good father to them once again.

Aelin woke up and found the bed empty and for a moment she thought it had been only a dream, but as she rolled over she noticed Rowan’s side was crumpled and gently caressed his pillow. He had always been an early riser and it seemed that some things had not changed.

She sat up, grabbed her fleece from the chair and left the bed looking for Rowan.

As she exited the bedroom she heard laughter coming from the kitchen and followed the sounds and once inside she could not believe the scene. Thomas was kneeling on a chair beside Rowan trying to cook something.

“Pancakes on a Wednesday?”

Thomas turned to her “shhh mum, it’s a secret.”

Aelin walked to her son and kissed his head “good morning, my love.”

“I am helping dad with pancakes. He doesn’t remember how to make them.”

Rowan flipped one and Thomas clapped “that is mine.” He grabbed a plate and placed the pancake on it “go and sit while I make more.”

Thomas climbed down the chair and walked to the table with his plate.

Aelin moved to Rowan’s side “did you sleep well?”

Her husband nodded and hesitated for a moment wether to tell her about his episode. Then he sighed and told her what had happened and Aelin looked at him with a doctor’s eye.

“A TBI can have such effects. It can cause moments of disorientation in which the person doesn’t know where he is. It can also affect short term memory, making it difficult to learn new things or even remember things you just did.” She placed a few more pancakes in Thomas’ plate “but there are ways to help you. We can do lists, have notepads and clipboards in the house. Have a note book and note down things.” She explained going back at his side “long term memory is stored already in your brain,” and playfully patted his head “you actually haven’t lost them. They are still all there. It’s just your brain has to sort through them again. It’s very complicated and technical, but they will come back. Short term memory is another issue. Do you still feel confused?”

Rowan shook his head and passed Aelin a plate with pancakes and then grabbed the jar of Nutella “go and scoff your breakfast.”

Aelin grinned “see? You remembered I take them with Nutella.”

In that instant they heard a cry and Aelin realised Freyja had woken up. She was about to stand when Rowan stopped her “Eat,” he commanded and again she had a glimpse of past Rowan. The one who would made sure she ate.

A moment later he came back with his daughter in his arms “I think our princess wants to join the breakfast club as well.” Freyja threw her chubby arms around his neck, snuggling close to him “what does she eat?”

Aelin went to the fridge and grabbed one of her pressed meals and Rowan began feeding his daughter.

It was an hour later when Aelin was ready for work “mum should be back very soon and I am taking Thomas to the nursery. Will you be okay with Freyja for half an hour tops? I changed her and she is fed, it should be easy.”

Rowan lifted the little girl in his arms “we should be fine.” And gave her his best reassuring smile.

“You call me if you have any problems.”

Thomas went to hug his dad before following Aelin out of the door.

Once he was alone with his daughter he stood, with her still in his arms and hobbled around the living room and stared at their impressive bookcase. Freyja leaned forward and with her hands tried to grab a book “ ‘tory” she babbled.

“Do you want me to read you a story?” He asked her and the girl green eyes were fixed on him and then she nodded.

He placed her down on the carpet and turned to the library in search of a storybook for her.

“I think I— ” he turned with a book in his hands and froze. Freyja was gone. Shit.

“Freyja.” He called her, panic rising in his voice. She couldn’t have gone far. How fast could a 18 months toddler go? He took his cane and started looking around the house “Freyja?”

In that instant Evalin came back and he breathed in relief.

“Rowan, are you okay?”

He was the worst father ever “I lost Freyja. I was looking for a storybook and when I turned she was gone.” He was preparing himself from some lashing from his mother in law but the woman burst into laughter.

“She does that. Thomas has been teaching her how to play hide and seek,” the woman explained calmly walking around the house and then going to the girl’s bedroom. Rowan followed her.

Evalin lifted the blanket from the side of the bed and pointed at under her bed.

Rowan heard a faint giggle.

“I wonder where my girl is.” Said Evalin keeping up the pretence. She opened the wardrobe “no, she is not here.” Rowan observed her and then joined in “she is not in the toy box either.”

Evalin placed her hands on her hips and grinned at Rowan then crouched down “here you are.”

The little girl screamed in delight as her grandma caught her.

The three of them went back to the living room and Evalin passed Freyja back to Rowan and went to unpack her shopping bags.

“Do you need a hand?” He offered.

“No, it’s just fruits and veggies and a few more things. I love to go down at the market in the morning and buy fresh ingredients.” She told him, “you love to go too on your day off, wake up early and also go to the fish market and get the first catch.”

Rowan sat on a chair at the big table with his daughter in his arms.

“Aelin can cook, but you are the chef of the family.”

He smiled back and gently bounced Freyja on his knee and she giggled.

“How does it feel being back home?” She asked her son in law while stashing away the groceries.

Rowan sighed “it feels good and strange at the same time.” It was hard to explain how he felt without sounding like a lunatic “Some things are starting to feel familiar. But others feel totally new and others scare me.” He confessed but the woman in front of him looked at him with tenderness “the kids for example, I feel like I love them madly already but it pains me that the memories with them are still fuzzy. I want to give them back their father.”

“And Aelin?”

Rowan sighed “I think I feel something for her. I would not call it love yet. But yesterday we kissed and it felt like the most normal thing ever.”

Evalin smiled.

“But my memories are a jumble in my head right now. I have them, they are there and I found that being at home is triggering more and more of them. I want to do this. I want us to be a family again.” He grabbed his phone and showed her the photo on his home screen. The one on the beach, all of them smiling and happy. “I want this again. I just don’t know how to get there.”

“Rowan,” Evalin walked to him once done with the groceries and sat at his side “you have been awake for a month and at home for two days.” She patted his knee “both Aelin and I think that being home will help trigger more of your memories. Look through photo albums.” She stood and opened a cabinet and took out a box which once opened he discovered it contained a lot of photo albums. “Digital is good, but you and Aelin both love to print out the photos and make scrapbooks.” She rummaged in the box for a moment and then passed him an album “start with this.”

Rowan took it and it noticed it was their wedding album “Her friend Chaol took all the photos and then Aelin made a scrapbook and added notes and comments on it. She said she did not want the usual boring wedding album.”

He opened the first page and in big colourful letter and nice calligraphy it said Buzzard & Fireheart: the beginning of an epic tale.

The second page it had a picture of the two of them in an armour, back to back and swords drawn.

“You two hired some costumes for that photo.”

Rowan laughed and kept on flipping through the photo album. It was organised like a story, with small narrating paragraphs near the photos and he read each one of them.

“You two got married on a beach, then had a gigantic barbecue for all your friends and then when night came you lit a bonfire and had your first dance as husband and wife in front of the fire. Both of you barefoot.”

Rowan smiled “it sounds like fun.”

“It was a great day.” She bounced Freyja on her lap “all the albums tell a story. You did all of them like that so when looking back you could also remember more of those moments.”

Rowan reached the page where they were standing in front of Aedion, who officiated the wedding, and he stared at Aelin. Her light blue dress was gorgeous, but he was stuck on her smile. In the photo he was looking at she has the brightest of smiles and he realised that falling for her would be so easy. She was caring, brilliant, funny and sarcastic. She had passion. She had fire.

She was his Fireheart.

#rowan whitethorn #rowaelinkids #rowan x aelin #aelin galathynius #domestic fluff #throneofglassseries

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alkhale · 4 years ago

Text

change the channel (Ko-Fi Request) Kenma Kozume/Camgirl!Omega!Reader

hello! Id love a kenma x reader fic (maybe a/b/o) ?? Also, thank you so so much for writing so many amazing fanfics :) every time I read a new chapter from any of your stories, it makes my day <3

OFC COURSE YOU CAN!!!! And thank you so much for your support and for your donation! AND THANK YOU!! I know this one is long overdue, but I hope you enjoy!

I’m also killing two birds with this one, it’s substituting for Typetober Day 16: back and forth (using change the channel instead)

title: change the channel

pairing: Kenma Kozume/Omega!Reader

rating: T/very slight M

summary:

Kenma taps his phone again, right back at your picture. He stares at you with wide, piercing eyes, leaning across the table and quickly saying, reverent and eager—

“I want to buy your game from you.”

Today, sitting here beside you in your bag, are fully equipped items to try and protect you from the creepy, deranged, rich stranger you’d been about to meet. Today, you were fully expecting to unleash a fury building up inside of you over an injustice you can’t tackle on your own in your society on some poor, unsuspecting alpha—

Here, sitting in front of you, is a self-claimed internet game streamer, who wants to buy your… special edition… game?

“You want…” you say, slowly, making sure you don’t have this wrong, “...my game?”

He nods.

You open your mouth. It closes. You open it again, raise a finger, and then press your lips together, staring at him.

“I’m sorry,” you say finally. “What?”

link to AO3 for easier reading: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27446191

Omegachion has signed on!

The monitor screen flickers to life.

An empty room appears. A plush, pink cushioned desk chair is in view. Along the cream, soft colored walls are a series of posters that usual garner less attention. A bookshelf is tucked to the side, complete with a set of potted plants hanging in clean pots—clearly loved. Within the stack of books sits shelves stuffed full with what looks to be discs and an assortment of other items.

The website's main frame appears—SecondGlanceStreaming.com. The design is sleek and black—clean and unassuming. A password is prompted, followed by a series of typed keys and then a click.

On the side of the screen a chatroom appears, coupled with a monitored security system in place established by the website. A cherry icon pops to life. Once the chatroom opens, the entire website flickers with light.

Omegalovers has signed on.

Rockyroadncream has signed on.

Omegasarekings has signed on.

Cumqueen324 has signed on.

Mrknottt has signed on.

Msbyjackalboi23 has signed on.

Openwideandsmile has signed on.

Sunnydayandnight has signed on.

Marshmellowtime has signed on.

Thecoolestalpha has signed on.

Bettagetbeta has signed on.

KingKodzuken has signed on.

Kodzu00 has signed on.

The chatrooms explodes with messages. A series of greetings are quickly issued by long-time fans and watchers of the streams, asking how your day was and how you’re feeling. A few more perverse, slimy messages are mixed in-between, demanding for the crude and obscene. A few others snipe back, telling the users to get their hands out of their pants while a series of other users greet each other instead, talking about the excitement over tonight's stream.

You hang back a bit, one arm crossed under your chest, puffed up with the fleecy soft fabric of your jacket while the other hand holds a jelly drink, sipping it in silence. You watch the chatroom explode, quickly gaining more and more users as others signed on to your stream. You check the time on your phone, sighing before you finish off your drink and toss it into the trash can.

You place the fuzzy bunny mask over your eyes, checking how you look in the mirror. You swipe your mouth with your thumb, applying your lip gloss and then smiling cutely at your reflection.

“Alright,” you say. “The goal tonight is 7,000 cherries… you got this!”

You clap your hands over your face and beam. Showtime.

You slide into the monitor’s view, the webcam flickering to life. The chat comes back with more force, messages spamming into the box and a series of cherries already floating into the screen. You beam, laughing as you wave to your viewers and blow them all kisses. “Hello! Hello everyone! I love to see so many of you are so punctual… Needy omegas like me… we love reliable people, you know?”

You hold back a snicker as the chat increases with your words. People shooting messages back at you as you let out a cute giggle. Tonight’s outfit is nothing but a cotton candy pink fleece zip-up that falls to the top of your thighs, also exposing your bare, smooth collarbones. It’s a special occasion, so you’re going the extra mile.

“How are we all doing tonight?” you ask sweetly, holding your chin up with your hands as you watch the chatroom, skimming over the responses. “Aw, Bettagetbeta, I’m sorry to hear that! I hope things get better for you… do you need a hug?”

Cherry icons pop up over your screen. 50. 30. 10. You smile, opening your arms to the camera. “There! I’ll make all your problems go away, okay?”

You bat your eyes under the mask, showing them your bare wrists and giving them a little rub with your thumbs. “You can scent me if you’d like… would that make you feel better?”

Bettagetbeta has gifted you 30 cherries!

Bigboialpha has gifted you 350 cherries!

“Bigboialpha!” you squeak, covering your mouth with your hands. “That’s too sweet of you! Did you want to scent me that badly?”

Your chatroom shakes from the force of scrambled messages. You smile, shyly running a finger up and down the slightly swollen scent glands of your wrist. You’ve timed this just right—and just as you thought, your viewers notice too, instantly spamming the boxes with more fervent messages, begging to scent you, begging to be with you, wrap you up in their smells—

(God, you make me want to vomit.)

“If you’re extra good,” you say sweetly, “you could… maybe even…”

You tease show off more of your bare shoulder, showing a pink bra strap. You slightly expose the side of your neck, bringing your fingers up dangerously close to your most sensitive scent glands. Cherry icons flash across the screen and you hold back an excited grin, feet tapping anxiously underneath your desk.

There’s a new flurry of disgusting messages, of big, handsome alphas promising to do all kinds of things to you if you’d let them. You roll your eyes under your mask, holding back curling your lip in disgust as they prattle on about how they’d take care of you, make you feel so, so good and—

“All right, all right, that’s enough teasing, right?” you say. “Everyone, thank you so much for signing on again tonight! If you’re new to my streams, welcome! We’re so happy to have you. I’m lucky to have you. It’s a special night tonight, you know why?”

Gonna come for us on screen?

Face reveal! Face reveal!

Omegachion i would do anything for u

Pls let me touch u

Take off ur jacket

Stfu and let her talk u horn dogs

Fking disgusting dont ruin the stream

Open ur legs, baby girl

“Because!” you say, throwing your arms into the air. You spin once in your chair, showing off the room and stopping right in front of the screen again. “I just got it in the mail today…”

You bring up the sleek red box that’d been waiting to the side of your desk. You beam, showing it off to your viewers. “Tadah! Do you know what this is? It’s a gift from our generous website hosts—a gift for reaching the Gold Status on streaming! Everyone, thank you so much! I couldn’t have done this without you!”

The chatroom pops with congratulations. There’s some demanding comments, ordering for a consolation prize. You skim through them all, smiling a bit at the paragraphs of kind words and thanks. They’re the viewers you wish you could treat with a little more care, give them something a little more for all they do.

“Want to see what the gift was?” you ask. You pop open the lid and show off the gift—a dark red, leather collar coupled with a golden dog tag. It’s a stylish thing, slim fitted and clearly of great quality, there’s a thickened edge to the leather, coupled with a lock and key.

It’s an omega collar.

You smile through your teeth. The stench of the perfume from the box makes you want to wretch, but you hold it for the camera as your viewers beg you to put it on. “Oh, I don’t know… should I?”

You play with it, showing it off to them against the column of your neck. They’re feverish and desperate.

“I don’t deserve something this nice,” you say, shaking your head.

Tease

Don’t cover up that beautiful neck

Dont blueball us

I only want to see u in my collar

“That’s right,” you say innocently. “I don’t want to cover up what belongs to you guys…” you show off your neck to them again, touching with your fingertips your own bonding gland, unmarked and bare. The chatroom is almost unrecognizable, going off into a feeding frenzy.

You turn back to the screen, smiling.

(You’re like babies.)

You drop the box out of view of the camera into your trashcan, kicking it under the table with more force than necessary. You ought to burn the fucking thing but leather probably doesn’t burn well.

I can’t believe I’m already at 4,000 cherries. You feel excitement replace the disgust, toes curling against your hardwood floor. You got this, amp it up a little bit.

“Since I couldn’t have made it this far without all of you,” you say, touching a hand to your chest and playing with your zipper. “I wanted to do something special—not just this stream! But a nice little event, how does that sound?”

You click your mouse, opening up a new box and icon for your viewers. “Can everyone see the royalty program alright? Yeah? Perfect! If you look, you’ll see the cute little banner we had set up and everything.”

You hold up your phone, smiling beside it. “For these set prices, I’ll be doing a series of special events, just for all of you guys for all the support you’ve given me!”

You point.

“50 cherries and you get a sweet text with a picture from me,” you say. “Each picture will be different, and none of them alike! Keep it between us though, okay? Hehe, I mean it! For 100 cherries, I’ll do a one minute call and for 300 cherries, a three minute call, just with you! For 500, we’ll do a private web-chat session and finally, the big one…”

You smile, “For 1,500 cherries, I’ll be doing a special, in-person meet and greet! How does that sound?”

The reactions are instantaneous.

Cherries already start popping up all over your screen, users filling out the roles and eagerly thanking you for everything while others spit at the prices. You ignore those comments, secretly marking certain users to be blocked. You know the last one is outrageous, how could it not be? Did they think you’d want to meet with any of them? You’d discussed this with several other streamers and they’d all done similar things—this deterred creeps and kept you safe. Usually no one ended up doing the meet and greet. It was too expensive.

It was foolproof.

I can’t wait to hear your voice

Will it be nudes

I want nudes

Thank you so much for doing this!

“I should be the one thanking you guys!” you squeal. Your eyes dart to the corner of your screen, watching the cherries roll in. Your heartbeat accelerates and you do the quick math in your head. “Oh my goodness! Sitwhereveryoulike, thank you so much for the Cherries! And you too, theprettiestalpha! Thank you!”

As it should be. You grin at the screen, prattling on with sweet words and thanks. You teasingly unzip a little more of your jacket, greedily watching the cherries pop-up all over the screen, trying to make conversation where you can and—

A single chat bubble pops up in the corner. You almost miss the question, but you’re almost certain your eyes don’t betray you. If you hadn’t seen the title so many times, you would’ve blown right past it.

(But you’re a true fan, down to your core, you could never miss a mention of—)

Is your username based on Water Emblem?

“Hello, Kodzu00!” you say quickly, trying to stifle your surprise. “Yes, it is! You must be new to the streams.”

You gesture behind you, smiling shyly at the poster of Varth on the back of your wall. “I’m actually a bit of a fan! I know the series is old and everyone’s excited for the new reboots, but I grew up with the old one.”

Ah, stop right there, don’t keep talking about it. You’re going to lose viewers! Your fingers fly back to your zipper, teasingly dragging it down another inch. You could talk about Water Emblem for hours, but you can’t—this is a stream after all. “Bigboialpha! I guess we’ll be having that private webchat after all… mhm! I’m looking forward to it—huh? What I’ll be wearing? Well…”

You cutely run your fingers up and down the column of your neck, bringing their attention back to your scent glands. “Would you… pick for me?”

You almost gag at the comment suggestions. You watch more cherries roll in—shit, another 500? I might make my goal after all! No, you would make your goal. You have to. The sooner you rake in the dough from these streams, the sooner you could—

For the meet and greet, would it be in person?

You blink, startled by the question. You quickly glance back to the username. Kudzu00 again? “Uh, yes! Yes, it would be~ I’d pick a nice location for us and we’d meet. Wouldn’t that be nice everyone?”

For how long?

Who even is this lol

Damn big bucks

Show us the tits already

Pls sit on my face

Your outfit is so cute today!

You swallow nervously. Calm down. What are you even freaking out for? No one in their right mind was ever going to drop that much money to meet with some stranger from the internet—no one.

“Fifteen minutes,” you say cheerfully, keeping one eye on the chat. Have I seen this user before? “There’s a lot we could do—ah, I mean talk about in fifteen minutes, right?”

Kodzu00 is typing…

The chat bubble disappears. You eye it for a few more seconds before shrugging your shoulders. Shake it off. You needed to keep this celebration stream going. You slyly bring your bare knees up and watch the chat go a little more wild, quick questions being shot about whether or not you’re wearing anything under that jacket. You keep the conversations going, sweetly asking the users about what they’d like to do, what kind of pictures and if—

A bright icon flashes on your screen. You glance over.

Kodzu00 has gifted you 3,000 cherries!

You freeze.

On your monitor the chat continues to fire off. A few people notice the notification. You blink, once, twice, before taking a second glance at the numbers.

3,000.

3,000 cherries?

3,000….

The calculation is quick in your head. You’re terribly good with money, sadly. The final statement minus the small deduction for processing appears in your mind’s eye and you balk.

HOLY FUCK.

Lol i think u broke her

God damn

Congratulations, Omegachion!

“K-K-Kodzu00!” you say, head spinning. “Thank you so much! Oh—oh my goodness! Thank you so much for your donation!” What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck— “I can’t believe you’d be so generous! Thank you so much! I’m so excited to meet you! Our first meet and greet!”

WHAT THE FUCK?

You quickly try to hold your composure, continuing with the stream. Calm down. Calm down. Calm down. Finish the show! You laugh, trying not to look at the history of the notification and focusing on your show instead. You thank every piece of good sense inside you for using a mask, hiding the sweat rolling down your face as you teasingly stand up for your audience, bending down a bit.

“Now, how about we end the night with a little… cuddle, hmm?” you say shakily, unzipping your jacket the rest of the way to show off the lacy, soft pink color of your bra. The chat bubbles pop up by the dozens, but you never see even a lick of Kodzu00 again. What the hell? ��C’mon, you know how badly I wish you were here to scent me… wrap me up in that smell of yours…”

(Give them what they all want.)

What feels like hours finally passes in a span of minutes and you quickly say goodbye to your watchers, blowing them a kiss and zipping your jacket backup as you finally sign off. You sit there, staring at the screen of your loading page, dumbfounded.

Limply, your finger finds its way to your mouse. You give it a click.

The final total for your earnings tonight appears in a tacky, almost shady colored box. You stare at it in silence.

9,750 Cherries.

Nine…. Nine thousand…

Almost 1,000,000 yen?

“Yes!” you screech, grabbing your head with your hands as you fly up from your chair. You kick the stupid, plush pink thing aside. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

This is insane! You almost want to cry in disbelief. This is—this is it! This is what I needed! I’m so close! I’m so close! You know the other streams won’t rake in nearly as much, but this is the final push you needed—if you kept up this kind of participation for another few months, your fees would be nothing! You’d be able to even afford a little extra and get something nice, replace your bathtub and treat yourself to an expensive dinner and all thanks to this stupid job and—

The grand, generous donation of Kodzu00—

You freeze. Your pure, unrestrained elation plummets. Reality clocks you sideways in the face and you slap yourself for being so dumb—how could I even forget? Your eyes dart back to the screen and you pull up the donation history, staring in dark silence at the simple, blaring donation of cherries, already transferred to your account and not even pending and—

Your joy is quickly replaced with something much more dire. You gape at the amount. The award title beside it appears. You stare.

And stare.

A thirty minute meet and greet.

You’d be meeting in person with this person for at least half and hour and—

What the hell?

You power off your screens, flying to your room and kicking the streaming room door shut behind you. You lunge for your bed, scrambling for your laptop, covered in Water Emblem stickers. You pop it open, quickly pulling up your admin account for the streaming sight and accessing your private passwords. You pull up the user history for all your past streams, typing in the username Kodzu00—

Nothing?

You stare at the blank history. The only entry is tonight’s stream. The very first time this user has ever showed up.

Alarm bells start ringing in your head. You pull up your emergency tab, a self-made list of all your red-flag boxes to check in cases like this for your safety. You click on Kodzu00’s account, searching through their profile.

MADE THIS MORNING? You gape in disbelief, staring at the entirely blank profile. It’s even void of an icon for a profile pic. The account was literally made today, just for this stream, and this god damn stranger just gifted you basically 300,000 yen—

This is insane! All your alarm bells nearly fall off their stands. You search for any kind of information, scrambling and double-checking your banned users lists for any potential matches. Was it some creep trying to meet you from before? A stalker? Were they under a different name and made the separate account just to do this to you so they wouldn’t get caught? What’s their deal?

(What’s your selling point for this whole thing?)

You pause, fingers halting over your keyboard.

You’ve had rich donations before. Users with too much time and money on their hands—users you’re gladly willing to take from in the pursuit of a better life for yourself. Your crowd ranges anyway; from nervous, shy little dorks to kind, quiet people looking for company to disgusting, wretched lechers and stupid alphas who like nothing more than little, docile omegas to rub their garbage scent over—

You stare at Kodzu00’s user profile, feeling something bitter and dark and ugly bubble up in the pits of your stomach.

Any person, male or female, who’d be willing to drop that much money to meet with a streamer like you, notorious for what you do, for what you market—can’t be a good person by any means.

They only want one thing.

You grind your teeth, knowing you’ve got no choice but to reap what you sowed. This was the path to quick cash you chose, so you can’t back down now. You’ll just have to do everything in your power to make sure you remain successful.

You close your laptop screen, ripping your stupid mask off your face and tossing it to the side.

You weren’t backing down.

--- (change the channel) ----

You started streaming in high school.

The middle of your last year, to be exact.

It started off simple enough, to be honest. Nothing eventful, nothing worth writing biographies or harrowing documentaries off of. It was another story amidst the thousands in Tokyo’s Metropolitan streets.

By all legal health records and means, you are an omega.

(What does that mean?)

Within Tokyo’s urban and suburban streets, it means a collection of different ideals and social norms. It means nothing to plenty, it means everything to others—to your youthful eyes growing up, it’d just meant you were a little different from some of your other peers, but not isolated, no, never isolated—there were other omegas, after all, despite the smaller population.

You get along with people fine. You make friends fine, have a few crushes, get average enough grades and have a particular fondness for social media—you just live your life on top of having to deal with certain physiological functions others around you may not experience the same.

You think by all means until your last year of high school, that it really does mean nothing. Society is so modern now, people don’t even blink, right? There’s none of those second gender stereotypes or outrageous cult worships—you’re just another person trying to live their life to the fullest.

“A doctor? Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

You smiled at your teacher in the faculty office. See? Normal—

You stopped.

“See, that’s a great dream,” the teacher said, pointing to your paper. He tapped it, scratching his rough stubble. “But it’s not very realistic with your current standing, you know?”

“You mean my grades? I can work extra hard. They’ve been more than above passing, and what really matters is the entrance exams and testing—”

“Not just that,” he said. He pulled up your student file. He gave you a second look, up and down, and he seemed to find pity in your hopefully confused expression. “Listen, (L/n), here’s the thing—a doctor… is a pretty important position, you know? Very important.”

You nodded like you didn’t already know that. Like you hadn’t been spending the last years of your educational life aspiring toward that goal, that dream.

“They need to be physically… available,” your teacher said. “They have to work outrageous shift hours, they have to work hard on top of that, and then they have to take special medication to regulate their pheromones if they need to, and then the schooling on top of all that is hard work.”

You waited for your teacher to explain why any of those things was supposed to get in the way of your one and only dream of saving lives.

“I’ll make this easy for you to understand, kid,” you teacher said. He taps his nametag, pointing to his little alpha symbol.

“Omegas just don’t become doctors.”

Your dainty, prettily crafted world of normalcy and mundane content shattered around you in one violent, screeching halt.

You smiled at your teacher, nails digging painfully into your thighs.

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s just not a typical job preference,” your teacher said. “Look, you’re not the only one, I promise. There are a few omega doctors, sure, we need them anyway to make things easier or make sense of stuff alpha based doctors or betas might not understand, but the demand isn’t high and the placement is extremely competitive. Trust me, kid. I know.”

You kind of wanted to spit at your teacher that no, this pot-bellied, alpha gym teacher couldn’t possibly know more than you do about trying to break into the medical industry as an omega. But the thing is—what are the statistics? You hardly see any. Every website you’d researched thus far has always been welcoming, nowhere on their platforms or pamphlets saying anything about omegas being doctors or not and—

You froze.

“Everyone is welcome!” the videos all said. “Everyone is encouraged to try!”

“This is the real truth,” your teacher said. “They’ll all tell you you can do it because they’re not allowed to discriminate or turn anyone away. They’ll let you do whatever you want, but when it really comes down to the acceptances or not? You’ll just get turned away and you’ll have wasted all that time for nothing.

“Omegas aren’t considered suitable candidates for doctors,” your teacher said. “That market tends to go to betas, believe it or not. A nice little mediator.”

Your teacher tossed your career planning forms onto a stack of dozens. You stared at it, smiling continuously with your fingers digging harder into your thighs. He sighed, waving a hand.

“You should shoot for a hospital receptionist,” your teacher said. “It’s the next best thing, right? Or you could teach biology at a school instead. You might even be able to get by as a school nurse—”

“I’m going to apply to medical school.”

Your teacher stopped, looking at you.

You smiled back at him.

(Being an omega was supposed to stop you?)

What a load of shit.

“I don’t really care about anything else,” you said. “I’ve wanted to become a doctor my whole life. If people say I can’t do it because of something they can’t even see, then I’m still going to do it. They can’t stop me.”

Your teacher stared at you for a few minutes. He leaned back in his chair, considering his next words before he finally said—

“You got the money?”

You stopped.

Your family is pitifully lower middle class. Your parents make enough to pay the bills, afford a vacation every now and then, and just get by fair enough without being too stressed—but small issues, like your own medical costs for heat suppressants or a flat tire can easily set your family back several paychecks.

No, you don’t have money for medical school. You’d already known that looking at all the pamphlets. But there were scholarships and stipends and loans—

“If you want to waste your time with this pipe dream, it’s not my job to stop you,” he said, pointing to your career form. “It’s not really ethical either, so don’t come back and file any lawsuits against me. But your medical schools don’t offer many scholarships, and the ones they do aren’t going to go to that one, average ranking omega they’d rather not even have to worry about.”

Your teacher shrugged.

“Go ahead and be a doctor, kid, but you’re going to need money to do it.”

(This is the reality. People are not equal. Being an omega means—)

Means what?

-- ---- (change the channel) ----

You remember laying in your bed that night, scrolling mindlessly through random social media outlets. You’d spent the last several hours searching extensively for any and all scholarships you might even remotely be able to apply for, but none of them seemed willing to help an omega into their waiting hospital wings—your best bet was going to be taking out a loan. Several. That’s on top of cram school costs, textbooks, entrance fees and whether or not I can pass the exam—

No, you would. You had too. You weren’t about to let some stupid, invisible consensus a group of people somewhere or another had decided on stop you.

“Thank you again for the generous donations! You guys are too good to me!”

You’d paused, staring at your bright screen. One of the streamers you followed from time to time—he was an omega, cute and docile and in all honesty, probably the picture perfect cookie cutter definition of one. He always posted great tips on fashion or about cute cafes he enjoyed, and always seemed to be proud of the fact that he was an omega despite how cringingly he played into the stereotypes—

You glanced at his caption, freezing in disbelief.

Designer bags littered his floor. He showed off his pretty watch, batting his lashes at the camera, talking about how the donations from last night’s stream helped him live a good, cushiony life, making him feel like he was being taken care of even without an alpha by his side.

You’d stalked his account almost religiously for the next few weeks, watching his streams, watching the way he… flaunted his nature as an omega. Your parents had always told you you were fine the way you were, but being an omega had never been something to be proud of—you’d just preferred to act like a beta more than anything else. What was the point? To some extent, your teacher was right, there were no benefits to being an omega except—

“Thank you again for all your donations!”

You pulled up your laptop, searching extensively for every little obscure article you could find on the nature of streaming services. You’d never taken social media outlets that seriously, always looked at influencers and vloggers with a grain of salt—you were aspiring to be a full-time heart surgeon after all, but if there was actually something...reasonable behind the way all these people would act, proudly showing off the fact that they were omegas in exchange for something monetary…

(Did people enjoy this?)

Yeah you can make money from it, lol.

You stared at the internet thread, blinking in disbelief.

One user amongst thousands in the thread had responded to your question.

Ppl always keep saying that omegas are this and that. Society likes to paint a pretty picture of what we call equality. Ads and those videos u watch in school and stuff, they all tell u you can be whatever u want to be if u try, but that’s not rlly the truth. The only thing they were honest about was that you’d have to work hard for what you want in life.

You scrolled down.

You have to do the research on ur own and find respectable sites. I can give u recommendations, but u have to kind of get yourself prepared for what you’re signing up for too. Everyone likes to go on television and talk about how all three genders are the same, but we’re not. It’s not even just whether ur female or male anymore, everyone always finds something to pick at, don’t they?

U might get hate for it but whatever, those people who sit on a nicer chair than you and don’t pay your bills don’t get to criticize you for what you want to do and how u do it.

They always tell us we can’t do things because we’re omegas. That we have to be a certain way because we’re omegas and we’re only good for one thing.

So just give them what they want.

And suck them dry.

You remember clearly, that night, pulling up the user’s account and shooting them the message that would change your life.

What sites do you recommend for beginners?

Youcanruletheworld is typing…

----- (change the channel) -----

You triple check all your items, rearranging them on your bed in front of you.

Your outfit is cute, matching your streamer personality but remaining modest enough to keep you protected from unwanted attention. You’ll be wearing a face mask on top of it, just for the extra mile too. You’d already reached out to this Kodzu00 and sent them the notification for where to meet and when, and what you’d look like so they’d be able to find you. Wisely, as always, you picked a neutral location—an extremely popular cafe two hours away from your house just to be safe.

Safety alarm—check. Pepper spray, check. Pheromone repellent, check. Emergency contact button, check. Location synced devices and emergency heat suppressant pills on top of—

You stare at the last item. It comes special with the standard emergency omega safety kit—you almost spit at the name—it’s a quick, easy attachable lock-on collar to protect your bonding glands in the case of an unruly and disgusting attack.

You want to call it ridiculous.

(Behind your eyes you see the comments scrolling over the glowing screen. You see the leering words and the lecherous promises and the disgusting sentences that rattle your brain and make you stand a minute longer in the shower, fingernails digging into your skin—)

You don’t say anything, zipping the bag closed and taking all your items with you.

---- (change the channel) -----

Thirty minutes, it’s just thirty minutes, you can do this. You aggressively slurp on your straw, furiously dogging the cafe patrons with your eyes, keeping them narrowed and peeled for anyone who ought to fit the bill over what you were expecting to meet today. Thirty minutes.

The black iced coffee with an added two shots isn’t doing anything to calm your nerves, but it’s doing everything you need to keep yourself pumped and ready to go at a moment’s notice. The cafe is busy, just as always, with people swarming left and right, in and out—this creep won’t be able to do any of their normal creep tendencies in a place like this.

You bite your straw, tapping your feet under the table.

Alright, Kodzu00, do your worst. I’m leaving here after the thirty and I’m taking the cash with me—

“Excuse me,” you stop, mouth hovering and open over your near chewed through straw, “are you… uh… Omegachion?”

Hearing your streamer username in real life makes you both want to gag and sigh in happiness. The username was arguably the only way for you to feel remotely sane logging into the streaming service every time for your scheduled program because Water Emblem got you through anything, including all the cram sessions to get into medical school.

Your eyes swing rapidly to your right, moving your head so fast you take your straw with you.

Ice coffee drips onto the table.

The young man standing in front of you is… is, truthfully, not what you expected. Okay, sure, weirdos on the internet come in all shapes and sizes, but to your own bias, you’ve crafted a bit of a face for the specific types of users who flood your streams. He narrowly passes even an inch of those ideas, with the slightly messy hair, the baggy clothes that look like all he does is stay in front of his computer all day and the dark lines under his eyes, but other than that—

He’s a lean young man, from what you can barely tell, underneath the baggy black sweatshirts and the sleek black joggers, lined in white with a logo you don’t recognize. There’s a dark cap on top of his head as well, and he’s sporting a simple black face mask, just like you—the most color the damn guy has is the bleached blonde tips still growing out past his roots, spilling a bit past his shoulders while the rest is gathered back into a bun.

In an instant you quickly size him up—the guy’s probably only a few inches taller than you and he can’t be that much older or younger, somewhere probably around your age.

You pluck out your straw. He squints faintly at you, holding his phone, glancing back at his screen and then back to you and shifting, albeit uncertainly. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else but here right now.

“You’re,” you start, “uh, you’re Kodzu00?”

“Yes,” he says. “That’s… me.”

You stare.

He stares right back.

(His golden eyes are almost like slits, you realize, a bit stunned, they drip gold and heather.)

He has pretty eyes.

“It’s,” he says, awkward, not sounding friendly at all, “...nice to meet you…”

And then reality comes back, this time with a spinning roundhouse right to your face.

This is the guy who just dropped money to come and meet you here today.

This guy.

You stare at him in disbelief.

Kodzu00 stands there in front of you, looking as though he wished he could melt right through the floor and disappear. He slowly starts to make his way into the chair opposite of you, pulling it out and taking a seat, setting his phone down beside him like it’s a lifeline and—

Your eyes bulge at the sight of his watch. You know how much that watch costs.

Your alarm bells start firing off again. For a brief moment, unease colors your scent, lightly flooding the area until you instantly reel it back in. Kodzu00 glances up at you for a second but you keep your face calm and friendly, quickly slipping back into your streamer personality, your best mask and first line of defense against whatever the hell this weirdo wants with you and time is ticking—

Before you can even utter a single word, Kodzu00 pulls down his mask.

(He’s… well, he’s not bad looking either, in a… weird kind of way.)

“Look, I need to clear the air first and get this on the table,” he says it a bit quickly, despite the low, almost uncaring inclination to his tone. You blink at him. The tips of his ears are staining pink beneath the fading streaks of blonde and he continues, “I’m not here for your streams.”

You blink.

You stare at him, dumbfounded and hopelessly confused.

“I’ve never even seen them before until last night,” he says just as quickly, looking embarrassed to even utter those words. “Let’s get that straight, okay? So I’m not… here for… that.”

That.

“That?” you say like a robot.

He looks more and more uncomfortable, but he presses on, whispering quickly over the table, “Yeah. I’m not here for… that. So… you can… uh… just be normal, I guess.”

You stare at Kodzu00, the man who’s just payed off nearly the last of your student loans in debt, who’s only here in front of you today because he got in touch with you through one of those very streams which very much markets that, which is meant to appeal to all the what-nots who just want to see an omega bat her eyelashes and act like an omega, to feel comforted or have their egos stroked and—

“I don’t watch any streams like that,” he adds for good measure. “I don’t. One of my viewers reached out to me because… well… because they watched your streams and noticed something and mentioned it to me, so I wanted to check it out myself.”

Oh my god. You sit there in the middle of the bustling cafe. Am I about to die? This is it, isn’t it. Kodzu00 is actually some kind of crazy internet stalker or person and you’re about to get stabbed right across the cafe table and this will be the end, you’ll never even get to save anyone’s life or help anyone and their bad hearts or do anything beyond your stupid streams and that’s all you’ll be remembered for.

“Kodzu00 is just a name I made for that night,” he says quickly. “Online I run a gaming channel under the user Kodzuken—you can just call me Kenma though. Kenma Kozume.”

“Uh,” you say. “Kucina. You can call me Kucina.” You are not giving your real name out to this stranger who can potentially threaten your entire standing in your medical career and out you for the unethical nature of how you’ve been procuring money to pay your school fees—

Kenma briefly pauses, eyes flickering up to you. He looks a bit pleased with your choice of alias but quickly glances back to his phone. You feel, strangely, a little… a little happy too.

Wait, wait, wait. No, this guy is a weirdo and don’t forget that he’s a complete stranger online claiming to be a game streamer and—

“The only reason I’m here today is for this,” he says, pulling out his phone. You instantly grow wary, inching back a bit from the table. There’s a bit of excitement finally creeping into his otherwise mundane voice, and it’s giving you the spooks. Kenma taps, quickly navigating his screen before he pulls up one blurred, pixelated image and turns his screen to show it to you.

“Why is this a screenshot of my room?” you say roughly, narrowing your eyes at him. You point to the screen shot of your streaming room and your face caught mid-speech, making you look dumb. “What are you trying to—”

“It’s not that,” he says, sounding a bit stressed out by this whole ordeal. He looks visibly uncomfortable with the image of you, only in your bright pink bra and you raise an eyebrow at him, suspicious as he zooms in and quickly moves the screen to—

“This,” he says, fervent, almost reverent actually, “is what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Carefully, still suspicious, you lean over the table and look closer at his phone screen. You follow his finger, quickly recognizing your bookshelf, your posters, and then right beside Kenma’s fingertip is—

You blink.

You know exactly what he’s pointing to.

You also know exactly what it looks like in perfect detail despite the blurry picture. It’s a large box, big enough to hold against your chest, sleek white and blue, with silver lettering line in a kind of glowing, aqua teal—the cover art for the product had been top of the line, complete with an engraved metal clasp that opened up to reveal an entire, glossy artbook, coupled with a cd of the game’s soundtrack and also—

“Water Emblem’s Special Anniversary Edition?”

“Yes!” he almost shouts. You jump. Kenma quickly gestures to his screen, to your room and your game and points at it with fervor. His eyes are actually shiny, you stare at him, a little in awe. “Do you know what this is?”

“Of course I do!” you say, offended. “I own the game. It’s Water Emblem: Light Dragon! Personally my favorite game in the entire franchise and the game that really got the series into the world market—it’s part of what started its entire cult following. This is the special edition that came out years ago, wow, I can’t believe it’s been so long! I remember waiting in line for it and—”

“That’s exactly it!” Kenma says, throwing his hands up into hair, grabbing it beneath his cap. You blink at him, getting a little excited. “This game—this particular edition re-launched for one night of sales only in the creator’s hometown and here in Tokyo! It came with a companion edition and most people were only able to get one or the other because it was sold on opposite ends of Japan!”

“Yeah!” you say. “I know! I stayed with relatives in the summer and timed it out so I could grab it! They only sold so little copies… that was the best night of my life, I couldn’t believe it, even though the game didn’t seem to do that well at first until later…”

“Because no one respected the greatness of the game back then,” Kenma says bitterly. You nod. “Now everyone knows but the rest of the editions have all either been trashed or are kept by collectors somewhere else, I’ve been searching for years for a copy that was at least still playable, even without the extra goods—”

“But the goods are the best part!” you shout in disbelief. Kenma looks at you like your crazy. “The art book, the soundtrack, the interview with the creator—they all play their part in bringing the game to life!”

“This is what I wanted to discuss with you,” Kenma says seriously, lacing his fingers nervously together and staring you down across the table. You suddenly feel uneasy, unnerved by the piercing, golden gaze.

“You own what might very well be one of the last, in-tact, best kept qualities of this edition in Japan,” Kenma says. “When this edition and its counterpart launched, the second issue, the black one—it came with a playable DLC code that can only be activated when you have its partner code and it unlocks an entirely new, almost never played secret storyline that’s supposed to reveal another part of the story—”

“I heard about that,” you say in disbelief. “But I thought it was just an online rumour because no one ever proved it or could figure out the code…”

“Because no one could figure it out,” Kenma says, getting the loudest you’ve heard him since. You stare at him with wide, round eyes. “But recently because of the work I’ve been doing, I was able to meet with the creator—”

“YOU MET WITH THE CREATOR OF—”

Kenma furiously motions for you to shush. You clasp your hands over your mouth, watching him with round, adoring eyes, sparkling in disbelief. This guy right here in front of you got to meet your hero—the envy and awe collide altogether, rumbling up and—

(Your heart starts to do something a little funny in your chest.)

Who even is this guy?

“He gave me a hint and I was able to find the code in the other edition,” Kenma says, quickly pushing his phone to you to show a picture and you blink, eyes shiny. “Which I currently own because I was able to secure one when it came out in Tokyo. But your edition is the last part I need to unlock the unplayable path.”

This guy… you lean back in your chair, unable to stop the excited tap of your feet. This guy—he loves Water Emblem. He’s crazy for it! I don’t know anyone except people online who like it this much and he’s…

“That’s why,” Kenma coughs suddenly, becoming smaller in his seat. You stare at him with a raised brow. “I needed… to get in touch… with you.”

You blink, remembering the whole reason the two of you were even meeting in the first place.

Your cheeks grow hot, bright red in a flash of rare embarrassment. Kenma’s ears are just as red, but he pretends it’s not even happening, continuing on.

“Why didn’t you just… message me,” you squeak out, feeling more and more mortified that this man has literally paid you thousands just to be here and… it’s not even… a scam. It’s about your favorite thing ever. Water Emblem! “Instead of… my streams…”

“That was the only way I knew how to contact you,” Kenma says, looking a bit defensive. “I told you, I’ve never seen your streams before. One of my viewers told me and you keep everything private, so this felt like my only chance.”

You open your mouth, feeling more and more uncomfortable but Kenma sweeps in, “Keep the money. It… works out better this way anyway.”

You stare at him in confusion.

Kenma taps his phone again, right back at your picture. He stares at you with wide, piercing eyes, leaning across the table and quickly saying, reverent and eager—

“I want to buy your game from you.”

Here, sitting in front of you, is a self-claimed internet game streamer, who wants to buy your… special edition… game?

“You want…” you say, slowly, making sure you don’t have this wrong, “...my game?”

He nods.

You open your mouth. It closes. You open it again, raise a finger, and then press your lips together, staring at him.

“I’m sorry,” you say finally. “What?”

“This might be my only chance ever to play the game,” Kenma continues, pulling up another tab and clicking away at his phone. He tucks a strand of blonde behind his ear and the action is almost endearing to you until the reality of his words slowly starts to creep into the forefront. “I’ve never found another edition like yours, and it seems like it’s in perfect condition too. I’d be willing to buy it at complete full, current market price—”

“Market price?” you say in disbelief. “How much is my game going for?”

Kenma looks at you in blatant disbelief. You raise a critical brow at him.

Wordlessly he turns his phone back over to you and you glance down—

You almost fall out of your chair. Kenma doesn’t look impressed, hunkering back down and taking his phone as you spin, head swirling at the numbers and figures, math flying around in your head at the sudden realization that all that money could literally be yours, that the game you love so much is worth that much, that all that money, all that money you’ve been trying so desperately to scrape for could just—just fall into your lap—

You could pay off all your loans with that kind of money. You could… you could stop streaming with that kind of money, finally wash your hands of it and get back on track and hardly have to worry as you work toward the job of your dreams and…

“I want to buy your game.”

Your heart quiets. The fancy dreams stop. You sit there in the chair, head buzzing with the reality of what he’s asking of you.

He wants to buy your game.

Your game.

And you think then, about a moment far away from this one. About a time when the books and papers crowding around you made you feel like drowning, about lonely summers and arguments bouncing off the rooms around you, and a time where there was nothing else but that loading screen and that game to take you away from all of it…

(The game that you’ve kept all these years, loved all these years, because it…)

“I’d be willing to pay whatever works best for you,” Kenma continues, the excitement is low in his quiet voice and his eyes sparkle as he shows you his phone. “I can even pay upfront in cash, have a fund drawn up or—”

“I’m really sorry.”

It’s the first time in a long time you’ve ever felt the need to apologize to anyone. Not when the whole world has been treating you like the sorry sack for so long.

Kenma glances up. His expression is calm, unreadable, but you get the feeling he can see right through you so you stare at the tabletop instead.

“I don’t know…” you start. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to sell that game to you.”

(He doesn’t seem like a bad guy.)

Anyone that talks about Water Emblem with as much love in his voice as he does can’t be, not at all by your books. His methods of getting to you here today might’ve been outrageous and roundabout, but you’re not really doing things the normal way either, so who are you to judge?

But that game…

You risk a glance up. You stop, staring in surprise when Kenma doesn’t look the slightest bit outraged or tense or anything. He looks just a bit disappointed, but the only thing you really see is understanding and something like a bit of grudging envy, a warmth in his gaze you don’t think is particularly meant for you but still comes through regardless.

“I was,” Kenma admits, a bit quiet. “Worried that would be the case.”

“Do you want,” you start quickly. Kenma looks at you. “Do you want to, uh, see it, at least? Take a look… see if it’s even in the condition you want?”

(You just… you can’t sell it, but you don’t want this conversation to end. It’s been so long since you’ve talked with anyone about this game, it’s felt so long since you talked to anyone in general and…)

Maybe, just maybe.

(You feel a little desperate.)

“Uh,” Kenma says, awkward. “Is that… fine?”

“Well, sure!” you say, hoping you don’t sound too eager. “Of course it isn’t a problem! I mean, I know we just met, but you seem pretty legit and I can just check you out later—plus, I’m perfectly capable of handling myself, even against an—”

You stop, sniffing the air. Kenma doesn’t look bothered, but he rubs the back of his neck.

And you realize, suddenly, you haven’t smelled a single damn thing because Kenma Kozume is—

A beta.

(Oh.)

---- (change the channel) ----

The entire way back to your apartment, Kodzu00, or as you now know him, Kenma Kozume, complains.

He does it quietly, but he still complains.

“We could just take a taxi,” Kenma says, quiet and unhappy when you start making your way toward the train station. “I can pay for it…”

“It’s easy to remember an address but tough to remember a bunch of stations and stops,” you say, ignoring his offer. Kenma follows, unhappy but he still follows. It’s kind of cute.

He walks with a bit of a hunch, you notice. Like he’s doing everything he can to remain out of everyone’s vision, but he watches, careful and observant because he avoids people before they have the chance to bump into him, glancing this way and that and picking things out with particular ease.

Kenma doesn’t look very confident, but he’s comfortable. You stand there beside him on the train, calmly holding onto the railing while he taps away at his phone beside you, sighing every now and then. He’s different, you realize, very different, from what you’ve become accustomed to when it comes to the kinds of people you let surround you for the sake of money.

You almost want to say it’s because he’s a beta, but you feel that’s a disservice in all its entirety. Maybe Kenma will turn out to be a snob of some kind. The guy’s strangely loaded.

You sneak searches on your phone, paling at the articles about him that come up, about stocks and investments and companies and you realize in seconds, this guy is completely and utterly the real deal.

But despite everything, Kenma still does as you ask. He lets you lead as you navigate the string of trains to get back home, doesn’t ask any questions, only comments on the occasional thing, and the entire affair is two hours, but he doesn’t even blink.

Either he really, really wants this game, you think, or he’s just weird.

Quiet, weird, but fairly quaint, and you’re a little alarmed by how much you… like that.

(You’re a weird guy.)

A rude, burly man makes a pass at you on the last train home, breathing down your neck and letting his greasy fingers try to slide against yours on the same railing handle. Kenma makes a face, eyes narrowed into slits in disgust and he quickly looks at you, blinking at your unbothered, nonchalant expression.

His scent wafts over you, thick and uninviting. Alpha. You rub your nose, inhaling your own familiar scent. Kenma looks more and more uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot, starting to lean your way and scanning for open seats when you calmly turn to the man directly behind you, meeting him dead in the eye.

“Get,” you say calmly, digging your fingernails into his skin, threatening to draw blood—the man stiffens, he pales, surprised, startled by your confrontation— “The fuck away from me before I scream.”

He scurries back, shouldering past people in seconds. A few people shoot him disgusted looks, glancing your way in pity—but you ignore all of them too. They didn’t care seconds ago when they knew what he was doing, if you hadn’t done anything, they wouldn’t have either.

That’s just how it goes.

“Sorry,” you say, even though you probably shouldn’t. You look at Kenma, lips curling a bit. “I was expecting to meet a guy like that today instead of you. I think all that pent up anger and anxiety needed to go somewhere.”

Kenma opens his mouth, closes it, stays quiet for what feels like minutes and then he starts up again.

“You don’t really act the same way you do on your streams, do you?”

“Of course not,” you say. “If I acted like that in real life—no offense to anyone who does though—I’d probably lose my shit.”

Kenma sniffs. He doesn’t say anything after that, and you quaintly let your shoulder brush against his ever other jostle of the train.

(It’s been awhile since you’ve been around anyone. It feels nice.)

---- (change the channel) -----

Kenma balks for a bit at the front door of your apartment, but you quickly usher him inside, kicking your shoes off into the entryway and flying inside. He toes off his own shoes, eyes scanning briefly around the entryway, around your home—it’s neat, he realizes, even if he wasn’t sure what to expect. You keep it clean enough, but there’s bits and pieces where your life slips through, making it feel lived in. You keep plants in the corner, healthy and well but you’ve got a few dishes still sitting in the sink.

He guesses he wasn’t really sure what he was expecting to begin with.

Kenma pauses for a second, rubbing his nose. He looks uncomfortable, eyes flickering around your apartment and back to you, but you’re already steps ahead of him, too excited to pass a chance like this up.

“It’s in my streaming room,” you say, “come on.”

Kenma follows warily behind you.

You almost kick the door to your room open in your haste, unable to stop the ecstatic beating of your heart as you scramble toward the back. Kenma pauses a minute, sniffing the air again. He glances behind him, back toward where your bedroom is left ajar and then to your streaming room. He looks a bit thoughtful for a moment, but quietly keeps it to himself, slipping inside and lightly closing the door politely after him.

(He’s not one to snoop, but he’s here, it’s not like he can’t look.)

Kenma tries very, very carefully not to consider the fact that he had seen you on that screen only a few nights before, and tries even harder not to remember what you’d been doing and how you’d look. He hyper focuses instead on the stand-out merch that becomes very, very clear to him.

He’s almost amazed your users haven’t said anything more about this—maybe it’s because of your camera angle.

Poster after poster of Water Emblem decorates the entire side of your wall. Kenma finds himself instantly drifting up to it, spotting your shelf in record time. He scans the collection of game titles, eyes growing brighter and brighter as he ghosts a finger over the well-kept discs and the old games…

“You play a lot,” Kenma says, quiet, glancing your way.

“I used to be a bit of a shut-in because I had to study,” you say, squatting down beside your other shelf and moving a few books aside. He finds himself watching the way you tuck your hair behind your ear and smile. “They were great breaks for me and helped keep me company. I’m not as social as people think, so it’s nice.”

Kenma considers your words. He looks at you, trying to reconcile the image he’d had of you from your stream with what he’d been witnessing all day today—how different it all was.

(If he’s honest, he’d been expecting to deal with someone different.)

“Do you do PC games too?” he asks. What are you doing?

“I’m not as familiar with them compared to console games,” you admit. “After exams I might try though. Got any to recommend?”

Kenma does. Plenty. He could go on but he doesn’t even know where to start, turning from your games to try to look at you again and think about how strange this entire meeting is, how different from what he’d been expecting. It reminds him of his meeting with Hinata, sudden and vibrant and impossible to categorize, left—

Pleasantly surprised.

“What happened to your chair?”

“What, the pink one?” you glance over your shoulder, noticing where Kenma’s looking toward your streaming station. “I shove it into the closet when I’m not using it. Sometimes the color hurts my eyes.”

Kenma looks at you like you’re crazy.

“...You keep two chairs?”

“Well, the chair’s mostly for looks anyway,” you say. “Some people like that kind of simple stuff. It’s a nice contrast, you know? Sweet and spicy, I guess? My boss said something like that. My ratings are good so I don’t complain.”

Kenma considers your words. He looks at your station, almost engulfed with stacks and stacks of what he can easily recognize as textbooks. Biology, medical tech, chemistry—all of it nearly crushing the fuzzy bunny mask you’d been wearing on the stream.

Kenma takes it all into his head and he looks again at your small back.

“...Do you even like your job?”

“It’s not my job,” you say. “My job is studying and working at the athletics complex to try to help figure out ways to help people stay in shape, take care of themselves and be better. This is just… part-time.”

You pause, staring at your shelves. It feels weird to be saying this outloud, but it’s nice too. It’s refreshing. You think you can take advantage of it anyway, what if you never even meet this guy again? You hardly know him, he probably doesn’t care.

“And I guess,” you say, a bit quieter. “Sometimes it’s kind of rewarding… sometimes people are nice, you know?”

Kenma says nothing, watching your back. You rub your neck and then finally beam, pulling free the reason for all of this.

You cradle the box in your hands. It’s weighty. You run your fingers over it and stand up, turning proudly to Kenma, beaming from ear to ear and—

You almost jump back in surprise, near squeaking. Your ears almost flash red in embarrassment at how close Kenma is all of a sudden, sneaking up right behind you with shiny, adoring eyes as he stares at the box in your hands, looking at it in awe and disbelief.

“Can I see it?” he asks reverently.

Your heart swells in happiness and you eagerly nod, handing it over to him.

Kenma receives the gift with care. He runs his fingers over it, carefully, as though afraid to even leave a single print behind before he pops the metal engraved latch and opens it up.

You and Kenma sigh together in unison, swooning at the sight.

“It’s amazing,” Kenma says.

“I know.”

“I can’t believe I’m seeing it in person.”

“I know!”

“You took great care of it.”

“I—” you flush at the praise, wilting a bit. “I-uh, thanks…”

“Can I see you play it?” Kenma says suddenly, looking almost desperate. You freeze. He looks up at you, expression completely different from his near lifeless one. His face is vibrant and full of excitement, thrumming just under the surface of his nonchalance. “The loading screen even? I—I have to see what it looks like logged in and—”

“I...actually can’t,” you say quietly, embarrassed. Kenma looks confused.

“I… I sold the console for it,” you say, feeling more and more guilty to finally have to admit one of your biggest regrets. Kenma pauses, expression quieting as he looks at you. You stare at the floor, trying not to look at the computer and web camera sitting in the corner. “I needed to buy some stuff… so I had to sell it in. I still kept a lot of the games, thinking I’d buy another one when I got the chance…”

You ruffle the back of your head, trying to quell the stifling scent of embarrassment that tries to escape you. You rub your wrists. Kenma’s eyes are briefly drawn to the action before he looks at you, still holding your game. You bow your head a little. “Um, if you want though, you can take it to your place and see—it absolutely will still work. I can just, take something to make sure you don’t run off or I can just—”

“Do you want to come over and use mine?”

You pause, looking at Kenma, dumbfounded.

Kenma stares right back at you. You can’t read a single inch of his face.

“We can use my place,” Kenma says, calm, unbothered. Your eyes grow round. “I really… really want to see the game in action… it’ll probably be more fun to see you play it anyway first.”

“Is that,” you start, uncharacteristically shy. “...okay?”

Kenma wordlessly nods.

(Your heart does something a little funny. You just write it off as an exaggeration. You’re such a sad sack.)

“Um!” Kenma looks up. You flush, hating how embarrassed you feel, hating how much of your bravado is missing, but you almost stutter out, “I-It’s (L/n) by the way… (L/n) (Y/n)...”

“... okay,” Kenma says. “It’s nice to meet you, (L/n).”

--- (change the chanel) ---

“You know, Kenma,” Kuroo said once, leaning back on the train ride home as Kenma tapped away at the buttons on his console. “For all you say and stuff, you’re pretty good at putting all the pieces together, aren’t you?”

--- (change the chanel) ---

One month.

Non-stop, several days a week, for hours on end—that’s how long the two of you play the game together.

You nearly miss streams, spend hours at Kenma’s house, laughing when you come to find him half-asleep in his sheets, barely rolling out to come greet you and instead just buzzing you in. You think it’s insane—how quickly this… this thing builds. You think you ought to be dreaming, but you don’t really want it to end.

(You’ve gone too long without anyone to laugh like this with.)

You pull late-nighters that are terrible for your complexion, eat take-out like you’re cramming for exams all over again, laughing while Kenma quietly watches and scrolling through Water Emblem merchandise and fan bases and—

You spend time with him. With Kenma. You spend hours and days and what feels like endless forever and fun. It’s so sickeningly amazing you almost don’t believe it’s real. Sometimes you two argue, getting into heated spats over calls on how to move your characters, critiquing each other’s moves and then laughing when the other fails, sometimes it’s outright cheers from you while Kenma nods in satisfaction when you clear another mission and proceed forward and—

You haven’t even been alive that long, but compared to everything else, it almost feels like the best moment of your life.

“I did an entire episode on why moving this character is better than the rest,” Kenma mutters one day beside you. “I’m telling you, we need to deploy them. They’re wasted as an adjutant.”

You pause beside Kenma, blinking at his massive screen. You stare at your hands, and then you look at Kenma, blinking again in realization.

And in all this sudden time you’ve spent with him, you realize you’ve never seen one of his streams.

--- (change the chanel) ---

“Uh, hey everyone, thanks for stopping by again.”

You snort. Kenma doesn’t look the slightest bit at ease, his small face-view camera appearing in the corner of your screen as the old stream starts. It’s only of his earliest ones, the one where he replayed Water Emblem for his channel.

“I like this game a lot… it’s the one I always wanted to do a stream for… so I hope you enjoy it too.”

Is that it, dude? You laugh, shaking your head and kicking your legs out as Kenma gets the loading screen started and adjusts his chair. His camera shakes a bit and everything about the video attests to its age and its novelty. It makes you smile. He must’ve come a long way from these videos to the freaking multi-millionaire he was now.

(He worked hard.)

At first the show starts off rather quiet, maybe a bit awkward. Kenma hardly talks, quietly playing through the beginning sequences of the game and only commenting once or twice on the music or graphics. It’s kind of nice, peaceful, just watching someone go through the familiar motions until the real first part of the game starts and then—

“I never get tired of this part.”

You pause at his voice, glancing to the corner of the screen. Kenma’s eyes glow. He smiles, low, small and quiet, and he leans so far forward, almost out of his seat as he starts to play, quietly talking, describing the things he’s doing, the parts of the game he’s in love with and—

You roll over onto your side, watching the stream. Everytime Kenma mutters something under his breath you laugh, when he flubs you grimace, when he succeeds—you cheer, kicking your heels into the air. It’s really like playing the game all over again—even if the comments say he hardly shows any emotion, you can see it.

Kenma Kozume loves this game.

He loves what he does.

The thought makes you pause, staring quietly at the screen.

The dark corner of your room looks a little bigger. The quietness is a little louder. You lay there in your bed, watching Kenma thank everyone for watching with a sigh, giving the game a second glance, like he’s thinking of playing more even though he said he’d stop and—

Your alarm nearly startles you out of bed. You quickly glance over, shooting up in realization.

“My stream,” you murmur, dropping your phone and hurrying to your video room. “Gotta do… my stream…”

Your eyes glance back to your phone. You stare at the dark screen.

“Do you even like what you do?”

You shake your head, closing the door behind you.

--- (change the chanel) ---

“Thanks again everyone for coming! Your favorite omega is going to be lonely without you~”

The screen clicks, turning off.

You sit there in your plush, bright pink chair. Your open jacket hangs on either side of you, revealing your bikini for the beach theme you were going with today. The video room is near silent, save for the soft, quiet hum of your computer running while your monitor blinks, turning to a save screen.

Your game sits in your lap, carefully cradled by your hands. Off to the side is a thorough stack of medical textbooks you still owe money on. You were planning on studying for your test tomorrow after the stream tonight.

You run your fingers over the amazing edges of the collector’s box. You thumb every part of it, retracing the familiar memories, even the small little dent in the corner when you dropped it the first night you got it and almost cried.

You hold it there in your hands. It feels so, so warm, even though you think that shouldn’t really be possible.

There, in the darkness of your video room you sit. Quiet in the near-silence, head lowered, gently running your fingers over it, again and again.

Kenma’s lulling voice is the only thing you hear, playing over his stream, and you shut your eyes, bringing your knees and the box up to your chest. It jabs your ribs, sits uncomfortable, but you don’t really care.

“Do you even like what you do?”

(What I’m doing now, at least… yeah, I do. I really do.)

--- (change the chanel) ---

(L/n) is typing...

Hey, can we talk?

It’s nothing important, let’s just meet up for dinner if you’re free!

Is that fine?

Kenma is typing...

Yes.

Location sent.

Let’s go here. I’ll make reservations.

Okay! :)

(Y/n) is typing…

(Y/n) stopped typing.

--- (change the chanel) ---

The place Kenma picks is some ridiculously nice looking Japanese Restaurant. It’s dimly lit and elegant and fancier than anything you’re used to, and you’re not really sure why he picks it until he orders for both of you and then the wagyu comes out and you know.

Seeing the steak, knowing you’ll get a good meal—it kind of makes this whole thing a lot easier.

Kenma sits comfortably on the floor right across from you. It’s a small, private room he’s rented out for the both of you. He’s dressed in the usual—baggy sweatshirts and athletic but comfortable joggers, and his hair is pulled back a little more neatly tonight as he pours tea for you and then for himself.

“This smells so good,” you say, mouth watering as you pick up the smooth, fancy wooden chopsticks. “Mind if I start?”

“Go ahead,” Kenma says. He leans back, picking up his spoon to dig into his own soup first. “What did you want to talk about?”

“The game,” you say around a mouthful of wagyu. It melts like butter on your tongue. “I’m going to give it to you.”

Kenma freezes, looking up at you in shock. His spoon clutters back into his bowl.

“What?” Kenma says.

“I’ve thought about it,” you say. “You were right. I don’t even have the console to play it anymore. It kinda just sits, collecting dust. It’s not fair when that game is literally everything.”

Your hands still a bit. You stare at the sizzling hot plate.

“I think you have a lot of fun with your streams,” you say, softer. “I think… I think Water Emblem would be well off in your hands. I think… I think it’s what it deserves, you know?”

Kenma is silent, frozen like a statue in front of you. You continue, lightly tracing a thumb over your other wrist, as though in comfort. Moments like this, you do wish for the chance to scent or be scented by someone again—just something familiar, something warm and nice. Your family is miles away and you just...

“I’ve had too much fun playing it again thanks to you,” you say, warm, full of happiness. Yeah, this is what feels right. “And you never once asked for the money from that night back, even though it should’ve just gone into paying for the game… that’s why I want to just give it to you. You’ve already done too much for me, and it’s more than paid for the game.”

“Hold on,” Kenma says. “I—hold on, one second.” He rushes for his phone, fumbling. You shake your head. “No, hold on—”

“I’ve still got my streams to do,” you say with an awkward laugh. “I can’t spend all my time playing video games again. Once exams come up and then—”

“No,” Kenma tries, looking a bit frustrated. He curses at his phone, “Give me a second to explain before you—”

“I’m doing this,” you say resolutely, standing up from your seat. Kenma balks. “There’s nothing you can do to stop me. Besides, I guess I got to meet you. That’s not so bad. Now stop making this weird and let me just do something cool for once in my life—”

“I want you to do a streaming series with me!”

You stop, staring at Kenma. He holds out his phone, showing the screen to you—but your eyes are on him, round and disbelieving and then—

Your entire face flushes bright red, cherry like a tomato.

“Y-Y-You w-w-w-want to d-d-do a s-stream with me—”

“Not one of yours!” Kenma blurts. You blink. He curses, ruffling his hair roughly before he gestures again with more vigor to his phone, “This—just look at this.”

You glance to Kenma’s phone.

“...you’re doing a new stream series,” you say, eyes widening in awe. “It’s going to be on the secret, never played route for Water Emblem—see! That’s perfect! If you’re going to do that, you need my half of the game and—”

“I want to do it with you.”

You freeze, mouth falling open.

“I’ve been thinking about it since you came over to play,” Kenma says, quietly setting his phone down on the table—he takes on the tone that means business, the calm, lulling one he your hear him use on the phone sometimes to make sure deals are delivered and he gets what he wants. “It’d be a great idea, and it’d be… fun. I’ve been letting you play because I wanted to see if the style would be compatible and I think it’ll be more than fine.”

Kenma taps his phone again.

“Of course, you’d be compensated,” he turns it to you, “we’d split the profits 50/50 from each streaming episode. Considering my normal projected view count and ad revenue, you can expect at least this much.”

You look at the numbers.

Your mouth stays open, knees sinking to the floor.

“If you’re willing,” Kenma says quietly, “to take a break from your streams to do this series with me… I think it would be mutually beneficial.”

Can things really, really work out, just like that?

“Besides,” Kenma says, even quieter. You close your mouth, looking at him in disbelief, in awe, in reverence, and he meets your gaze with his golden one.

“The secret route is meant for dual players,” Kenma says. “Water Emblem is known for being a single player, but what makes it special is it needs two for this route… it… it would be a disservice to the story to do it any other way.”

You can’t help it.

Your scent and pheromones you struggle and try so, so hard to always keep under lock and key explode forth, nearly flooding the entire room. Kenma stiffens, going ramrod straight and grabbing onto the top of his pants as your happiness engulfs the two of you. You’re sure it probably alarms everyone in the hall or anywhere near. Your happiness crashes and lulls and your entire face crumples in disbelief—

“Is it really…” you start, like a whisper, “really okay?”

Kenma shifts in his seat. He pulls at the hood of his sweater, opening his mouth before he quickly closes it. He mutely nods, resolute, and you stand up, lunging across the table to grab his hands. Kenma’s face flushes a bright red, his body stiffening in alarm.

“Kenma!” you say. “Kenma! Kenma, you’re a godsend! A guardian angel! My guardian angel! You don’t understand what this means for me—you don’t know what you’re doing for me—”

“(L/n),” Kenma says, he sounds strained. You pause, looking at him with round eyes. “I’m… excited… but I need you…”

Kenma lets out a slow, ragged breath. “Please… tone it down… just a little…”

You tilt your head in confusion. Your eyes drop down, noticing the sweat beading at the corner of Kenma’s temple, at the hard, rigid look in his hazy, warmly golden eyes and…

A soft scent teases your nose. You pause, blinking in disbelief. No way. You’re crazy, right?

“Um, Kenma,” you say, a little nervous. There’s no way, right? “You’re… you’re a… beta, right?”

Even betas could be sensitive to pheromones. You were being too careless right now, you must’ve just been too much and—

Kenma rigidly shakes his head.

You blink, feeling very, very, very small.

“Alpha,” Kenma exhales, holding his hand to his nose, scrunching in on himself while he peers up blearily at you, eyes swimming with something you’ve never seen once in his gaze before. He sticks his wrist out to you.

“Uh,” you say, hating how nervous you sound. “C-Can… I?”

Kenma wordlessly holds his hand out to you, keeping it in the air. You tentatively step closer for a moment, sniffing lightly. His smell.

Kenma’s scent is so quiet, it’s no wonder you… you never noticed. It’s become so familiar, always felt so calming and subtle and soothing, but if you look for it the way an omega would, pheromones in tune and acute—you do catch it, just the faint hint of something sharp, the familiar, light tang of alpha and—

You quickly pull back. You open your mouth, close it, open it again, and then close it.

“I’m so sorry—”

“You’re fine,” Kenma says, quick and quiet. You mutely nod, mortified. Kenma motions for you to relax as he stands, grabbing his wallet. “I’m going to take care of the bill. Get… fresh air. I’ll be back—”

“You should let me—”

“You can get the next one,” Kenma says. Something in his words makes you strangely complied to listen, ridiculously docile, and you blink in surprise when you sink back to your knees and Kenma’s eyes seem a little warm, a little—

(Pleased?)

“I’ll be right back.”

“Okay!” you say jovially. Kenma nods, leaving you. You can’t believe it. This is it—this is—

The start of something great.

You hold your head in your hands, unable to contain your happiness.

Oh my god.

You stop, blinking again in realization.

BUT I’VE BEEN SUCH AN IDIOT, HE’S BEEN A—THIS WHOLE TIME—HOW RUDE MUST I HAVE—

You fall back into the cushion, kicking your feet up in disbelief.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid—I better apologize over and over—”

--- (change the chanel) ---

Kenma quietly steps out of the private room, sliding the door shut behind him.

He stands there, silent, basking in the faint afterglow, of the leaking, intoxicating feel of your happiness wrapping thickly around him, clinging to his skin.

Kenma lifts his hand up to his nose. He sniffs, once.

Your scent floods him.

Kenma’s tongue lightly drags up the inside of his wrist. He closes his eyes, briefly catching it—the soft, sweet taste of you against his lips, on his tongue. Kenma waits there, inhaling softly before his eyes slide open, thin, golden slits.

This would be the start of a fairly interesting partnership.

Omegachion has signed off!

Thanks for watching!

#typetober #alktypetober #kofi request #ko-fi requests #kenma kozume #omega!reader #kenma x reader #haikyuu reader insert #kenma kozume x reader

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thekitschdiet · 4 years ago

Text

my take on the literary masterpiece, the chic diet

Firstly, I am no one. It’s part of my charm. My fifteen minutes of fame was years ago, when I had an instagram niche meme page. I didn’t even take any brand deals! And my posts averaged six thousand likes! Anyhow. I am hardly literate and well hydrated and carry a small sephora-CVS-hybrid worth in my mini tote bag. Here is my guide on how to live like me, the intermediate kitsch-rat, aspiring influencer. But like, in an apathetic, somewhat dissonant, ironic way. I like saying I live by dogmatic principles. But a lot of it, um, is just eating disorder rituals. But that’s not really important. You’re as hot as you say you are, and as much an authority on what you write so long as you say it with, you know, conviction. It’s kind of venerable how fucking delusional I am, actually. Giving any sort of advice like I’m anywhere close to the ritzy ideal of the amphetamine-areyouami label-american. New York, ideally. West Village, preferably. But I guess the kind of guide I can write is better suited to someone living in a suburb, in a house with the twelve-paned windows. I always thought those were so chic. SO quaint, in a somewhat luxe way. Like, Connecticut vibes. My parents used to drive me up there as a child to buy books and ice cream. Nowadays I’d opt for a matcha latte with novelty ice cubes, but I guess at the time it was pretty sweet.

Because I popped a Vyvanse at like, 10pm, this next little bit could go one of two ways. I will write the most articulate, brilliant piece of literature of my life. Magnum opus, if there was a skinnier word for it. Or, I will get wrapped up doing something like folding all my last-season knits (which is part of my look, okay! I don’t have a job!) and fixating on a paragraph on how a girl’s collarbones are almost as identifying as a fingerprint, or a signature. I’m not a graphologist, but if you write your A’s with the little tail on top (like on a computer), you’re probably a snake. Nothing personal, just an observation. Also, I do have a biology final to study for. Not that I’m super anal, or even particularly committed to academia, but even in my precariously manicured (read that as separate terms; I did a good job on my nail polish, okay? But I happen to also be teetering on the brink of an epiphany or a collapse. Hence the use of the word precarious.) state, I know it’s important enough I can let one of my countless side-quests sit idle for a couple more days.

The first section seems only natural to be about hydration. And the whole idea of drinking things, really. There was a section in The Chic Diet about Adderall dry-mouth, which deeply resonated with me. Once I bit off a chunk of a Nivea Strawberry Shine (my favorite lip balm, more on that later) and swished it around my mouth. Didn’t help. Really, really didn’t. Anyway, I suppose that even if it served no purpose for combatting my prevacatingly ingenious cottonmouth solution, I was able to milk a sentence or two out of the experience. “Do it for the Vine”, all grown up! And wearing bananapapaya resin hoops too. Side note, that Etsy shop is a parasocial enemy of mine. It stems from jealousy, which sucks, but hating from inside a club I’m adjacent to is much healthier than being a hateful individual towards people I would, you know, interact with. Daily. Or something. I stopped going to therapy because I felt stupid about going and I don’t live in the right kind of town to warrant vacuous $300 hours. Bitching about my well-adjusted parents and how desperately I wished my anxiety would just “go away” was plainly gross, and a waste. Like, pretty sure almost every problem I have could be solved by a couple painful conversations taking place during a hurricane. Such a shame it doesn’t rain much here. Anyhow, I digress.

Staying hydrated. It is essential to my character, my persona, if you will; to never be without either an elegant metal bottle (I’m loyal to the smooth enamelled S’well ones, printed to look like marble or a semi holographic solid) or a little 16oz tumbler with a metal straw. Hydroflasks were some of the worst things to happen to society. I want to preface this claim with the fact that I wanted one in the same way a teenage girl wants a new iPhone so she can keep up appearances with her dermatologist-dad friends who still have the XR, by the way. But I ended up spending the money on like, a minidress at Brandy Melville before it fled my city. Or maybe a Fresh Sugar tinted lipbalm. For the better, even though the dress has a busted zipper now and the lipbalm tube has inevitably gotten dinged and dented by the other contents of my mini-totebag. Unlike a car, though, a couple scuffs on your laptop or your luxury lipbalm tube looks kind of cool. Like, you’re not someone who values the pristine, unused quality of an item that was ambiguously intended to be used versus displayed on Instagram. Now, I’m wondering why this paragraph about hydration is so fucking impossible to stay on track for. I literally drink several litres of water a day, and more tea on top of that. And sometimes an almond milk latte if I can budget it in. Not that I’m so anorexic I can’t afford a 45cal latte. They’re just not that important to me. Anyhow. Drinking lukewarm (on the cool side) water is better than ice-cold. Partially because I just get it out of the tap of my ensuite and I can’t be bothered to wait for it to run cold enough every time, and it just seems wasteful. Plus, there is something so.. skinny about drinking water at an “obscure” temperature. Trust me, I want to know why my thought process is like this too. My favorite tea is blueberry tea foraged in a side aisle at my local supermarket. I love a good commercial, high-end steep or fruit infusion as much as the next girl. Maybe more. My pantry is filled with tins labelled with things like “emerald jade organic” and “magic potion”, which is really just currants and butterfly pea flowers. But there is a necessary glamor about drinking dirt-cheap tea on the daily. Seriously, a box of 25 sachets is like, $3. At a higher point with my, um, Adderall problem, I spent like several times that on pills. I didn’t really need to include that, and could have linked the price point to the cost of a drugstore lipbalm, but I wrote it in. And I’m married to it, stubbornly, as all amateur writers should be when they wittle in a somewhat indecorous little joke. This tea is sooo good because it has a strong fruit-reminiscent taste (not as sweet as a fresh blueberry, but who wants that anyway?), it’s zero-calorie, it’s the most GORGEOUS color ever. The latte, the third drink in my little trifecta, is nothing special. But necessary. The trick is to use a milk frother to whip up sugar free syrup with instant coffee and a little bit of hot water in a glass. It’ll make the most luscious foam.. Top it off with almond milk. My dad is a coffee purist, owning both an upstairs keurig AND a downstairs one (among other more analogue methods, but I can’t name-drop, so what’s the point?), so he hates this drink. Now, calling oneself a plebian is so unglamorous and teetering on self-deprecating territory, dangerously close to insecurity. But I can use it here because I am at least posh enough to have a different pair of earrings for every outfit I could possibly come up with, and I only wear Patagonia if I am in a situation where I just have to wear fleece. Like I was saying. It’s such a simple drink, certainly not a delicacy, and… I had a joke about the word plebian but I keep getting up to refill my water and I fear I have forgotten about it.

Next section; the importance of a good tinted balm

In the intro I alluded to how a girl’s collarbones function essentially as an identifier, the way a signature or fingerprint does. This is a lie, or at least an exaggeration. But one’s ultimate tinted lipbalm is actually extremely indicative about who you are, as a person, as a member of society, even…

If you are loyal to Dior Lipglow, I have a couple questions. One; did you shoplift one tube, once, and refill it with cheaper stuff afterwards? I did that. I consider it one of my better-kept secrets, but now you know. Might as well explain the catalyst for my parent’s first separation now, and the horrifying experience that was meeting my dad’s Manhattan sugar baby (?) at the age of thirteen, wearing an overalls dress from, like, Topshop or something else equally embarrassing. .. Kidding. I digress. It’s such a fancy lipbalm, and good too! It smells like thin mints! But I could just never justify cell phone monthly installation payment money on something I will inevitably talk off. I do own three, but two I stole (before I lost the nerve, somewhat unfortunately) and one, a boy(not)friend bought for me. This is not something I feel any remorse about, because his house was easily four thousand square feet and his sisters had a dedicated all-glass room for their shared peloton. Oil money. Ugh!

My personal favorite lip balm, and I have tried a frightening amount, has got to be the Nivea Fruit Shine collection. The frosted one is shit-ugly. Hideous. But the strawberry one is the love of my life. It’s such a pleasant red, looking healthy and rejuvenated and really completes any look. Only downside is it will always, hopefully not always, remind me of Charles. Kissing Charles, specifically. And him asking me what lipbalm it was, because he knew I was somewhat frivolous and definitive and would have a very long answer. But for whatever reason, I simply stated it was from “out of town”. Not really sure why I said that, but it plagues me (minorly) to this day. Of all the things to make up.. .. The peach one is a perfectly demure spring classic shade. Cherry exists too, but the only tube I have ever had the fortune of owning was purchased in Costa Rica and lost somewhere on the way home. Honestly tragic, it was the juiciest shade. Blackberry is perfect too, but I have to layer it with either peach or untinted lipbalm to avoid what I imagine TooPoor would choose if she believed in tinted lipbalm. I don’t mean this hatefully, I think she’s a queen, but super dark, smudgy makeup suits the eyes better in my opinion. Or something. Or something.

Afraid to bore the reader, I have to move on now. Maybe at a later date I will release an addendum on my ultimate lipbalm buying guide. But also, that is so deeply personal (and everyone needs the excuse of “hunting for the perfect staple shade!!”), so it is really not my place to have any authority on something so intimate and subjective. Etcetera.

Moving on; Decorating your room

Here is a section I lifted out of my memoir document. It fits, because as enigmatic as I hope I am, I am also quite unchanging.

I just pushed three hangers and two tiny strappy tops with the tags still on, off my bed. Most nights, all, these days, actually; I spend in my large but cluttered bedroom. I have a little ensuite with a jetted tub I’ve never used because I just never get around to it. There’s a plush grey rug, spanning the expanse of the room (covering an ugly cherry wood that doesn’t match the rest of the house; no clue why. I never asked, and the previous owners were eager to sell so they could finally ditch this town and retire in Montreal for the bagels, or Hawaii for the monk seals. Point is, I’ll never know) with loose beads and loose pills and little shards of glass from plier-crushed beads. I vacuum every day. The whole room tells you exactly the kind of person I am; the clutter I possess, the encapsulation of the projects I start, start, start and the hours I don’t sleep for and the clothes I tried on (these to sell, these to cut up with kitchen scissors; thrifted lululemon and aritzia and heaps of knits and plaid fabric..) I would not say the room is a mess. Lived in, maybe. Chopsticks and mugs and gum wrappers. Single dangle earrings. I just finished the last of my Creme Brulee eos lipbalm; disguised as a relic of 2015, I was gifted it Christmas of ‘20. I think my next waxy conquest will be a tinted Burt’s one I palmed a while back, before I lost the nerve. Peering around the room you will see shopping bags strewn about the mouth of my walk-in closet. Every surface has something shiny or colorful stacked up on it. Cluttered, busy, but intentional. Except for the walls, which are bare. Bare and gray and miles-tall when I lie flat on my back, high out of my mind, willing things to change but knowing I’m responsible for a first step I will always be too scared for. Bare, pristine, no gumtack. Empty, Like they’re waiting. I wait around a lot. It makes sense. That was an awful lot of words about my stupid blank walls when truly it does not bother me that much; I really just don’t get around to it. I have other things on the ground to tend to, like post-email nausea, addressing envelopes, marrying wire and bead. Writing a document I care about because I am determined and I am alive, alive, alive, goddammit.

Excerpt over. The memoir is coming out when I get famous, or something earth shattering happens. Like I become the world’s least remarkable entrepreneur, and I get retweeted by Colorpop. I don’t want to be the next Elizabeth Wurtzel. I read two of her memoirs one restless night, absorbing it to make up for the nutrients I didn’t that day (you can laugh. I think that is pretty clever), heart breaking a little bit. She writes about her struggles so intrinsically, you either get it, or you don’t. Anyway. She had the books and the fame from it, and she wrote more memoirs than I think a single person should. That is admirable. Aspirational, even. But I do not want to be like her. Where was I? Oh. Yes. Decorating/adorning/filling your room. Your room should serve as the kind of place to watch a movie (if you believe in film. I don’t) and put on ridiculous glittery eye makeup, or smoke an ~artistic cigarette~ or stay up all night on the phone, which is different from staying up all night simply on your phone. Chatting with someone you are tepidly in love with is much more exciting. Not chic as the whole affair is so juvenile, but fun regardless. It’s somewhere to keep your worldly possessions, too. I know I have a lot! Also, it is kind of thrilling to hide things in your room in little crevices only you know about. Now, unfortunately, everyone reading this will know too. But, like, I trust you not to really.. do anything about it. I keep my extra juul pods in the sliding box my apple pencil came in. That box is almost more useful than the pencil itself. I’m somewhat morally opposed to the iPad. Whole culture is so embarrassing! I have a tea tin with an ounce of golden teacher shrums in it. This is tossed in my closet among tins filled with other things, like lace trim and buttons. Which makes it actually a pretty terrible hiding spot, I see now… Anyhow. Keeping benign little secrets like that is so fun. You can tell I don’t have siblings. I sort of wish I did, but it is easier to believe there is something aristocratic about being an only child. Not sure if older-sister me would be egalitarian enough to share things. But that’s prophesying, which is kind of a waste of time. I live in the now, in a room positively cluttered with meaningless things that mean the world to me, chewing on my lip because my mouth is just so dry and 5gum is just not an after-8 indulgence. To live truly kitschly, you have to have somewhat hideous decor. Now, do not confuse dissonant, or incoherent, with what I mean by “hideous decor”. The kitsch room has as many surfaces to look at as possible, while also shying away from too many shelving units. Then you risk your room looking like a storage unit or something. When my mom renovated (re: paid someone to do it) our New York house so we could sell it, all our stuff was stacked up in a Cubesmart self storage. It was sort of horrifying, seeing my childhood home reduced to plastic storage tubs piled what felt like thirty feet high. Anyway. It’s just not an inviting way to store things; I imagine it makes your room look like your stuff is all trapped in gelatin. The more fussy, tiny things you have out in the open, the better. Nail polish. Earring trees. Bowls full of rings and lighters and water color pans perched on your windowsill. A rack with the tackiest assortment of knits and bucket hats and baguette bags. And so forth.. Quickly surveying someone’s room is so telling. Bonus points if all your books are spine-in, except for your favorite ones, because you don’t want people to get the wrong idea. (that you read).

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iam93percentstardust · 4 years ago

Note

hi! saw you were taking thunderiron prompts sooo, one where tony just obsesses over wearing thor's sweaters and uh. nothing else underneath 👀

This ended up diverging a little from your ask but hopefully, you’ll still like it :)

As always, everything I write is available on ao3

The first time Thor sees it, he’s so surprised, he nearly walks into a wall.

Looking back on it, he doesn’t know why he’s so shocked. After all, Pepper had spent much of her relationship with Tony calling him a goblin for constantly stealing her clothes. When Natasha had pointed out that she didn’t have to buy oversized clothes that were still too big on Tony, Pepper had just laughed and said, “You weren’t here when it began so you wouldn’t know. Tony will still take my clothes even when they don’t fit him. They just make lovely crop tops on him.”

And it’s not like he hadn’t known that Tony loves being comfortable. If he’s not in public or down in the workshop, Tony will lounge around in the most comfortable, softest clothes known to man. In fact, the very day Thor had asked him out, he’d found Tony curled up in the library with a book and a fleece blanket in an oversized sweatshirt. By all accounts, he should have been expecting this.

So he doesn’t know why he’s so shocked to walk into the kitchen that morning to find Tony wearing one of Thor’s sweaters. He tends to be a little more fashionable than Tony’s usual comfort outfits but he still looks delightfully cozy as he burrows into Thor’s sweater and hunches over a steaming cup of coffee.

“Oh,” Thor says and promptly misses the entrance into the kitchen.

“Thor!” Tony yelps.

He gets his hand up in time to stop himself from crashing face-first into the wall. “Ah,” he mutters sheepishly. “I’d forgotten there’s a wall there.”

Tony eyes him suspiciously but he’s never very awake in the morning and he goes back to his cup of coffee a moment later. Natasha, on the other hand, is hiding a laugh behind her hand. He smiles benignly at her and walks into the kitchen. He opens the fridge to see what they have and decides that the package of Aurelian bacon that he’d brought back from Asgard the last time he visited will do nicely, along with those Cle eggs from Xandar.

He turns on the stove and then finally turns back to Tony, drinking in the sight of him in Thor’s clothes. It’s as good a claim as any Thor could have come up with himself and he adores it.

“Good morning, beloved,” he rumbles, coming around the counter to drop a kiss on the top of Tony’s head. “How did you sleep last night?”

Tony smiles up at him. “You wore me out.”

“Gross,” Clint complains as he walks into the kitchen. “No one needs to hear about that.”

“No one needs to hear your phone sex with Laura either,” Tony snarks back, “and yet you keep doing it in the vents near the living room. Haven’t you figured out yet that sound carries or do you need to go back to elementary school?”

Clint maturely thumbs his nose at Tony and then says, “My relationship with Laura is a fantastic and magical thing and you should consider yourself lucky that you get to hear some of it.”

“You have a room,” Tony points out. “A fantastic and soundproofed room.”

“Yeah and you and Thor have a room too but that doesn’t stop you from leaving the door open.” He starts to make an exaggerated moaning sound but Thor stops him with a sharp glare.

“I would thank you not to speak to my chosen consort in such a manner.”

“Yeah, Clint, don’t talk to me like that.”

“As for you, beloved,” Thor says, rounding on Tony, who eeps. “Stop antagonizing him.” He drops another kiss onto Tony’s cheek and then goes back to the stove to start laying out bacon on the frying pan.

“So it’s official then?” Natasha pipes up after a moment. “You asked him to be your consort?”

“Yes,” Thor says. He gives Tony a bright grin and Tony winks back at him. “I asked him last night.”

“Oh is that what all the noise was?” Clint asks. Without saying a word, Natasha reaches over and slaps the back of his head. “Ow!”

“Don’t make fun,” she chides. “It’s a beautiful thing.”

“Aye,” Thor agrees. He chances another quick glance at Tony. He doesn’t know if Tony is wearing anything under his sweater—the thought that he might be entirely nude is enough to set his blood racing—but he knows that that sweater is hiding at least a dozen love bites on Tony’s thighs and hips (and one on his right asscheek) and all of it is borne from the passion that had overcome him last night when Tony had agreed to be his consort. “I have been waiting a long time for my One.”

Clint mouths the word to himself, right as Thor is flipping the first batch of bacon onto a plate. He passes it to Tony, who thanks him quietly before returning to the email from Pepper on his phone. The next batch goes to Natasha and then to Clint when she shakes her head and points at her omelet instead. Finally, he dishes up the entire rest of the bacon and two eggs for himself and then he heads over to Tony, physically picking him up so he can settle Tony on his lap instead.

“Possessive,” Tony laughs.

“Yes,” Thor agrees shamelessly. “Wouldn’t you be if I were wearing your clothes?”

Tony thinks about it, then shakes his head. “No. They’re mine, you can’t have them.”

“But you can take mine?”

“Yep!”

He shakes his head fondly and waits for Natasha and Clint to get distracted over a discussion of some brand of knives (a silly argument as everyone knows Asgardian weapons are far superior) before he murmurs in Tony’s ear, “Sváss, are you even wearing anything under my sweater?”

Tony gives him a very smug look. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He muffles a strangled sound in Tony’s shoulder.

“Morning, all!” Steve chirps, strolling in. “Is Thor doing okay?”

“I think Tony broke his brain,” Natasha says dryly, looking at the two of them with that sardonic expression of hers.

Steve looks at them as well, eventually nodding after he considers them for a long moment. “Not sure I want to know what’s going on there.”

“That’s probably for the best.”

“Please,” Tony says archly, turning away from Thor. “You wish you could have what’s going on here.”

Thor takes advantage of his distraction to slide his hand up Tony’s thigh and underneath his sweater. Tony stills but doesn’t do anything to stop him, which is how he’s able to slide his hand all the way up to the barely-there scrap of silk and lace Tony is wearing over his hips.

He groans and kisses the side of Tony’s neck. “Are you wearing this to tempt me?” he murmurs.

“Mmhmm.”

“I don’t think I want to know what this is,” Clint says with a scowl.

“You won’t have to,” Thor tells him, standing with Tony in his arms. “As it turns out, I am apparently not as done claiming my consort as I thought I was.”

And to the sound of their teammates’ groans and complaints, he carries Tony back out of the room and straight for the elevator, intent on taking them back to his floor, where he can explore the sight of Tony in his lingerie and Thor’s clothes to his heart’s content.

#alle writes #alle answers #if you like please consider reblogging #thunderiron #rhodee

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prouvaireafterdark · 4 years ago

Text

Wrong Place, Right Time

For the @malexremix, I remixed @insidious-intent’s excellent frat bro Michael fic! Fair warning, though: it’s rule 63

Also on AO3!

***

Fuck this fucking planet, Guerin thinks as she shivers in the icy December chill, leaning heavily against the cold metal of the bus stop shelter. The minutes drag by slow as molasses as she waits for the shuttle that was supposed to take her home almost half an hour ago.

Ugh. This is the goddamn last time she tries to do the responsible thing and doesn’t take her truck when she’s heading to the bar. Now, with her patience and her alcohol blanket wearing thin, she’s never been more disappointed that her alien powers don’t include flight or teleportation.

With a beleaguered sigh, she takes her phone out of her pocket and pulls up the bus schedule. The tips of her fingers grow numb with the cold as she waits for the piece of shit app to load, and when it finally does she’s met with a red banner that reads, Late night buses cancelled due to icy conditions.

“God fucking damn it,” she groans, throwing her head backward in frustration so forcefully that her skull smacks against the hard metal bus shelter. “Ow, fuck,” she winces, the pain flaring up instantly. She reaches up to rub the tender spot with her cold fingertips, wishing she had a bottle of acetone at her disposal.

It’s the thought of acetone that reminds her of Isobel and, more importantly, Isobel’s car, which is undoubtedly sitting in the lot outside her sorority house not too far from here. She’ll mock her mercilessly for it, but she probably won’t say no to letting Guerin borrow it if she promises to buy her bubble tea when she brings it back.

Without a better idea, Guerin pushes off the bus shelter and starts walking, head downcast as her numb fingers type out a text to Isobel.

She heads a few blocks down Sorority Row, eyes scanning the houses for those familiar Greek letters. When she finally spots them, she recognizes Isobel’s handiwork immediately in the tasteful Christmas decorations adorning the house’s brightly lit facade. Garlands encircle the tall white columns that line the porch and each and every window is framed with pale yellow lights, a festive wreath in its center.

She also notices, much to her chagrin, that there appears to be some kind of party going on inside. Muffled music seeps through the walls and she can see people mingling inside through the large windows in the front of the house.

Guerin checks her phone one last time, but Isobel’s read receipts tell her she hasn’t even seen the message yet. Looks like she’s going to have to go inside and find her.

She looks down at her jeans and fleece-lined jacket, both threadbare and thrifted, and briefly considers some light carjacking, but in the end, she decides against it—as annoyed as Isobel will be with her for showing up to a party at her sorority dressed like this, it’ll be much worse if she wakes up to find her car missing.

Sighing deeply, Guerin turns down the red brick path to the porch and makes her way to the front door.

One fist is poised to knock, the other buried deep in the pocket of her jacket, when an unexpected voice comes from her left.

“You lost?” the voice says.

Guerin’s curls whip through the air as she turns to see Alex Manes, the very talented, very hot musician who sometimes plays at the undergrad cafe Guerin works at on the weekend, sitting in one of the rocking chairs on the porch. How she missed her sitting there is anyone’s guess, but now that she has the opportunity to look at her she isn’t going to waste it.

In the glow of the Christmas lights, she can see Alex is wearing heavy black combat boots and the tightest skinny jeans she’s ever seen with a thick knit maroon cardigan drawn closed across her chest. Her dark eyes are lined in black, as always, and in her lap is a battered moleskin notebook with a pencil caught between its pages.

“Nope,” Guerin answers, smiling as she turns more fully in Alex’s direction and takes a step closer. “I’m looking for Isobel.”

“Really?” Alex asks, head cocked to the side in confusion. “Why?”

It’s a fair question, Guerin supposes. Isobel doesn’t exactly broadcast that their campus’ resident bisexual stoner is also kind of her sister.

“The buses stopped running apparently so I need to borrow her car,” Guerin explains.

Alex barks a laugh, a bright sound that makes the pit of Guerin’s stomach warm in spite of her. “Good luck with that.”

Guerin smiles good naturedly, but doesn’t head back to the door just yet. As cold as it is, she’d rather see if she can make Alex laugh again.

“I’m Guerin, by the way,” she introduces herself as she sits down in one of the rocking chairs next to her.

“Alex,” she says unnecessarily. “And I know who you are,” she continues, the corner of her mouth pulling up into a smile. “You work at Bean Me Up, right?”

“I do,” Guerin says, face brightening. They smile at each other for a moment, neither one really sure where to pick up the thread of conversation before Guerin asks, “So, what are you doing out here by yourself?”

“Oh, uh, wine mixers aren’t really my thing,” Alex answers, gesturing over her shoulder to the party inside.

“A sorority girl who doesn’t want to party?” Guerin asks, equal parts amused and confused. “I think you maybe joined the wrong crowd.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Alex sighs.

That brings Guerin up short. Sure, she’d been surprised to hear that Alex was in Isobel’s sorority—her emo aesthetic doesn’t exactly match the sorority girl stereotype that lives in Guerin’s brain—but she figured she at least enjoyed being a part of it.

“Do you really not like it here?” she asks.

Alex shrugs noncommittally.

Guerin frowns. “Why not leave then?”

Alex is quiet so long Guerin wonders if she’s crossed a line, but eventually she gets an answer.

“My mom’s a legacy and kind of an asshole, so,” she says, as if that explains everything, and then adds, “If joining Greek Life is what it takes for her to keep paying my tuition, I guess this is where I’ll be.”

That is something Guerin can understand. If her scholarship relied on participation in Greek Life, she sure as hell would’ve pledged too.

“Mm, gotcha,” she says with an understanding nod. “That sucks, though. I mean, we’re in college, right? Isn’t now the time we’re supposed to spend doing whatever we want?”

Alex raises her glass—a pink solo cup that’s been resting on the small table next to her—in agreement.

Silence stretches between them for a long few seconds. She should probably head inside to find Isobel now, but Alex is beautiful and talking to her and she just can’t quite bring herself to walk away.

“So, are you working on a new song?” she asks eventually, looking down at the notebook in Alex’s lap.

“Trying to,” Alex admits, her cheeks flushing just a little.

“What’s it about?”

Alex bites her lip for a second before she answers.

They talk about the song, and music in general, for so long that Guerin forgets about Isobel entirely. It isn’t until Alex brings her up that she remembers.

“Oh, shit, don’t you need to find Isobel?” Alex asks, breaking off in the middle of her story about the My Chemical Romance concert she went to when she was thirteen.

“It can wait,” Guerin shrugs.

“In that case, you want a drink or something?” she offers, looking over her shoulder and through the window into the house.

Guerin thinks about it before she answers, “Wine mixers aren’t really my thing either, but I wouldn’t say no if you’ve got something stronger.”

Alex gives her a considering look before she says, “Alright then,” getting up from her chair. “Follow me.”

As she heads for the front door, Guerin follows close behind.

She’s a little surprised to be led straight up the stairs to Alex’s bedroom, but she isn’t about to complain about it.

“You can take your jacket off and sit on my bed if you want,” Alex says as she lets her inside.

Guerin unzips her jacket and lays it over the back of the chair by Alex’s desk before she kicks off her boots and climbs onto her bed. She sits with her back against the wall, legs crossed at the ankles as she watches Alex rifle through the top drawer of her nightstand.

She comes back a minute later holding a clear plastic baggie with a rolled joint and a shitty bic lighter inside. She tosses it on the bed beside Guerin’s thigh.

Guerin has it out of the bag before Alex can get her boots off and climb onto the bed, but she waits until she’s sitting next to her, too close to be an accident, to light it.

With one end between Alex’s lips, Guerin lights the other. She watches Alex take a long drag off the joint, watches the smoke curl around her mouth as she exhales. Her lips look so soft and pink and—Jesus fucking Christ, Guerin has never wanted to kiss someone so badly in her life.

It must show on her face because after a calculating look Alex takes another drag and holds the smoke in her lungs as she leans in close enough to kiss her. Guerin gets the picture and follows suit, her eyes slipping closed, lips parted and waiting.

She inhales as Alex gently blows the smoke into her open mouth, their lips touching for a brief and charged moment. She holds it in her lungs for a minute before releasing it into the air between them. When her eyes flutter open, she’s as pleased as she is unsurprised to see Alex staring blatantly at her mouth.

Without letting her eyes drift, Guerin takes the joint from Alex’s fingers and brings it to her mouth, sucking the smoke into her lungs once more. When she leans in to return the favor, she can’t resist flicking out her tongue to taste her bottom lip.

Alex moans softly against her mouth, the sweetest sound she’s ever heard, and the next thing she knows Alex is climbing in her lap.

Guerin lets out a shuddering breath against her mouth, the warmth of Alex’s thighs around her waist as intoxicating as the smoke burning her lungs and the lust rushing through her veins. It’s by a stroke of luck more than anything else that she doesn’t drop the joint onto Alex’s comforter and set her fucking bed on fire in her haste to get her hands on her hips.

Gentle fingers reach for Guerin’s hand then, taking the joint back from between her fingers.

“What are you doing?” Guerin asks against her lips as Alex settles her weight on top of her.

She feels it when Alex smiles against her mouth.

“Whatever I want,” she answers cheekily.

“Fair enough,” Guerin smiles back, and as she leans in to press their lips together for real this time, she can’t help but think that maybe leaving her truck at home wasn’t the worst idea she’s ever had after all.

#malex #malex fic #michael guerin #alex manes #rnm fic #malex remix #ahhhhhhhh #idk what this is but i hope you guys like it lol

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myemergence · 4 years ago

Text

Angel in the Snow

Pairing: Bobby Nash & Athena Grant

Series: 911 First Kiss Week

@911firstkissweek

Rating: Teen

Summary: Bobby needs to return to Minnesota for a friend’s wedding and he’s struggling with the idea of it, knowing all of the memories and ghosts waiting for him there. He doesn’t think he can handle a weekend filled with pitying glances and whispered conversations. So Athena does what any friend would do, offering to go with him for the weekend, as his girlfriend.

Read it on AO3

thanks for the beta, love!@nurse-buckley

* They stood in the Minneapolis Saint Paul airport, and Athena watched the movement of travelers across the space, although it wasn’t terribly busy. Having just claimed their luggage, Bobby turned his attention to Athena. Disbelief bled into his expression as he muttered something under his breath that she couldn’t quite make out, but he held out his handt to take her luggage just the same.

“Let me get that for you.”

“I am perfectly capable of carrying my own luggage,” Athena pointed out as he took it from her, though she didn’t argue the point further.

“And your coat?” Bobby said slowly, as he glanced at her attire. She adjusted the collar at the mention, narrowing her eyes at him.

“I’m wearing it.”

“You’re wearing a jacket.” The correction caused her to scowl. “How exactly did you picture the weather in Minnesota during February?”

“I don’t know, Bobby,” Athena huffed out. “Chilly.”

“Chilly.” Bobby repeated softly, at war with his barely restrained laughter, and the annoying smile that he tried to fight off made his lips twitch. He placed a hand on her shoulder, guiding her to face the window where snow was falling steadily outside and Athena had to admit, at least to herself, that it looked downright blustery. “I’d say tipping more towards the frigid end of the scale.”

Athena felt his hand slip away from her shoulder, and tried to ignore the way the loss of his warmth sent a chill throughout her. They walked towards the exit with their luggage in tow.

“Hang on,” he said, stopping her just short of leaving the building. He took his coat off, slipping it over her shoulders unceremoniously. She swam in the coat, the length of it nearly reaching her ankles and she cast her sharp gaze over to him.

“I’m going to look ridiculous, Bobby.” Athena’s argument was weak, at best. Over the past few months her friendship with Bobby had grown by leaps and bounds, and he’d somehow found a way to navigate around all of her barriers, even the ones she’d believed were cemented into place.

“Ridiculously warm.” His smile turned to a full-on grin at the poor excuse of a joke, and she rolled her eyes where she stood, still being swallowed whole by his coat.

“C’mon, let’s get out of here,” he said, and Athena didn’t argue as she followed him past the glass doors, out into the biting cold of the Minnesota night.

Athena shivered in the passenger seat of the rental car, despite the coat that surrounded her. In the few minutes that they’d been out in the cold, somehow it had seeped into all of the worst of places—her toes, fingers, and nose. She leaned forward in the seat and placed her fingers in front of the vent, trying to suck up as much heat as she could.

Despite the fact that Athena felt like a damn popsicle, Bobby had walked around outside in nothing more than a fleece and he acted like that was normal.

If she didn’t know any better she’d say that he was watching her out of the corner of his eye, but surely he was completely focused on the snowy roads and she had imagined it.

“So who the hell actually wants to get married in Minnesota in—” Athena waved her arm around in an all-encompassing way, “—this.”

Bobby laughed as he stopped at a light, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “Well, Jay was born and raised in Saint Paul so this,” he mimicked for dramatic effect, his lips tugging up into that same teasing smile as before, “is normal for him.”

“And his fiancee?”

“Is from Minneapolis.” Bobby paused for a minute before he added with an air of nostalgia to his voice. “I love my life in LA, but I do kind of miss the winters here.”

“You miss winters here?” Athena repeated, because there was no way that could be the case.

“Especially around Christmas. A green Christmas doesn’t quite ring the same for me. There should be snow outside on Christmas morning.” Athena watched the way his eyes crinkled, probably recalling some memory from Christmas past, but then his features tightened, turning more serious. That simple tic reminded Athena of the real reason that she was here with Bobby.

Although he hadn’t wanted to admit it at first, he was worried about coming back to Saint Paul and all that it could mean for his sobriety. Between that and the pitying thoughts and sad glances he’d receive, asking him how he was doing without Marcy and the kids, he honestly didn’t think he’d go through with it. He’d struggled with saying no until Athena told him he didn’t have to, that he wouldn’t have to do it alone. That she would go with him, be there for him.

“I’ll be your plus one,” she’d said, “your way out of all of those conversations.”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” he’d said.

He hadn’t, and she knew that he never would put her in that position, especially if he thought it might have made her uncomfortable.

Hanging on Bobby’s arm for a night, playing the part of his doting girlfriend—that was a sacrifice that Athena was willing to make.

Athena was drawn out of her thoughts when the car pulled to a stop.

“You alright over there?”

“I’m fine,” Athena said, shrugging her shoulders. “Just ready to get settled.” She looked around and her forehead creased when she realized that they hadn’t pulled up in front of the hotel as she assumed they had. They were parked in front of a department store.

“Bobby, what are we doing here?”

“If you’re going to survive three days in Minnesota, we need to get you a coat. And clothes.”

“I packed clothes.” She forced herself not to roll her eyes again at how ridiculous he was acting about her bringing a jacket, and not a coat.

“Have some heavy sweaters in there, do you?” Athena opened her mouth like she was going to say something, but Bobby plowed ahead, not allowing her to further argue. She wasn’t sure what she’d argue anyway, since she knew that in this particular case he was right.

“Besides, what kind of fake boyfriend would I be if I didn’t buy you at least some new clothes on our trip?”

After he loaded the final bags of their shopping trip into the backseat of the rental, Bobby rounded the car, stopping short when he saw Athena standing outside of the car. She shivered as she slipped off his coat and held it out to him. “Here.”

“Athena,” Bobby said with a shake of his head.

“Put it on, or I’m going to stand out here with no coat on until you do.” Athena gave him that matter-of-fact look that spoke volumes; more than what she was actually saying. Bobby knew that she was stubborn enough to do it, even if the Floridian blood that pumped through her veins was no match for a Minnesota winter.

Bobby took the coat before he slipped it back on, watching as Athena took her new coat out of the bag and put it on, zippering it with a noticeable shiver.

“This could’ve waited until we got back to the hotel.” Athena shrugged off his words, sliding into the passenger seat and pulling the gloves on over her hands.

“I think you overbought for a few day long trip. Do I really need all of this?” Athena moved around the contents of the bag.

“Better to be prepared,” Bobby said, “plus, you’ll be all set for your next trip to Minnesota.”

Athena laughed, shaking her head at him. “My next trip? I think you’re out of your damn mind.”

Bobby closed the car door to the sound of her laughter, then took his time to brush the snow off the car while it warmed up. He joined her inside the warm cab of the car a few minutes later, buckling his seat belt as he turned to her.

“You can’t possibly have such an opinion about Minnesota when you’ve only been in the state for a couple of hours,” he said.

“I think it is very possible,” Athena argues, rubbing her gloved hands together, as if she weren’t covered in layers to warm her up. The ensemble really suited her, though Bobby had to admit that he missed the way that she looked wrapped up in his coat. Even though he was the one wearing the coat now, Bobby felt like some of the warmth that surrounded his heart only a few minutes before had seeped out.

And he found himself shaking away the image of Athena walking around in his clothing.

“Well, I guess I have a few days to change your mind so our shopping trip doesn’t go to waste.”

Athena reached over for the radio dial, finding something for them to listen to for the short drive to the hotel. Bobby still couldn’t get over the fact that he was lucky enough to have a friend like her who would put her own life on hold just to make sure he was okay. She knew that this wasn’t going to be an easy trip for him, and she’d decided to make it easier—though maybe she hadn’t really thought about the logistics of what that meant.

Still. There isn’t any one else in his life that would’ve just offered to be his plus one for the entirety of the weekend. He did feel bad telling Jay that he was dating Athena, but the lie only needed to last a few days. Plus, his childhood best friend would be way too busy to spend time with them to realize that it was all an act. They were just friends playing a part.

Bobby drove through the snowy streets, shifting his gaze over to Athena a few times, where she tapped at the screen of her phone. “Everything okay back home?”

“Yeah.” Athena smiled, tapping a few more times before putting her phone away. “Just letting Michael know that the plane landed and we’re on the way to the hotel. He wants me to call once we get settled.”

“I’m sure you’ll want to talk to the kids, anyway,” Bobby said, noticing the way that a smile pulled at the corner of her mouth as he turned down the road that the hotel was located on. Bobby continued into the parking lot, seeing her smile turn into a frown.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Bobby asked, knowing that a [semi truck] could’ve fallen from the sky while he looked at Athena and he wouldn’t notice.

“The radio.” Athena reached for the knob and turned up the volume, the voice that was broadcasting over the air getting louder. Bobby focused on the voice on the radio more, as they went on to explain that there was a blizzard warning in effect for Saint Paul and the surrounding counties for the next 24 hours.

“A blizzard?” Athena said, the tone of her voice definitely pitching in a way that made it sound like the [announcer] had just advised that the world was ending in the next 24 hours.

“It’s just some snow and wind,” Bobby told her calmly, “we’ll be fine, I promise. Let’s get inside before the winds pick up too much.”

With that, Bobby flashed her a quick smile before he climbed out of the car, grabbing their luggage from the back. They made their way inside and a breeze began to pick up once they got closer to the hotel’s entrance. Athena stepped inside first and he followed just behind her.

“A blizzard, Bobby?”

“Saint Paul just wanted to give you the complete winter package.” Athena sighed, crossing her arms over her chest as they waited for the couple in front of them to get checked in at the front desk.

When it was their turn, Bobby flashed a smile at the woman who appeared to be in her early-twenties. “Reservation for Nash.” Bobby pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, then slid his driver’s license and credit card to her

“Let’s see here,” Mary, the concierge’s name according to her nametag, said. “Our [standard] room with one queen bed, right?”

“Uh, a queen bed, and a rollaway,” Bobby corrected.

“Let me check and see if we have any left.” She tapped away at her keyboard and Bobby waited patiently, glancing at Athena who stood beside him, glancing around the lobby.

Mary made a sound from the other side of the desk, then gave him an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry, Mr. Nash, but it looks like our last rollaway went with a room just a little bit ago.”

“I called ahead,” Bobby explained, sure to keep his voice even. He’d talked to someone just the day before who confirmed they did, in fact, have rollaways. “We need one because we weren’t able to get the room with two queens. I was told that you had rollaways.”

“We do have them,” she said, “we just don’t have any available right now. You can double check with us after checkout tomorrow morning, one might become available. I’m sorry for any inconvenience.” She slid the key to their room across the counter. “But I do hope you enjoy your stay.”

“But—” Bobby opened his mouth to argue, not even sure what he was going to say to her or how it would change anything. Athena set a hand gently on his arm and shook her head.

“It’ll be fine,” Athena assured him.

Bobby pressed his lips together, taking the key and thanking Mary for her help. It was going to be bad enough sleeping in the same room with Athena, but having to share the bed with her for the night? He might actually combust.

Bobby seemed to be lost in thought the entire ride up in the elevator, and Athena hadn’t said anything to break the silence between them. When the door closed behind them, he turned to look at the bed, staring at it in silence.

Athena turned to him curiously. “Bobby?”

His name being spoken was enough to pull him out of his thoughts and he turned his attention to Athena.

“You take the bed,” he said.

“And where are you going to sleep?” Athena cocked her head to the side as she studied Bobby, who was glancing around the small space.

“I’ll sleep on the chair.”

“The chair that looks like it’s about as comfortable as a folding chair? You’re going to sleep on an upholstered folding chair instead of the bed?”

“I appreciate that you’ve flown all the way out here with me, gone way above and beyond the call of friendship. I cannot ask you to share a bed with me.”

“Friends help each other out,” Athena promised. “And I’d wager that you’d do the same thing if the roles were reversed.”

Athena wanted to share a bed with Bobby though preferably under different circumstances, in a situation where they weren’t just pretending for the benefit of other people to be together. Still, she couldn’t bear the thought of him unable to sleep and waking up with a kink in his neck because he was trying to be chivalrous.

“Truly, the chair looks—” Bobby’s voice cut off for a second as he glanced at the offending object, “—comfortable.” He crossed the room and set his luggage beside it.

“That’s a lie.”

“I’m gonna go out and grab your bags from the car,” Bobby said, purposely evading the subject. He left Athena alone in the room a minute later, and she zipped open her suitcase. Then she pulled out her pajamas and the glass jars so she could do her skin care regimen before they went to bed. Or, in Bobby’s case, before chair.

She took out her phone, dialing the number that she knew by heart.

“Athena,” she heard Michael’s voice in her ear on the second ring, “how was the flight?”

“It was fine.” Athena grabbed the jars of cleanser and cream from where she’d set them on the bed, walking into the bathroom with the phone cradled against her cheek. “But it’s snowing now.”

Michael’s laugh rumbled in her ear. “You do realize you’re in Minnesota?”

“Of course I realize where I am.”

“In February?” Athena rolled her eyes before she walked back to the room, getting her clothes for the night before she slipped back into the bathroom.

“How’s Bobby?”

“He’s fine.”

Silence fell between them for a few minutes as she began to get ready for bed, that way she wouldn’t be in Bobby’s way when he returned.

“You just traveled 2000 miles with this friend for a ‘fake’ date,” Michael finally said, breaking the silence between them, and it sounded as though he’d been trying all along not to speak the words.

“Yes,” Athena drew the word out slowly, not even wanting to dissect what his tone meant.

“Does Bobby know this?”

“Michael,” Athena said impatiently, almost regretting that she’d told him the truth behind why she was traveling to Minnesota in the first place. “Of course he knows.”

“Better yet, do you know that or think you’d be there if any of it was fake?”

Athena looked at her reflection in the mirror, Michael’s words settling heavily in her chest. If she was being honest with anyone about how she really felt, she knew what the answer to that question was. As it was, Bobby hadn’t been in a relationship since he’d lost his wife, and while he had mentioned maybe putting himself back out there and making a dating profile, he hadn’t yet. Which told Athena that he wasn’t ready yet.

She wasn’t about to chase after a man who didn’t want to be chased. Besides, Athena Grant wasn’t the type of woman to do the chasing to begin with. Sure, she knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to seek it out, but she was also the kind of woman who deserved to be pursued just as much.

She sure as hell wasn’t about to tell her ex-husband all of that, regardless of how close they were.

“Are the kids around?” she asked instead.

Michael laughed on the other end of the line again. “Harry’s been waiting to talk to you. Let me get him.”

His laughter continued to ring out in her ears and she couldn’t stop the way that her mind continued to wrap around his words, playing them over in her mind. They were there as friends. She was there to help him through the weekend and that was it.

Regardless of her feelings.

Bobby barely slept. He had told Athena the chair looked comfortable the night before, which they’d both known wasn’t true. It was probably the most uncomfortable thing that he’d rested on in his entire adult life. He guessed that twenty years ago he wouldn’t have woken up feeling quite like he was 87 after trying to sleep that way, but sadly that wasn’t the case this morning.

Bobby hissed at the pain that echoed through his lower back, pushing himself up out of the chair. He had waited as long as he could, and hoped he was quiet enough not to wake Athena.

“Maybe if you hadn’t refused to sleep in the bed you wouldn’t be hobbling around like a fool.”

Well, there went that idea.

“Morning, Athena,” Bobby said, crossing the room to switch on the Keurig since she was awake as well.

“Morning, Bobby.”

Bobby waited for the coffee maker to warm up before brewing a couple cups of coffee for the two of them. Though it was a small space, it at least came with a coffee maker and when Bobby went away he was always prepared with coffee and creamer. He walked Athena’s coffee over to her as she sat up in bed and cradled the cup, a sleepy look on her face. He swallowed, trying not to focus on how badly he wouldn’t mind waking up to this sight regularly. The cup in his hands nearly slipped at the thought, so instead he brought it to his lips, deciding it was probably best to put some space between the two of them.

He walked over to the window, gently tugging the curtains open. It was impossible to see more than a few feet, the snow coming down steadily and the wind whipping outside. “Doesn’t look like we’re going anywhere this morning.”

Athena sipped at her coffee, then slid out from beneath the covers, joining Bobby in front of the window. She looked outside, wide-eyed.

“I’ve never seen snow like this,” Athena said.

“Consider it the VIP treatment.” Bobby looked down at her and smiled. He knew that she was probably hating this weather, especially since she was born and raised somewhere warm.

“Mmmh,” Athena hummed beside him. “Not sure this is exactly what I think of when I hear ‘VIP treatment’.”

“Fair enough.” Bobby chuckled, took a few more sips of his coffee, and then crossed the room to set his mug on the nightstand. “So since we can’t drive anywhere, what if we get showered and ready for the day and see if we can get in at the hotel’s restaurant for breakfast? It’s nothing fancy… but we’re going to need to eat.”

Athena agreed and a short while later they were showered and dressed, heading downstairs to the restaurant. It looked like they weren’t the only ones with that idea either, the dining room was already full and it wasn’t even 9.

“So I guess we’re going to be waiting,” Bobby concluded as he scanned over the restaurant, sending an apologetic smile in her direction.

“It’s fine, it’s not like there’s anywhere we could go even if we wanted to.” Athena sighed softly as they checked in to wait for a table.

“Bobby?” His attention shifted at the sound of his name.

“Joe?” Bobby was back in Minnesota, so it wasn’t exactly surprising that he would run into people that he knew—especially old friends and acquaintances that were also there to attend the wedding. Still, it felt a bit upending as they were waiting to be seated for breakfast.

“It’s good to see you, man. You’re looking good.” They shook hands and Joe clapped Bobby on the arm. “And who is this?”

Joe’s gaze shifted over to Athena and Bobby blamed the fact that he was still trying to stabilize himself that he’d forgotten to introduce her. Bobby opened his mouth to speak, but found that he didn’t need to.

“I’m Athena,” she said, sliding her hands casually around Bobby’s arm as she moved further into his space. “Bobby’s girlfriend.”

“O-oh—” Joe stammered for a moment. “I hadn’t realized…”

Bobby swallowed, feeling anxiety swirl in his stomach, trying to let the way Athena gently squeezed his bicep calm him. “Hadn’t realized what?” she pressed.

Joe’s mouth snapped shut, glancing between the two of them before offering an awkward smile. “I just hadn’t realized he was bringing a plus one.”

Athena made a sound of disbelief beside him.

“Joe, party of four,” the hostess called.

“It’s been really nice seeing you, Bobby,” Joe said after a minute, then turned his attention to Athena. “And meeting you, Athena. Hopefully we get the chance to catch up at the wedding if all of this clears up enough.” He motioned towards the window, where the snow continued to fall.

Once Joe had left, Bobby turned to Athena and looked down at where she still grasped his arm. “You didn’t have to do that,” Bobby said quietly.

Athena’s gaze turned away from Bobby momentarily, glancing over to Joe’s table, and her hands dropped from around Bobby’s arm, taking his hand and threading her fingers through his.

“I told you before, I’ve got your back for this trip. I meant it,” she said.

When their eyes met again, Athena was frowning and Bobby shook his head, realizing how that must have come across.

“I didn’t mean it like I didn’t believe you. I know you meant it. I guess I really expected it to be a wedding-only kind of a deal.”

“Well it’s not.” The silence that fell over them cued the end of the conversation, just as they were called to be seated.

Bobby sighed, Athena’s hand still in his despite her annoyance, hoping that he’d somehow be able to make it through breakfast without sounding like more of an ass.

With how things had gone so far this morning, Bobby knew that was pretty unlikely.

There wasn’t much that they could do after breakfast, so they headed back up to their hotel room. Bobby’s eyes had been burning, since he was so exhausted from his lack of sleep the night before. He sat down in the chair, tiredly scrubbing his hands down over his face.

He’d considered a nap, but that still felt like he was invading Athena’s space on the bed and the probability of him falling asleep in the same uncomfortable chair was unlikely.

He smelled the coffee Athena was brewing from his seat and he sat back, dropping his hands away from his face.

“You know,” Athena said as she crossed the room, stopping in front of him with a cup of coffee in her hands. “You wouldn’t be so tired if you’d have slept in the bed.”

Bobby didn’t say anything, just looked up at her with an expression that told her he wasn’t impressed with the topic.

“Here.” Athena held out the cup of coffee to him. “Figured you’d need a cup too.”

Bobby took the offered cup from here, trying not to get caught up in the way that their fingers brushed, and how it made his heart race. He felt heat creeping up the back of his neck. Athena stepped away, walking back to the coffee maker to get her own cup.

Bobby pulled himself out of the chair, walking over to the window where the wind continued to whip, which made it hard to really tell how quickly the snowfall was actually coming down. Athena stood beside him, looking at the storm outside.

“So you missed this?”

“Not blizzards exactly.” Bobby brought the cup to his lips, taking a few small sips before turning his attention to her. “But winter in general? It’s nice to have more definite seasons.”

“What is the draw of being cold all the damn time?”

“It’s not all the time and it’s hard to explain,” Bobby paused. “I feel like it’s one of those things that you have to experience to truly understand.”

“Aren’t we experiencing it now?” Athena asked, exasperation clear in her voice.

“Holed up in a hotel room?” Bobby laughed and shook his head a little, met with a disapproving look from Athena. “We’re not experiencing anything but a view from up here.”

“You want to go out? In a blizzard?”

“I don’t think…” Bobby’s voice trailed off as the lights around them, along with the television running in the background, cut off, filling the room with a weighted silence.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

The next few hours leading up to bedtime were quiet, aside from a complaint here or there. It hadn’t taken long for the chill in the room to become obvious, with the subzero temperatures outside only lending to the danger caused by the storm.

Bobby adjusted the blanket in his lap, sitting in the chair, the coolness from the floor creeping through his socks, making him feel chilled. Athena had just finished calling her family on the phone, and she turned her attention to him.

“Do not tell me that you plan to sleep—or not sleep—there again tonight,” she said dryly.

Bobby hesitated for a second, looking at Athena across the dimly lit room. “I’m not. I’m gonna try the floor.”

Athena took a breath, and it sounded a lot like she was saying a prayer. “Can you come over here so I can actually see you while we talk?” Bobby hesitated before slipping the blanket off his lap, crossing the room and sitting on the edge of the bed.

“There isn’t really much to talk about.”

“Stop being ridiculous. We’re adults. We can sleep in the same bed and the world isn’t going to end.” Athena said it like it was obvious and the only truth, but there was that little voice that rang out in the back of Bobby’s mind telling him that the world just might end if they shared the bed tonight.

Bobby didn’t say anything right away, not sure how the hell he could explain it to Athena without fully spelling out the problem to her. Sitting on her bed just as she was attempting to unwind and go to sleep didn’t seem like the right time or place to have that kind of conversation.

“Are you going to tell me what the problem is?” Athena’s voice cut through his thoughts. Bobby sighed heavily, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation.

“I don’t want to… cross any lines,” Bobby explained. It was already too much that Athena had volunteered to travel clear across the country with him, then attend a wedding under the guise of his girlfriend, all in the name of being a good friend.

“If you don’t get under these covers to start getting warm in the next ten seconds I’m going to cross a line to smack you upside the head. For being impossible.”

Bobby snapped his mouth shut at her tone, deciding it was best not to argue with her about it anymore. It was clear that she’d already made up her mind and he knew that convincing Athena to do something other than what she’d already chosen to do was an impossibility.

He got up from the bed, blowing out the couple of candles that they’d been able to scrounge up. Silently, he walked back to the bed, pulling back the comforter and sheet before climbing in.

“Finally,” Athena said as she scooted down further beneath the covers, shifting onto her side. “Now we can both get some sleep.”

Bobby was definitely more comfortable than the night before, surrounded by the blanket and the comfortable mattress below, but the only thing that he could focus on was the warmth of Athena’s body next to his.

Bobby doubted that he’d get any more sleep than he did the previous night, thinking about how Athena was just a short reach away.

“Night, Bobby,” she whispered into the dark.

Bobby’s eyes fluttered closed, swallowing against the sudden thickness in his throat. “Goodnight, Athena.”

Once he was able to stop his mind from racing, Bobby was finally able to get some sleep. However, waking up to Athena sleeping in the bed beside him was more than he was prepared for. His heart thudded inside his chest and he tried not to dwell on the times that he’d pictured what these quiet, soft moments with Athena would be like.

Bobby breathed out quietly, almost afraid to do so too loudly and wake her. He lay there for a few more moments before he turned his attention away from her, feeling like he was intruding in her personal space. Even after he’d turned away from her he couldn’t ease the aching that filled his chest.

Bobby had turned off his phone early the day before, shortly after they’d lost power, in an effort to conserve his battery. He turned his phone on and once everything had loaded, he wasn’t entirely surprised to see a text from Jay, letting him know they unfortunately had to postpone the wedding. The bride’s parents, along with her maid of honor, were all stranded elsewhere, unable to make it due to the weather they were experiencing.

Sitting up in bed quietly, Bobby swung his legs over the side, staying in that position for a minute.

“Morning.” Bobby heard Athena’s voice behind him. He shifted and turned to face her, seeing that she was not sitting up beside him.

“Good Morning,” Bobby said softly, stifling a yawn behind his hand. “So, I have some news. Jay had to reschedule the wedding because of the weather—the bride’s parents and maid of honor are stranded a thousand miles away.”

“Oh.” Athena nodded her head a little. “Well, it’s better that they’re safe, and who knows when power will even be restored.”

Bobby climbed out of the bed, pulling back the curtains so they could see outside. The weather was still, the wind no longer whipping as it had been for the last day. “Well, there is a lot of snow, but it should start settling down now that they’re actually able to clear things.”

The bed creaked behind Bobby as Athena climbed off of it, crossing the room to join him. There was a certain domesticity to being here with Athena and he yearned to have her slide her arms around him, pulling him close in the quiet of the morning. Bobby tried to mentally shake the thought from his mind.

“It is pretty,” Athena said. “From in here, anyway.”

“It’s even prettier out there,” Bobby commented, feeling as though there wasn’t much out there that could compete with [the simple beauty of the snow]. Even so, Bobby knew that he couldn’t suggest it at this point, not with the frigid temperatures inside their hotel room.

There was a knock on the door and Bobby looked at Athena before he shrugged his shoulders. It was someone from the hotel, letting them know that the power should be back within the hour, and dropping off what they referred to as ‘breakfast bags’. Bobby thanked the woman on the other side of the door, then rejoined Athena.

They consumed the contents of the bags and when the power finally turned back on, they took turns in the shower before getting geared up. “I don’t know how I let you talk me into this.”

“Because there’s nowhere to go until they clear the roads. May as well take advantage of all of the snow.”

“I’m sweating,” Athena complained, which was an unfamiliar tone for her as she pulled at the collar of her coat, along with the scarf that Bobby had convinced her to wear.

“You’re from Florida, I’m sure you’re used to that.” Bobby smirked as he pulled open the front door of the lobby, letting Athena step outside first, the coldness swirling into the lobby.

Athena was quiet once they stepped outside, and surprisingly she didn’t start on her string of complaints about the terrible weather in Minnesota, though he was sure that could be coming before too long. It was obvious that she was less than excited about the chilly temperatures, but hopefully all of the snow gear that he’d purchased for her when they first arrived would help her feel comfortable.

“Okay, so I’ve seen the snow up close.” Athena turned to him, and Bobby couldn’t help but grin at the sight of her, her small frame being practically swallowed by all of the gear. “Can we go back inside now?”

Bobby shook his head. “No.”

“Then what are we supposed to do out here?”

“There’s a lot to do,” Bobby said, thinking about all of his favorite snow activities. He’d love to take her ice skating, but that wasn’t something that they could do here. “A snowball fight, building a snowman or a fort, snow angels. We could just go through the list, which means starting with the snowball fight.”

“Do you actually think I’m going to let you throw a snowball at my head?”

“At your head?” Bobby asked with a startled laugh. “Do you think I have a death wish?”

Athena stopped, crossing her arms over her chest as she looked at Bobby. “Well you did insist on dragging me out here and into the snow. So you might have a death wish,” Athena reasoned.

“It would just be wrong to waste a perfectly good snow day.”

“A snow day?”

Bobby smiled as Athena seemed to weigh the words for a moment. “Yeah, a snow day. You’re stuck at home, can’t go to school… so you go out and play in the snow. Can’t really call this weekend complete until you’ve experienced your first snow day.”

“Fine,” Athena agreed hesitantly. “But if you throw anything at me you’re a dead man.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Bobby led Athena a little farther away so that they could still see the hotel clear enough, but so there was enough distance between them and the parking lot for when the plows did eventually make their way out.

“Lay down.” Athena cut her gaze up to his. Her reaction to literally everything since they’d come outside had been enough to force him into a fit of laughter. Athena stood there with an unamused expression still on her face and she remained still. Bobby shook his head then, realizing that if he was going to get her to go along with any of this he was going to have to go first.

“I know you haven’t had much sleep the last couple of days. But laying down to take a nap in the snow seems a little desperate, don’t you think?”

“Come on, Athena,” Bobby said, smiling up at her. “Lay down next to me.”

“Bobby.” He didn’t give her the chance to argue with him again, sitting up and grabbing hold of her hands, gently tugging her down into the snow with him. “Bobby!” she shrieked as fell forward, and he braced himself to catch her as she landed in the snow beside him.

Bobby shifted on his side, looking over at her beside him in the snow, noticing that she looked absolutely perfect with the brilliant white glistening around her. Athena’s beauty always took Bobby’s breath away, but it was different now with her guard down, and Bobby wished for the opportunity to see this side of her more.

“You fool!” She made a loose snowball before throwing it at him, pulling Bobby from his thoughts as he laughed.

“You were going to stand up there with your arms crossed all day if I didn’t do something.”

Athena huffed out a breath beside him before turning her attention to him. “So what was so important that I had to literally get pulled into the snow?”

“Snow angels.” Bobby didn’t explain any more, but began to make an angel beside Athena as he fanned out his arms and legs, watching Athena out of the corner of his eye as she stopped sulking beside him and began to mirror the motion.

“This seems so childish,” Athena muttered. She finally stopped the motion of creating the snow angel and lifted her head to look over at Bobby, holding her weight up on her elbows and squinting as the sun began to peek out, shimmering off of the seemingly endless snow.

He shrugged his shoulders, trying not to get too lost in observing Athena, the angel wings fading into the snow behind her only accentuating her natural beauty, and reminding him of the simplicity of the moment. The kind of moment that he’d probably never be able to have with her again.

Minnesota Athena let down those reinforced walls and Bobby didn’t have to try so hard to climb over or around them.

“That’s kind of the point,” Bobby said softly, watching as Athena’s breath puffed past her lips in the cold, but after a couple of seconds he still couldn’t tear his eyes away. Maybe it was the pretending to be a couple, sharing a room, sharing a bed; but he felt like the lines between what they were pretending to be and what they actually were became more blurred with each passing moment.

He glanced from Athena’s lips up to her eyes, and his gaze settled there for a long time, not willing to tear his eyes away and break whatever this feeling was that was building in the air between them. In that instant the realization hit that this thing that he had been feeling likely wasn’t one-sided, and continuing to ignore it affected her too.

“Bobby, what are—” Before Athena had the chance to finish her sentence, Bobby closed in the last bit of space between them, the snow crunching below as he shifted. His lips closed over hers without hesitation, with a confidence that didn’t let on how he’d been struggling with his feelings for Athena for a couple of months now.

Bobby cupped her cheek with a gloved hand, resting against the hat that Athena wore. Her lips were soft against his but just like everything else in her life, she demanded control, shifting so that Bobby was eased onto his back. Athena dropped her hand to rest against his chest, her mouth brushing against his delicately.

She pulled away a moment later, looking down into his eyes. “Is this part of the whole snow day experience?”

“Only if it’s with you,” Bobby said.

“Well,” she began, running a gloved thumb over Bobby’s cheek, “your nose is cold.”

“We can go in if you want,” Bobby told her, trying not to think about all of the things that he could do with Athena in the hotel room now that they’d somehow crossed this invisible line.

She stood up and held a hand out to him silently, helping him to get to his feet. Bobby led the way as they began the walk back towards the hotel, surprised by a sudden thwack against his back. He stilled, pivoting where he stood to see Athena packing another snow ball.

“Oh, this is war.” Bobby grinned as he bent down to grab some snow in his hands and he heard the sound of Athena’s laughter as she tried to run away, unable to remember a time when his heart had felt so full.

They only had one more night before they needed to head back to LA. Athena had showered after the rest of their snow day fun, and she couldn’t remember the last time that she’d felt so—carefree.

Athena grabbed the last of her things from the bathroom before she walked back out into the room that she shared with Bobby. She stopped abruptly halfway to the bed, eyes landing on the rollaway had appeared while she’d been showering.

“Bobby?” Athena separated out her dirty clothes and before she heard the sound of their hotel room door opening and closing.

“I was able to get one of the rollaways, since they cleared the roads and finally able to start checking people out,” Bobby explained.

“You were… able to get a rollaway,” Athena repeated.

“Yeah,” Bobby said. “It’s all made up.”

Athena sat down on the bed with a small laugh. “Can you explain to me what the rollaway is for?”

“To sleep.” Bobby said the words carefully. Athena pulled back the covers on his side of the bed and then turned her attention back to him more fully.

“You slept in the bed last night,” Athena reminded him. “Add to that the fact that you kissed me earlier today and I’m pretty sure you’ll come to the same conclusion as me.”

“Which is?”

“We’re not gonna need a rollaway, Bobby.”

Understanding dawned on Bobby and he nodded his head, stepping around the rollaway and instead climbing into the bed beside Athena. She smiled at him, soft and amused.

“This is gonna take some getting used,” Bobby chuckled.

“And we’re going to enjoy every second of that.” Athena murmured, pecking Bobby’s lips. She’d come here with Bobby as a friend, to help him out with something that he’d been struggling with. She’d never imagine that in a matter of a few days that things could change so drastically between them. It wasn’t something that she had been able to predict happening.

Athena sighed softly, resting her head against Bobby’s chest as his fingers danced soothingly over her back. She could get used to this casual intimacy that they were beginning to discover together. She wanted to spend the next sixteen hours that they had in this place together like this.

#911 #911 on fox #911firstkiss #911 first kiss week #first kiss #fake relationship #snowed in #mutual pining #friends to lovers #all the tropes #bobby nash #athena grant #bathena

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flowerfan2 · 4 years ago

Text

A story about a reunion, and everything that happens afterwards.

Chapter 16/20 - Read on A03 here.

Patrick reads the email over again, just to make sure, then he runs out into the living room to tell David.

“I did it.”

David looks up from his spot on the couch, his black-framed glasses perched on his nose. They’ve had a very sleepy Sunday morning, followed by a big breakfast of bacon and omelets, and David still hasn’t gotten around to putting in his contacts. Patrick loves him like this.

“What did you do?” David rises up from the couch, all grace and designer loungewear, and comes over to Patrick.

“I got a job.” Patrick isn’t sure if what he is feeling is relief, excitement, or equal parts of both, but it feels amazing.

David smiles at him and pecks him on the cheek. “Of course you did.” He sits down on the couch and pats the cushion next to him. “Sit down and tell me about it.”

“It’s just a consulting position, bookkeeping mostly, but for a company that works with start-ups and young entrepreneurs. And it’s decent pay, more than I was expecting for this kind of thing.”

“That’s great,” David says. “When do you start?”

“They want me right away.” Patrick can feel his smile stretching his cheeks. It’s the first time he’s felt anything but useless in so long, the way the people at this firm seemed to understand what he could bring to the table. Patrick accepts another kiss from David, and then pops back up off the couch. “I’m gonna call my parents.”

He goes into the bedroom and talks to his mom, then his dad, and then the conversation somehow gets derailed into a debate on whether buying new furniture for the lanai right now is a good idea or if they should stick with what they have for the time being. Patrick kind of likes the idea of making David go shopping for patio furniture with him, so he’s voting for the former. Finally they circle back to his job, his parents congratulate him again, and he gets off the phone.

He’s headed back to the living room, but pauses when he sees David in the guest room. David has a black leather bag open on the bed and his sweaters folded in careful piles next to it. Patrick’s stomach drops.

“David? What – what are you doing?”

David looks up. He’s dressed in his favorite armor, glasses discarded in favor of contacts, a fuzzy black sweater over the black jeans with the rips in the knees. “You said you were starting right away. You didn’t say where, but I’m assuming Toronto-”

“Toronto? Why would you assume Toronto?”

David’s face shutters further, and he turns back to his bag. “I know I said I’d go anywhere with you, but I thought you might at least give me a heads up, discuss it a little bit, especially if it’s not Toronto. I do have to deal with my apartment there at some point.” David turns towards him, a hand on his hip. “Do you even still want me to come with you?”

Patrick doesn’t know how this could have gone so horribly wrong, and he crosses to David, grabbing him by the shoulders. “Stop packing.”

“You don’t want me to come with you?” David’s voice is rising, and Patrick shakes his head.

“I’m not going anywhere. We’re not going anywhere, not until we both decide we want to.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“David, we’re not going anywhere. I don’t have to go anywhere. It’s a remote job.”

David stares at Patrick, and Patrick watches as he mentally replays the conversation they’ve had so far. “You aren’t leaving?”

“No.” Patrick sits down on the bed, David frowning at him as he knocks over a pile of sweaters, but sits down next to him anyway. “It’s remote, part-time. A consulting gig. Varied schedule, but they think it’ll be about 20-25 hours a week, depending in part on how much their clients like me, and how well I can add value. I may need to go to the Toronto office a few times a year, for meetings or something. But I’m doing the job from home – from here, or wherever.”

David turns away, picking up his off-white hoodie and pretending to refold it, even though Patrick can tell he just needs something to do with his hands. “You should have told me that,” David says, embarrassed.

“I know. I’m sorry, I just got so excited.” Patrick leans into David, rubbing a hand on his back. “I’m sorry,” he says again, letting it sink in, letting David get his balance. “I wouldn’t make any plans for us without talking it over with you. I promise I wouldn’t. My plans wouldn’t be any good without you.”

David’s eyes flicker to his and away, his hands still wrapped in the halfway folded sweater.

“It’s true, David.” Patrick puts his free hand on top of David’s, calming their restless movement. “I don’t want any plans without you in them. I haven’t even accepted the offer yet.”

“You haven’t?” David turns back, searching his face.

“Nope. I told them I had to talk it over with my boyfriend.” Patrick’s taking a risk, throwing that word out there. But David had done it first last time, and he doesn’t think there’s really any question that it applies. He’s sort of glad that he hasn’t used it yet; there’s more of an impact now, when David clearly needs it.

David’s eyes go wide. “You did?”

“I did. So – what do you think?”

David shifts, and his demeanor softens, his walls coming back down. “I think your boyfriend needs to know more.” There’s a smile hidden in his cheek, an agreement. Patrick wants to cheer. David holds his gaze, and his smile escapes, mirroring Patrick’s own. “And then you probably need to ask for more money. There’s nothing wrong with asking for what you deserve.”

“You don’t even know what they offered me.”

“Whatever they offered, you’re worth more.”

******

Patrick gets up earlier than normal a few days later and shaves carefully, examining his face closely in the mirror. He doesn’t look like someone who hasn’t worked in months. He just looks like himself. And when he presents himself to David for approval, David’s smile courses through his lips and into his cheeks, his hands dancing to Patrick’s shoulders, smoothing down the thin fabric of his favorite purple dress shirt. He’s ready.

They set up an office of sorts for Patrick in the guest bedroom, shifting the bed to one side, moving a dresser out of the room and into the hallway, and arranging a table by the window. Patrick decides that one of the dining table chairs will work for the time being, and David fusses with the curtains, concerned that the glare will make it hard to see his laptop screen.

Finally Patrick ushers David out of the guest room and logs in to a Zoom meeting for orientation. It’s boring as hell, but he doesn’t complain.

It’s not as if he thought he was unemployable, it’s just that after his last job imploded so strangely, he wasn’t sure what it would be like to be an employee again. And didn’t know if anyone would give him a chance to find out. Turns out, Alexis was not only good at papering over his employment blips, she was awesome at pep talks and interview practice. He makes a note to himself to call her soon and thank her.

That night they make sandwiches and eat them on the lanai. It’s a little cool for it, but it still feels nice to be outside. Patrick had his parents send him down some more clothes, but David scoffed at the idea of wearing a jacket. Instead he’s got a throw blanket draped around his shoulders, a giant turquoise fleece wrap that clashes terribly with his otherwise neutral palette.

They get a series of texts from Stevie, photos of the house she’s buying in Schitt’s Creek. It’s a three-bedroom ranch on a decent sized lot. The interior looks like it hasn’t been updated in decades, with a pink bathroom and horrendous wallpaper in the bedrooms, but Stevie’s had plenty of experience updating décor at this point.

David teases her for a few minutes, riffing on how unbelievable it is that she’s adult enough to be a homeowner, but his heart doesn’t seem in it. Patrick doesn’t tell him how Stevie has been saving for years, every bonus and raise going into an account for a down-payment.

After their chat with Stevie, David seems out of sorts, and Patrick isn’t sure what to do about it. After they’ve cleaned up from dinner, he suggests they play a game.

David gives him a frowny look, and Patrick immediately knows what he’s thinking. Neither of them are in the mood for sex. “Not that kind of game. A card game, or a board game.”

David perks up at this, then deflates. “We don’t have the right number of people for a board game.”

“I bet we can find something the two of us can play. My parents have a pile of games in the hall closet.”

They pull down the basket of games from the shelf above the laundry machine, and David peers inside. “Did they get these from a yard sale or something?”

There’s a worn box that contains a checkerboard, with both checkers and chess inside, a Connect Four game, a few decks of cards, and Uno.

“I think my aunt sent them down.” Patrick takes out the Uno deck. “How about this?”

David takes the whole basket into the living room and sets it on the coffee table. He takes out the Connect Four game and pulls out the plastic frame, dropping a round tile into it. “I had this game,” he says thoughtfully.

“I think everyone had that game.”

David dumps out the rest of the pieces, and a greeting card falls out. It’s got a drawing of a bouquet of flowers on the front, with “Get Well Soon” in big letters. “What’s this?” David opens it and reads out loud. “Marcy – hope this brings a little bit of fun to your day. You’re in our prayers. Love Susie and Pete.”

Patrick takes the card and reads it, his mind flashing back to last spring, flying down to see his parents. His dad breaking down in tears on the car ride from the airport. His mother telling him not to worry.

“Patrick? Patrick, honey, what’s going on?”

David has his arm around him, and he’s pressed close to him on the couch. Patrick brushes away the wetness on his cheeks, and David pulls him into a hug. “Patrick, tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s nothing.”

David glares at him.

“I mean, it turned out to be nothing.” Patrick shakes himself and clears his throat. “My mom had a cancer scare last spring. They found a tumor in her breast. But it was benign.”

“This doesn’t sound like it was benign.” David waves the card at him. “People don’t say you’re in our prayers when it’s benign.”

“She had a bad reaction to one of the drugs, during the surgery, and took a little while to recover. She was laid up for a while, and pretty miserable. But it wasn’t cancer.”

David’s eyes are wet, and he looks like he’s going to cry, too. “She’s okay now?”

“She’s okay.” Patrick leans against David, snuggling into his arms, and they both breathe together for a long moment. “Oh god, I think that’s why I freaked out in the doctor’s office.”

David shifts to look at him. “What do you mean?”

“As soon as I heard, I flew down here. I went with my mom and dad to the doctor’s visits before her surgery. I couldn’t stay long afterwards, I had to get back to work, but…” Patrick’s throat gets tight, remembering. “It was awful. We were all so frightened.”

David presses Patrick’s head against his own, his large hand against Patrick’s scalp warm and comforting. Patrick can feel David’s chest rising and falling. David’s taking deep breaths, he can tell, trying to stay calm.

“You said this happened last spring?” David says quietly.

“Yeah.”

“When things started to go wrong for you at work.”

Patrick tenses. “My mom was in the hospital. I think it’s understandable that I was having trouble focusing.”

“No, honey, of course. That’s not what I meant. Of course it is. It’s just – you didn’t mention that before. That being worried about your mom is what started to get you down.”

Patrick feels like he’s a cartoon character with a light bulb flashing over his head. Could it be that simple? Was worrying about his mom’s health, on top of his general dissatisfaction with where he had ended up in life, what pushed him over the edge into depression?

David tightens his arm around Patrick’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Patrick. That that happened to your family. It must have been a very scary thing to deal with.”

“It really was.”

“I’m so glad she’s okay.”

Patrick turns and buries his face in David’s neck. “Me too.”

That night, after David falls asleep, Patrick turns to the internet. He hadn’t wanted to do this before. He’s not sure why, although he thinks it has a lot to do with denial. But he can’t stop thinking about his mom, and how hard it had hit him when she was sick. Gritting his teeth, he starts googling causes of depression. Upsetting or stressful life events. Death or illness in the family. Job-related worries. Huh. Maybe he had good reason to feel like things were falling apart. Maybe that’s why he lost the ability to care about his job. Maybe he’s not doomed to fail at his new one, too.

Patrick scrolls to the email from the therapist he’s been talking to. So far, it’s just been a few emails and a brief phone call, an introduction, to see if she seemed like a good fit. She’s based out of Toronto, but has many patients that she counsels remotely, on Facetime or Zoom, and comes highly recommended. With shaking hands, he types out a message, suggesting that they schedule a session soon. “I think it started last spring…”

#David x Patrick #David Rose #Patrick Brewer #Schitt's Creek #Schitt's Creek fic

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litwitlady · 4 years ago

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Date Nights (4/5)

Read on Ao3.

‘Are you really going to chop down a tree?’ Alex eyes him warily from the opposite side of the Chevy’s bench seat. ‘There’s plenty of lovely trees that have been pre-chopped.’

Michael climbs out of the truck, reaching into the bed to grab his shiny new ax. ‘Yes. I am definitely chopping down a tree today.’ He settles the ax’s handle over his shoulder and sets off in the direction of the neatly planted fir trees.

Alex trudges after him, stepping carefully through the melting snow. He catches up easily because Michael keeps stopping at every single tree to assess its ‘curvature’. ‘This one looks perfect.’ He points to the tree behind Michael, and it earns him an exasperated frown.

‘The bottom is not bushy enough.’ Alex furrows his brow, and Michael motions around the tree like he’s going to hug it. ‘The circumference is lacking.’ He circles around the tree to further make his point. ‘I didn’t move your heavy ass keyboard out of the way for such a sad, puny little Charlie Brown Christmas tree.’

The ‘sad, puny’ tree is literally eight feet tall.

‘You mean when you moved my heavy ass keyboard with your brain and didn’t break a sweat?’ Alex smirks at him fondly.

‘That’s not the point.’

Alex snorts. ‘I’m going to go get some apple cider. Want any?’

Michael’s already moved three trees down, but he shouts yes over his shoulder and throws in a request for an apple cruller. ‘I’ll find the perfect tree, Alex! She’s here somewhere.’ He’s now nothing more than a disembodied voice.

The line for apple cider isn’t terribly long. Alex scrolls through his text messages while he waits, rolling his eyes at a vaguely threatening message from Isobel demanding their attendance at her pre-Christmas dinner in a few hours. He responds by telling her they’ll try to be there knowing exactly what her face will look like when she reads the word try.

He buys the largest-sized cider, pays for two crullers, and heads back toward the spot he’d left Michael. The tree farm is much busier now - kids laughing and running zigzags through the trees, chainsaws roaring, and couples everywhere arguing over which tree is best. It takes him ages to find Michael, deep down a row of giant firs and talking to a man Alex doesn’t recognize. The way he towers over Michael sets every nerve in Alex’s body on high alert.

The stranger has his back to Alex. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and olive-skinned. Like Michael, he’s got a cowboy hat situated on his head and dusty work boots on his feet. Alex doesn’t need him to turn around to know the man is unfairly gorgeous. All he needs to see is that familiar lopsided smile spread across Michael’s face and the way his eyes keep dropping bashfully to the ground. Out of habit and maybe a pinch of something far more complicated than jealousy, he assesses the man’s body for hidden weapons, but there’s no way to truly know what’s under his burly, fleece-lined coat.

‘Got the cider. Who’s this?’ He steps beside Michael and turns to the stupidly attractive bear of a man. Big green eyes and a smattering of freckles putting a scowl on Alex’s face.

‘Ah, this is Jamie Whitley.’ There’s uncertainty in Michael’s voice and that sets Alex even more on edge, hackles raised. He passes off the cider and crullers to Michael, ostensibly to shake Jamie Whitley’s enormous hands. But really he just feels better and more prepared with both his hands free. ‘Jamie and I worked as ranch hands together a couple of summers a few years back.’

‘Had a real shitty foreman. Seems like we were always in some kind of trouble. But we were also the best workers that man had. Maybe ever.’ His voice is gruff, smoky. The kind of voice Alex has always envied when he’s singing. Jamie beams at Michael while he shakes Alex’s hand, grip firm and unyielding. Alex assumes it’s a warning and squares his shoulders, unconsciously sliding a step closer to Michael.

Michael reaches out and squeezes Alex’s elbow. ‘Jamie, this is Alex Manes. My boyfriend.’ It’s the first time he’s heard Michael call him that to someone other than their circle of friends. He says it so sure and certain that Alex takes a deep breath and lets go of some of the tension in his shoulders.

Jamie’s eyes dart to Alex, obvious recognition flooding his features. ‘The Alex Manes?’ He narrows his eyes at Alex, sizing him up differently now that he has a name to go along with the face. ‘I used to hear a lot about you.’

‘I’m sure I deserved most of it.’ Alex’s jaw clenches, and Michael digs his fingernails into his bicep.

‘Well, it was a long time ago. People change. And this one always loved you, no matter what.’ He leans in to hug Michael goodbye, forcing Alex aside a couple of steps. Michael’s arms flail out to the side, hands still full of cider and cruller. But he smiles gently at Alex over Jamie’s shoulder, and Alex returns the smile, starting to feel a little silly. ‘It’s great seeing you again, Guerin. You look good. Real good.’

With nothing more than a nod at Alex, he disappears from sight.

‘So you two definitely fucked.’ Alex takes one of the crullers from Michael’s hand. He does his best to keep anything remotely negative out of his voice. But he knows he hasn’t been entirely successful.

Michael gulps at the cider. ‘On and off. But mostly, Jamie was a friend. It was after you left for Afghanistan. Your second tour.’

Alex nods. ‘That was a rough goodbye.’

‘They were all rough goodbyes.’ It’s said so low Alex almost doesn’t hear him. ‘Look, Alex.’ He stares after Jamie’s footprints in the snow. ‘That was weird as fuck and -- ‘

‘Hey.’ Alex places what he hopes is a calming hand on Michael’s chest. ‘It’s fine. And I should have been friendlier. I’m actually really glad you had someone. That giant man wouldn’t have necessarily been my first choice, but -- ‘

Michael laughs, still a little uneasy but his shoulders relax. ‘I found the perfect tree. She reminds me of you.’ He swallows his cruller in three bites and then grabs Alex’s wrist, dragging him through a few rows of trees.

They stop in front of the biggest tree on the lot. At least fifteen feet tall and slightly terrifying in its girth. ‘How exactly does this tree remind you of me? I feel like it’s going to eat us.’

‘Well, yeah.’ He elbows Alex playfully in the ribs. ‘Protective. Strong, slightly imposing, barrel-bodied. And beautiful.’

‘The shit that comes out of your mouth sometimes, Guerin.’ But he’s smiling and Michael is smiling and then they are kissing. Easily losing themselves in each other as is so often the case. Only barely managing to stay on this side of public decency before they are interrupted by two kids bursting through their tangled legs as they chase each other around the farm.

They both grin after the kids and turn back to Michael’s perfect Christmas tree. ‘You know, my ceilings aren’t tall enough for this tree.’

‘That’s okay. This is the patio tree. Once I chop this one down, we can start looking for our indoor tree.’ He grabs the ax he’s left sitting under the tree and rears back to take his first swing. Alex walks several feet away and watches Michael wedge the ax into the trunk, barely making a scratch. ‘Huh. Harder than I thought. I should probably just go find someone with a chainsaw.’

Alex snorts his agreement, taking the ax from Michael as he sets off to search for help. He reaches up to tug on one of the Douglas fir’s branches, a little overwhelmed at the idea of spending their first Christmas together. But good overwhelmed. Like the first time he’d left the ground in an A-10 Warthog, the sky opening up so vast and endless. The sun only a heartbeat away.

He loves Michael. And Michael loves him. These nine weeks of work they’ve put in to get them to this moment, where Alex can stand in front of a Christmas tree with pure joy in his heart rather than abject terror, are the best nine weeks of his life. Standing in front of this tree - their tree - he vows that come Christmas morning, Michael will know with every fiber of his being just how much Alex loves him. And Christmas will be theirs forever, happy and so filled with joy that even the Evanses will be sick with envy.

It’s not the most gracious thought Alex has ever had. But then again, he’s never been the most gracious person. And for once in his life, he decides that’s okay.

#malex #malex fic

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benji-writes · 5 years ago

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The Laundry Room

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 3416

Summary: Bucky is soft. He finds love in the laundry room of his apartment building.

He wasn’t sure what it was like to be in love. He had loved people, sure – his ma, his sister, Steve. But he didn’t really know what it was like to truly love a woman, and to be loved by her in return. He thought it must be beautiful.

It wasn’t what he’d wanted in the forties. He was so young – handsome. Girls wanted to be around him all the time, looking up at him wide eyed and lashes fluttering. He’d take them dancing, because that’s what they wanted, and he’d walk them home. He’d get a kiss on the cheek from the girls who were looking for a boyfriend, and a kiss on the lips from the girls who were looking for a good time, and he’d walk home alone.

It was never more than that though. No one ever made it past a few dates, and then came the war, and the dark, and the cold, and suddenly his hair was long. When his hair was short, and his body whole, he was someone else. He didn’t know who that was anymore, angry that he would never get him back. Girls didn’t look at him anymore. No wide eyed women he could call “doll.” No one who’s eyelashes would flutter. And if girls wouldn’t look at him, what did the rest of his life look like?

Back then, he thought he’d eventually find someone to settle down with. He dreamed about the end of the war, soldiers coming home to the ones they’d left behind. He dreamed he’d meet a girl. One he could write letters to while he was away. One he could come home to. The war would end, and he’d have long since asked her father for his blessing. He’d get down on one knee. In a house of his own, with his wife and a baby. A big backyard where the kids could run around in the grass. If anyone had known how much he thought about it, he never would have lived it down. But the world was different now. He was different now. And how could he let himself dream of a life where all those old wishes came true? He would just be disappointed in the end.

You met Bucky in the laundry room of your apartment building. You lived in a pretty nice place. Not so nice that you had a doorman or security, but you needed a code to get in the first door, and a special key to get in the second. A nice enough place for there to be a laundry room in your building so the tenants wouldn’t need to block out the hours in a day to go and sit at the laundromat.

You did your laundry every time your hamper was full, and you had two hampers. One for your clothes, and the other for cloths and towels. This meant that you washed your clothes every Saturday. Every other Wednesday, you did your towels. You liked the regularity that came with this schedule. The routine nature of it comforted you, and so unless there was some terrible emergency, absolutely nothing was going to disrupt your laundry schedule.

You loved your laundry time, in part due to how much you loved the laundry room itself. When you got off the elevator and walked down the hall to the laundry room, you saw the machines lined against the back wall. They stacked one on top of the other, and there were four washer/dryer sets. There was a big soft couch in the laundry room, with a big purple plush chair and a coffee table. There was also the long table in the middle of the room where you could fold your clothes, or put down your detergent or dryer sheets. The walls were a soft green, and it felt like a safe space, and no one was ever there when you went.

You always did your laundry fairly late at night. For the most part, midnight would roll around, and you’d transfer your clothes from the hamper to the laundry basket and putter your way downstairs. No one in the building ever did their clothes at this hour, and that meant for the hour and forty five minutes while your clothes cycled through the machines, the laundry room was yours. Sometimes you’d just sit on the couch. You’d read romances or watch tv shows on your phone. Sometimes you sang, and sang, and spun around the room to the Tangled soundtrack. When everything was too much, you would sit on top of the long table and watch the laundry spin.

The night you met him, you’d fallen asleep on the long table. He’d just moved into a new building, enjoying the quiet that came with being slightly farther away from the city. It was a nice enough place, and it felt good to be on his own again. To open the windows as wide as he wanted, or keep the tv on the Food Network channel all day. He never had to wear shoes, and he could take his arm off without worrying about anybody looking. A spider plant he’d bought at the farmers market sat on his window sill. He’d named it Dave. There was a laundry room in the basement, and he could buy the Gain detergent (because it smelled better than the Tide they used at the compound) and the Snuggle dryer sheets and fold his own clothes again. He liked it better this way. On his own where he could choose.

It was about a week after he’d moved in. His arm was off, and it was time to do his laundry. Unwilling to risk the possibility of running into neighbors in the hallway or the laundry room, he waited till night. After all, who did their laundry after midnight on a Saturday? In a white t-shirt and blue fleece pajama pants he made his way downstairs. Holding the laundry basket against his hip, he walked off the elevator and down the hall to the laundry room. What Bucky had not factored into his night, was a beautiful woman snoring softly on top of the table in the middle of the room. Bucky stood there for a moment, not quite sure if what he was seeing was actually real or not. He walked backwards out of the room, waited a moment, then closed his eyes and shook his head back and forth a few times, as if to erase the image like nothing more than powder in an etch a sketch. He opened his eyes and walked back into the room hoping it would be empty, but there you still were. Sleeping. Your clothes from the wash now done, just waiting for you to wake up and move them to the dryer.

Bucky didn’t know what to do. Just standing in the doorway, he couldn’t help but stare at you. You’d sprawled out, limbs hanging off the side, with your phone laying on the ground where it had clearly fallen out of your hand. You wore a big shirt with a picture of an alien on the front that said “Humans aren’t real,” and a pair of boxers as pajama shorts. One of your flip flops had fallen off your foot, and he noticed your fingers and toes were painted a matching shade of periwinkle. He couldn’t stop looking at you, which he realized was perhaps kinda creepy, but there was just something about you. He wanted to look at you, and to keep looking at you. He wanted you to wake up, and to look at him too.

He wasn’t sure what he should do. Should he turn around and come back another time? Should he just put his stuff in the laundry and leave? Should he wake you up? Why were you on the table when there was a couch not five feet away? Should he try and coax you up and gently over to the couch? But if he did that why wouldn’t you just go back to your own apartment? He wasn’t even wearing his prosthetic. Fuck. Okay. Here’s the plan – pick the phone up from the floor, put the phone on the table, quietly put the clothes in the washing machine, and leave.

With his mind made up, he put his basket down in front of the machine. He picked your phone up and placed it by you on the table. He opened the wash, which made a very loud clicking sound as it opened. He threw his clothes in, filled the machine with detergent, and shut the door to start the cycle. Naturally, echoing through the silence, the door made the same loud clicking as it closed, and an even louder click as the machine locked. Taking a deep breath, and feeling like he’d just run a god damn marathon, he turned to leave only to make eye contact with the woman. Fuck.

You had woken up, probably from the loud click of the machine, and Bucky imagined what he must’ve looked like to you. A one armed man you’d never seen before standing in the laundry room at almost one in the morning. He was suddenly hyper aware of the fact that he was not wearing shoes, and that his big toe stuck out of the hole in his left sock.

Uncertain of what to do, Bucky just stood there. Looking at you, as you looked at him. Two people frozen at the threshold of something nameless. A liminal moment in time.

You reached your hand up to wipe the sleep out of your eyes and said, “Good mornin’.”

Rolling with it he said, “Mornin’.”

After a big yawn you said, “You the guy who just moved in 4B?”

He nodded, almost solemnly.

“I’m in 4A.”

He was quiet after that, as if taking in the information. You weren’t sure what else to say, and neither was he really, but he still stood there.

After a moment you said, “Sorry I was asleep. That was probably pretty weird.”

He shrugged his shoulders, not particularly worried about it. It took a second, but then he spoke up again and said, “Your laundry is done.”

You let out a big sigh, and hopped off the table, sliding your shoe back on once your foot hit the ground. Wordlessly you started to change your stuff over. Bucky, uncertain of what to do, simply watched you for a bit. When you turned back to look at him, he was gone. If it weren’t for the laundry basket sat in front of his machine, the clothes inside spinning around, you’d have sworn you dreamt the whole thing. You imagined what you must’ve looked like to him. He looked like a sculpture of Adonis and you’d been drooling, asleep on top of a public table. Thinking too much about it was going to give you a headache.

When he came back downstairs to move his clothes into the dryer, you were sat on the couch like a normal person. When you glanced over at him, you noticed he’d changed into a long sleeved hoodie, and looked like he had two regular arms. Before common sense or any semblance of decorum could stop you, the words tumbled out, “Was I dreaming or did you only have one arm half an hour ago.”

The second you said it, you smacked you hand over your mouth. He turned to look at you, since he’d just finished moving his things and closed the dryer door. He stared at you, though not unkindly, and as if desperate to make up for asking you rushed out all at once, “I am so sorry you do not have to answer that question. That was so not the right thing to say, I am so sorry. Oh my god, I’m so so sorry. Please don’t hate me forever, I promise I’m not normally this rude.”

You could see the corner of his mouth turn up, “It’s alright. I put my prosthetic back on.”

You sat there looking at him, and nodded earnestly. You were too embarrassed to say anything else, and suddenly overwhelmed, you couldn’t even look him in the eye.

“Have a good night, doll.”

You threw your head back and groaned once he was gone. What an embarrassment.

—

The next time you saw him was a week later. Saturday night, laundry time. You were wide awake that night, and playing solitaire on the coffee table when he walked in. “Dancing in the Moonlight” played on your phone in the background, and he gave you a soft smile when he walked in. You wanted him to smile at you again, so you just smiled back. He went about his business, you went about yours, and from there on out, that was how it was. He came back every Saturday after that. Normally you two didn’t say anything, the first few Saturdays especially. In those days, there was no more than passing smiles, glances stolen when the other was looking away. Back then, you only knew what his voice sounded like in a sleepy memory at the back of your mind.

But the weeks went on, and suddenly he would linger for longer in the laundry room, rather than going upstairs right after he’d put his stuff in the machines. Before you knew it, he took up residence in the faded purple chair, that you’d now come to think of as his, while you sat on the couch, or sometimes on the long table.

One day, seated criss cross on the table, you finally heard him speak again, “What are you doing when you sit up there?”

You turned back to look at him, and you met those curious blue eyes, looking at you like they could figure you all out if he just looked long enough.

“Well,” you said. “I watch the laundry spin.”

He contemplated that for a moment. Eventually he just said, “Why?”

Not quite sure how to articulate it out loud, you told him, “Why don’t you come try it and figure that out for yourself.”

Physically unable to resist the pull, he got up from his chair, put down his book and walked over to you. You moved over a little bit, and patted the spot next to you, and he sat with his legs hanging off the side. The two of you, in the dim quiet of Saturday night, watched the laundry spin. It hadn’t made sense to him before, but sitting there with you, he felt like he was beginning to understand. It was peaceful. Watching the colors go round, and the water splash against the door. Bubbles of detergent rolled gently, and there was an ease that blanketed across him. He couldn’t describe it, that same nameless thing, but in that moment, Bucky was certain that he would be okay. That everything, in the end, would be alright. He wasn’t sure if it was you, or the laundry, or the way your knee lay lightly against his thigh, but he could feel it. The threshold of something. He looked over at you, only for a moment. Your eyes, trained on the gentle spin of the washer, he thought he’d never seen anything more beautiful than you. And in that instant he allowed himself to dream the dreams of his youth. Those hopes of a woman who’d love him someday. A girl he’d get down on one knee for. The house, with the backyard big enough for a swing set. A baby he’d rock to sleep. This time, he imagined a laundry room. One with a big warm couch sat right in front of the machines. They could cover themselves in blankets, listen to that easy hum, and watch as bursts of color went by. He imagined one hamper, where both of their clothes went. A washer mixed with his and hers. Right then, Bucky Barnes knew he would marry you, and by God, he still did not even know your name. You looked at him, only to find he was already looking at you. You gave him a thousand watt smile and he couldn’t help but give you one right back.

Soon enough you were both folding your clothes downstairs rather than taking your baskets up to fold them in your separate apartments, and before you even realized, you were doing towels on Saturday nights too. The time spent downstairs growing longer and longer. You didn’t always talk, but sometimes he’d ask what song you were listening to and you’d spend hours showing him songs you thought he might like, the ones you loved the most. He’d show you the ones he listened to as a kid, and he’d spin you around the laundry room to Vera Lynn. You’d sway back and forth, and he’d place his head gently on top of your. You’d ask if he was down for a game of cards, and suddenly four hours had gone by and you were getting your ass handed to you at gin rummy. He once apologized for taking his prosthetic off in front of you, and you smacked him across the chest and told him not to talk stupid. You saw him without it a lot more after that night. You sat together on the couch. You set up your laptop and watched The Wizard of Oz and the Fast and the Furious movies.You’d bring drinks and snacks and share them freely. Those walls were yours, and Saturday nights together became the most sacred of practices.

It was early one morning when there was an erratic knocking from the front hall. They were pounding on your door, and it was six am on Sunday morning. You had only left the laundry room an hour and a half before. Rolling out of bed with an angry groan, you opened your door, and there he was. Half dressed, prosthetic off, he looked to be in such distress it woke you right up. Before you could ask what was wrong, he said, “I have something very important I need to ask you, and I keep thinking about it, and I just need you to give me an answer okay?”

“Of course,” you said without a trace of hesitation.

He took a deep breath to calm himself down, “What is your name?”

You blinked at him for a moment, and maybe it was the seriousness on his face, or the lack of sleep, or maybe it was just him, but you burst out laughing. A bottomless belly laugh, that you felt flutter in your chest. Had you not laughed so hard you began coughing, you wonder if you ever would have stopped. He still stood there, deadly serious, and noticing this you breathed deep and settled.

“Will you tell me, please?” He whispered it so tenderly, that you couldn’t stop yourself from reaching up to cup his cheek with your hand.

“My name is Y/N.”

He closed his eyes, “Y/N.”

He repeated it once, then twice. It sounded like reverence. Fell from his lips like a prayer. And when he opened his eyes you whispered, “Will you tell me yours?”

The corner of his mouth turned up, “My name is James. But, most people call me Bucky.”

You closed your eyes, much like he had, and almost on accident you breathed out, “James.”

Before you could open your eyes, you felt his lips on yours. He wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you as close to him as he possibly could. For the first time, he knew what it was like to love a woman, and to be loved by her in return.

You slept beside him that morning – shared blankets and body heat. You watched him sleep, the sound of the rain hitting the roof and the windows. For just a moment you imagined a ring on your finger. A house, with a laundry room of your own. Walls that kept the two of you safe and warm. You could see the first time you held your baby. You’d look into their little eyes and they’d be his exact shade of blue. You moved closer to him, and on instinct, in his sleep, he adjusted to you. He pulled you to him, and bleary-eyed you snuggled as far into his warmth as you could, closed your eyes, and fell asleep.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes one shot #marvel fanfiction #marvel #bucky x reader #bucky x you

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hypnoticwinter · 4 years ago

Text

Down the Rabbit Hole part 29

The FBI agent reclines the front seat in the big black Tahoe and gives me a look like I’m a little girl being stubborn. My nose is still a little stuffy from all the crying I’ve been doing, and my leg feels swollen and crooked and wrong, but the time for all that is past now. I take a deep breath and let it out and refuse to meet his gaze, glare out the tinted window at the fading afternoon.

Outside there are two more FBI men in big baggy blue windbreakers, chatting casually. One of them is smoking a cigarette, and as I watch him bring it to his mouth I feel a little gnarled pang of want, for it really has been so long since I last had one, and after everything I’ve gone through –

“How’s your leg?” the agent in the SUV with me asks, and I look round at him but don’t answer. He’s a big, broad man, probably somewhere in his forties or maybe his late thirties. His tone is calm and mild but his voice is deep enough that it feels like it ought to be accompanied by a rumbling vibrato I can pick up in my bones.

My leg is okay. Makado knew exactly where and how to kick me, it seems; after the FBI agents picked me up and carried me out of the gondola Makado got them to take me straight to the infirmary where a small, stone-faced woman looked it over and tutted at how they were treating me, saying that it probably won’t heal right, but they got her to just shoot me full of painkillers and throw a boot on it. After that I was able to walk, at least a little bit; I found to my immense surprise that with the boot I was actually able to put some weight on my right leg without it folding under me or my calf snapping in half. I examined it as best as I was able on the walk over to the parking lot and discovered that instead of the mangled wreck I was half-expecting there was just a rough scrape from the cleats on the bottom of Makado’s boot and only the slightest misalignment of the broad flat bone there. I could feel, I discovered, the part where my bone melded into the synthetic replacement the autodoctor had put in, a little ridged scoriation dividing the two.

“I have some ibuprofen,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his windbreaker, “if you need it.”

“I’m fine.”

My voice is dry from lack of use. I lick my lips, make a little cough in the back of my throat. He shrugs, puts the bottle away. “Suit yourself,” he says.

Another five minutes or so go by. I pointedly ignore him. Eventually he clears his throat. “It’s going to be a lot easier on you,” he tells me, “if you talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Oh, I disagree,” he says. “We’ve got a lot to talk about. Ever since Miss Veret gave us a call and told us what you were up to, we’ve had a lot of questions for you. I think you’ll find that you’d prefer me to be the one asking them.”

“Is that a threat?” I ask him, and he laughs.

“It is whatever you make of it, Miss Dzilenski.” He stumbles over the frontloaded jumble of consonants, overemphasizes the ‘e’ sound in the middle. Duh-zil-een-ski. Almost makes me wince.

“Alright,” I say. “What did Makado say I had been up to, then?”

It would probably be smarter not to talk at all, but sitting here in the blasting a/c in the back of the Tahoe is making me sleepy. It feels like I haven’t had a chance to actually sit and rest for what feels like ages, even though just earlier today I was just waking up from a day-and-a-half nap after surgery. I’d gone through the pumped-full-of-energy phase and then the ballast had worn off and I’d gone through the splitting-migraine phase on the way up and now at this point I just feel hollow and brittle and empty. Even though it’s cowardly I try not to think of Elena and how I’ve abandoned her, I try not to think of Makado and what she’s done, but it’s futile. Rage and despair course over me in alternating waves and I haven’t a clue as to how to adequately deal with either.

The FBI man offers me a tissue and I realize with a start that I’ve nearly begun crying again. I wipe at my eyes as best I can with my cuffed hands and leave him there, hand outstretched, until he sighs and takes his hand back, tosses the wadded tissue on the floor. “How’d you end up here?” he asks me. I stare back at him. He reaches over, takes a slim manila folder from the center console, leafs through it. “Not a lot on you in here,” he says. “Except for that whole thing with your father.”

I stiffen.

“Must have been hard,” he says, neutrally.

I know I’m being baited and I ought to stay quiet but I can’t stop myself. “You don’t know the first thing about it,” I tell him, “so you should just shut up –“

“On the contrary,” he says smoothly, turning a stapled, glossy page and squinting at the next. The first page hangs over the edge of the folder and I can see through it to the other side, see the painfully familiar mugshot that’s been etched into my brain, little fourteen-year-old me, her eyes red from crying, trying hard to keep a stiff upper lip, staring defiantly into the camera, still wearing the lumberjack shirt she’d begged her dad buy for her as soon as they made it to Illinois and the nights started to get cold. “I know a lot about it,” the FBI man continues. “I’ve got the entire report right here.”

“If you read the report,” I say, trying to keep my voice level, “you know that by now it’s ancient history. It happened twelve years ago.”

“Yes,” he says, “and now twelve years later you’re in another mess. I suppose you’re going to blame somebody else this time as well?”

The words strike me with about the subtlety of a sledgehammer but I still stiffen in the backseat, my fists clenching so hard that my nails dig into my palms. “Fuck you,” I blurt. He continues on as though he didn’t hear me.

“I don’t know what exactly they’re planning on charging you with, but I know it’s at least a few dozen counts of manslaughter, and possibly a couple of murder charges. Then there’s all the human trafficking you and your partner Peter Caum were doing. Did you really think you’d be able to get away with that?”

My mouth dropped open about halfway through. “So that’s how it is,” I say. I feel like I’ve been struck by lightning; my heart is going about a million miles an hour and all the hair is standing up on my arms. I feel claustrophobic suddenly, here in the back of the SUV, my hands cuffed together, my leg throbbing in time with my heartbeat.

The FBI man’s eyes flash beneath his glasses. “That’s how what is?”

“Makado is trying to blame all this on me,” I tell him, knowing that it’s futile, that maybe it’s even actively detrimental to say anything, but I – I can’t just say nothing, I can’t just –

“Are you saying that she’s the one responsible for this?”

I swallow and nod.

“That Makado Veret,” he says, tossing the folder to the side and fixing me with his full attention, “the Chief of Security for the Permian Basin Recovery and Superorganism Containment Corporation, that Makado, has really been trying to smuggle people inside the Pit, with the help of a disgruntled ex-Park Ranger and mental patient, for…no real apparent purpose other than to fleece desperate people of their money?”

“Yes,” I say softly. It’s pointless. He isn’t going to believe me.

“And you are,” he continues, “the same Roan Dzilenski who has a documented history of lying to law enforcement authorities?”

“I was fourteen!”

“So you aren’t denying it? That you have lied to the police before?”

“I –“

“I mean,” he says, speading his hands, “it was a juvenile offense. And it was overturned. You got off scot free.”

“I did not get off scot free,” I tell him. “I’m tired of this. You’ve got the fucking report, you can read it. Either arrest me or don’t.”

“Fine,” he says. “If that’s what you’d like me to do.”

I lick my lips. “Look,” I say, trying to think of how to phrase it, how possibly I can tell him and get him to believe me. He gives me an expectant look. “Look,” I say, a little more softly, “this is all fine, but right now there’s someone down there inside the Pit who’s hurt. Someone who might die if I can’t get to her. And if you arrest me –“

The FBI man laughs, cutting me off, and rolls the window down to signal to the other two men in windbreakers. The tall, thin one with the cigarette tosses it on the black asphalt and grinds it out with his foot, and then he gets in next to me. I can still smell it on him. And then the other gets in the front seat and, after a quiet, murmured conversation with the man who’d just been grilling me, pulls us out of the parking lot and onto the curving road that reaches around the back of the ranger barracks and over to the main road back to Gumption. I feel as though I’m going to be sick.

The sky is terribly blue and for a long while I have a hard time recognizing it, I stare at the clouds passing by outside the window and wonder at them. The world feels strange when it isn’t pitch-dark and smelling of meat.

And, god, Elena –

I’m done crying. I can’t do anything for her now. I – I wasn’t good enough. I didn’t see it coming, I didn’t see that Makado was just using me.

I suppose I will process all of this later, in a jail cell somewhere. Right now I don’t have the ability to handle any more. I lean my forehead against the cool glass next to me and shut my eyes. I’d rather think about something else.

* * *

“Now remember,” my father is telling me, “it’s going to be hard to pull that trigger, but if you just squeeze it steadily it’ll be okay.”

“But daddy,” I start, but he just ruffles my hair like he always does and adjusts the revolver so that the two little legs stuck to the barrel sink a little deeper into the berm we’re both laying on.

“Now go ahead,” he tells me, his voice gentle, “and line up those two little bits there with this one in the front.”

I close my left eye and peer down the ridged metal spine of the thing. Just holding it makes me nervous, it’s like holding a power tool, like holding the big reciprocating saw he keeps down in the garage for his woodworking. It’s heavy and weighty and purposeful. “Okay,” I murmur.

“You’ve got them lined up? The one in the front should be in the middle of the rear two, and it shouldn’t be higher than the rear two.”

“Yes.”

“Alright, now, line the whole thing up with that beer bottle over there.”

“Which one?”

“The Blue Moon bottle over there on the left.”

I shift the gun over a little and then line it up again. “Okay,” I mutter. The little green bead in the front rests just above the label, but now it’s up too high, it’s poking above the line made by the back two bits.

“Remember to focus on the sights, not on the target. If you focus on the target you won’t be able to tell whether the sights aren’t aligned. Keep your eyes right here,” my dad tells me, pointing to the front of the pistol. I nod.

“Got it.”

“Okay. I’m going to move the cylinder now so that the hammer is over the chamber with the live bullet in it. When you pull that trigger the gun will fire. Got it?”

I swallow hard. I can see the back of the cartridge in the little cutout for it on the left side of the gun. My dad told me it was so you can see whether it had already been fired but I don’t know how that works. As I watch he reaches down and moves it so that it’s in line with the barrel. “Daddy,” I say, “I don’t know if –“

“Hey, it’s going to be fine. Now, it’s going to have a hard kick, but I’m going to be right here holding it with you, okay?”

“Okay,” I say again. Down there, maybe about fifty feet away or so, the sunlight is glinting off the darkened glass of the Blue Moon bottle. My father places his hands loosely over mine; his skin is calloused and rough. He is a carpenter but only during the day, at night he writes, holed up in the den with the door cracked open so if I want to I can sneak up and peek in, see him tapping away at the enormous computer with the cathode-ray screen, the big stuffed buck’s head on the wall just behind him, angled just like his, echoing his. I want to write like he does when I get older.

His hands are just over mine. They’re very warm, and so big compared to mine. I still have a band-aid on the ring finger of my left hand from where I tripped and cut it open on the ground outside the motel yesterday. Dad was proud of me for not crying about it but I wouldn’t have cried about something like that for a long time. Even this young I’m serious, more serious than either of my parents. Right now my father is being very serious and it isn’t something I’m used to. It makes me feel nervous, like I’ll do something wrong.

“Whenever you’re ready, keep the sights lined up and pull the trigger back slowly. It’s got a bit of a weight to it so you’ll have to squeeze hard, but it’ll shoot.”

And so I pull the trigger back slowly. My hand is shaking a little but that’s just from how hard I’m holding the gun. As the trigger moves the little metal lever on the back of the gun moves too, and I glance over at my dad. “Is that supposed to –“ I start, but he’s already nodding at me.

“That’s the hammer, that’s what actually hits the cartridge to make it fire. It has to drop down onto it to do that, so when you pull the trigger what you’re doing is bringing the hammer back and then dropping it. Go ahead and shoot, baby.”

I keep pulling and the hammer keeps going back and back and back and what I realize is going to happen is that there will be a point where it’s all the way back and then it’ll fall and the gun will go off and scare me half to death, and I keep anticipating it and it doesn’t come and eventually it’s too much and I ease off of the trigger. My dad stares down at me wondering if something’s wrong, takes his hands off of my hands and starts to lean over, and the thought of having to explain all this to him is far too unpalatable for me, so instead I squeeze my eyes shut and jerk the trigger back as far as it will go, and the gun roars so loud that for a moment I wonder whether I’m even wearing the big bulky earmuffs my dad handed to me.

The pistol leaps out of my hands and then something slams into my face and I cry out and clap my hands to my nose. The revolver is lying there on the berm, kicked over onto one of its little legs, and my nose is bleeding. My dad looks like he doesn’t know whether he wants to yell at me or cheer for me. Instead he just hugs me to him before I can start crying and points down at the beer bottles. “You did it,” is all he tells me, and when I look I see that the Blue Moon bottle, amber-hued and glossy, has disappeared, and even though I’ve gotten blood all down the front of my new plaid lumberjack shirt, I can’t stop staring at the place it would have been, can’t stop grinning at the knowledge that I did that.

* * *

The glass jostles against my forehead and my eyes flick open. I’d drifted away for a second there. Then the noise begins and the man driving slams on the brakes, sending us screeching to a halt. “What the fuck was that?” he cries.

I know what it is, of course – it’s the Pit. What else would it be? What else can open its gaping mouth and scream like that, scream from its belly, miles and miles and miles deep, channel the sound out into a pinprick-tiny orifice and make it shriek for kilometers? The noise is throbbingly deep, rattling into our bones and setting my teeth vibrating unpleasantly, but also somehow manages to screech upwards into a high keening wail that drags on and on and on…

The FBI men look shaken, at least. I’d heard groans and moans and shrieks like this down in the Pit, but none quite so angry, and definitely none as loud. It makes me wonder if there’s something different about this or if the sound is muffled, down there in the Pit, muffled by the flesh everywhere. Maybe it carries differently.

There is another low resounding thump and again the ground shakes. I freeze. If we can feel it here on the surface –

The FBI men glance at each other, and the one in the passenger seat, the one who’d been interrogating me, nods. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he tells the driver, who puts the SUV back in gear and starts off again down the road, moving at a faster clip than before. He isn’t quite gunning it but he’s getting close. The one in back sitting next to me leans forward.

“Did they say anything about this?” he asks. “Is it like a test or something? I heard –“

I never hear what he heard, though, before the ground erupts like a bomb maybe two hundred yards to our left and a vast stream of – of something hurls upwards into the sky. The driver cries out in shock and for a moment all of us are just staring out the left side of the SUV, watching as a nauseatingly pale pillar of flesh hovers there, sticking out of the ground at an obtuse angle, quivering in the waning sunlight. It must reach a couple hundred feet into the air at least, and it’s as thick as a redwood, or maybe even a couple of redwoods, it’s hard to tell from this distance. It curls inwards on itself and slams into the ground and begins scrabbling around on the ground, splintering trees and bushes and rocks, crushing them beneath itself.

“Makado was right,” I breathe, watching the tentacle writhe like a blind, pale worm. “She was right, it is waking up.”

“What did you say?” the man in the passenger seat asks, but before I can repeat myself there is another echoing roar and another tentacle, a smaller one this time, bursts out of the ground just before us. The driver screams a profanity and tries to turn but the big fat SUV is too damn slow. We strike it at an angle instead and it is just enough to flip the car.

It all happens incredibly quickly. I’m very lucky that the man who got in next to me buckled me in; he neglected to do the same for himself and got tossed around the cabin like a ragdoll, slamming into the ceiling and then falling through into the back and rattling around back there like a roulette ball. The two in front are a little luckier; they both had buckled up but I see the one in the passenger seat strike his head hard against the window next to him, hard enough that the window cracks, and when his head reels back I see a flash of bright red blood mottled in his hair and dripping down his forehead. The driver is still tugging desperately at the wheel, his instincts screaming at him to do something at least, but it’s useless – we flip end over end three times before the car settles onto its side and comes to a halt.

Aside from nearly being strangled by my seatbelt, I come out of it okay. I knocked my leg against the front seat a few times but with the boot on it isn’t nearly as bad as it could have been, and then when the front windscreen burst inwards I did end up with a few cuts on my face, I think, and the same bruised spot on my cheek where Klaus struck me is aching like hell.

I think I screamed, that’s all; it’s like my brain shut down as soon as we flipped and I was simply running on automatic, no conscious thought required. I remember bringing my hands, still cuffed together, up to protect my face, and I remember clenching just about every muscle in my body tight enough to leave me with a lingering ache in my abs once we rolled to a stop, but somehow I haven’t done myself any lasting damage.

It takes me only a couple seconds to realize that this might be my big break, and then I spring into action, slamming my fingers down on the release for the seat belt and rocketing out of the SUV as quickly as I can. The driver yells at me, apparently still conscious as well, and I snap a terrified glance back at him, but he’s trapped – I can see now standing on the outside that his door is crumpled inwards and jammed into the frame, and what’s more it doesn’t look like he’s able to undo his seat belt, although I can’t tell whether it’s because it’s jammed too or because the man is injured.

Behind me the roars continue unabated. There is the faint ratcheting wail of a siren coming from the facility, over the lip of the hill, just there to my right.

The man with the glasses who cracked his head on the window, he has the key to my cuffs. I sprint around the back of the truck, tear the passenger door open as quickly as I can. He falls out, lands on his belly in the dirt, and then I am rummaging through his pockets; not here in the jacket, not on the other side of the jacket, not in the left back pocket…

I can feel my panic mounting as I rifle through his things, trying to ignore the angry cries of the man in the driver’s seat, telling me to stop, telling me that I’m going to be in really fucking big trouble if I don’t come around and help him get out of the damn truck. I shut him out, I don’t even look at him. Where is the fucking key? If I can’t find it, if it’s fallen out of his pocket somewhere when the SUV flipped –

There is a raw, wet noise next to me and I glance over. The tip of the tentacle, glossy with slime and bleeding from a dozen skin-deep cuts, from rocks and sticks and just abrasion with the ground, is nuzzling at the deflated rear tire of the SUV. It’s insane how normal it seems to me. A month ago I would have figured I was going insane if I had seen something like this grubbing around on the ground like someone trying to reach a potato chip they’ve dropped on the floor. Where is that fucking key? Goddam it –

I take a step, dragging the FBI man with me, or at least trying to, because the fucker is heavy, and immediately the tentacle jolts in my direction. I feel a scream catch in my throat but I manage to clap a hand to my mouth and stop it. The sound? No, that doesn’t make any sense, the thing’s skin is smooth and clear and bereft of anything close to being an ear. Vibrations then, that must be it.

I eye the thing. The end is blunt and about as narrow as a baseball bat but it widens out to about as wide around as a tree trunk a little further down. It’s obviously very strong; rippling bands of muscle shift beneath its thin skin. If it got wrapped around my leg –

“You fucking bitch!” the driver curses at me. He’s still yanking fruitlessly at the seat belt. I see the tentacle’s skin twitch with each word, and then it snakes its way under the SUV. “You bitch! I swear to god, if you don’t come over here - !”

I have one last pocket to search. Rear right. Wallet, what feels like a package of breath mints or chewing gum, a piece of paper…no keys. I shove my hand in deeper, all the way to the bottom, and then I find it, the tiny metal key brushing against my fingers. My heart jolts in my chest and I pull it out as quickly as I can and then try to unlock them myself, but it’s no use, I can’t reach it. “Fuck,” I murmur, out loud, and then glance carefully at the tentacle. It’s wrapped itself all the way around the SUV. At this point the man inside has seen it. It sounds like he’s having a panic attack.

I start to back away slowly, just as the tentacle flexes and lifts the SUV into the air. “Holy shit,” I murmur before I get a grip and shut up. The tentacle seems satisfied with its prize, though – it doesn’t pay any attention to me. There’s more commotion inside the SUV and then – I jump – a few gunshots. I see them slap into the tentacle’s flesh, puffing out sprays of blood, but it’s entirely futile. The tentacle flexes and crushes the SUV with the ease of someone crushing a can of Coke and then it whips back down into the dirt, still clutching the SUV, and then they both are gone.

My heartbeat is very loud in my ears. The enormous tentacle off in the distance is still scrabbling around someplace else, pointed off in the other direction from me. My hand have gotten very sweaty and I’m scared I might drop the key someplace, but I haven’t got anywhere else to carry it. I take a step tentatively, cringing in anticipation, waiting for another tentacle to burst out of the ground and scoop me up, but when none are forthcoming, I break into a hobbling sprint and make for the facility. I have to find someone who’ll be willing to uncuff me, who might be willing to help me get back down into the Pit so that I can find Elena –

The thoughts die in midstride. I crest the ridge and stare down at the wreckage below me. There are three more tentacles of roughly the same size as the first rooting around the wreckage of the administration building, which looks as though it’s been peeled open like a tin of sardines. Before me, down on the road, a Humvee speeds by, and then another. There are people rushing all about the sedative plant, and I wonder if they’ve done anything, if there even is anything they can do. Can they turn it up to 11, pump even more sedative into the thing? Would that even work, does it have a tolerance for it?

The exclusion plate, at least what I can see of it from this vantage, is cracked into three pieces, and beneath is just pale skin basking in the orangey sunset.

As I watch, one of the tentacles shudders and flops to the ground. I can feel the impact throb through my soles all the way from here. A dust cloud rises from beneath it.

I scan the line of intact buildings nearest me and then slowly, unwillingly, I grin and start to make my way down the slope.

For there, just down the hill and across the road, is the ranger barracks. And there, in the third window from the left, a light shines, and I can see Fumi’s unmistakable shaggy silhouette outlined in it.

* * *

When he opens the door after about five minutes of knocking I push in past him and scan the room. “Roan!” he blurts. “What the fuck are you doing here – “

“Fumi, there’s no time. Are we alone?”

“Well, yeah, but –“ he says, and then he breaks off. He’s glimpsed the cuffs around my wrists and I give him a little sheepish grin. “What’s going on?”

“I should be asking you that,” I tell him. “Why’s the Pit freaking out? And why are you in here and not -”

He blows his breath out, and glowers. “Firstly, Makado’s taken a Tunneler down to get that crystal. Those always piss off the Pit and I guess after 2007 it decided to grow some extra appendages near here that we weren’t aware of and now it’s putting them to good use. And secondly,” he shrugs, “I think they just forgot about me. I’ve had my radio on and I’ve been waiting to respond but I never got a call. Not really complaining.”

I hold up my hands. “Sorry – Tunneler?”

“It’s what they used to make a lot of the bigger tunnels in the Pit. You ever seen those big digging machines they use to dig train tunnels and stuff through solid rock? Think that but bigger and grindier. It’s got vacuums to suck away the dead flesh, cauterizes as it goes, the works. Pisses the Pit off like crazy, though, and now that it’s hungrier these days I guess it got mad enough to pitch a fit about it. They still have two or three of them in a hangar, sitting around from the old Anodyne days just in case they ever need them.”

“Jesus Christ,” I murmur. “And they – Admin or whoever – they let her do that?”

Fumi laughs. “I guess,” he says. “I heard she stormed into Admin and raised a huge stink about the crystal, told them this was their last chance before the Leechman vanishes with it, and they signed off.”

“Fuck her,” I growl. Fumi looks a little taken aback at how bitter I sound. He starts to ask something but I shake my head. “There isn’t time. Help me out of these. Please.”

Fumi mutters a curse under his breath and takes the key. The cuffs fall away from my wrists and clatter on the floor and I am so relieved I don’t know what else to do but hug him. He smells of sweat and cigarette smoke but at the moment I don’t care. His hands flutter, startled, before they close around me and he holds me gently. He pats me on the back after a moment, and I draw away from him. “I’m sorry,” I murmur, feeling suddenly embarrassed. “I was just –“

“I get it,” he says. “Look, why don’t you just get out of here? With all this chaos it’d be easy to –“

“No,” I tell him. “I can’t, I can’t just leave. I have to get back down there.”

“Roan,” he starts. Something about his tone puts pressure on some place in me that’s been bending and bending and finally I snap.

“Fumi,” I say, my voice harsh, “Elena is down there. Maybe she’s already dead, but if she isn’t, she needs me. Nobody else is going down to get her, especially not now.” As if to punctuate my argument, there is another crash from nearby as a tentacle slams into the ground. Fumi nods, explaining that they’ve probably upped the sedative dosage and it’s finally taking effect. His face grows more serious.

“Do you know if she’s still alive down there?”

“No,” I admit. “But if she’s dead I – I have to know. I just have to. Now you can either help me or not, but if you don’t, I’m probably going to end up dead,” I tell him. I marvel at the perfect calmness in my voice. “One way or another, because I’m not experienced enough, because I don’t know the landscape, whatever. But I’m going down there, and that’s final.”

I stand there staring up at him, my hands balled into fists on my hips, and am relieved when his shaggy face breaks open in an unwilling smile. “Alright,” he says after a moment. “But I hope you know a way down, cause there’s no way we can get in through the main orifice now. When the Pit bucked it cracked the plate and wrecked the gantry up here.”

I bite my lip. “Couldn’t we use whatever hole Makado made with the Tunneler?” I ask. Fumi shakes his head.

“No, it’ll be practically vertical. You could maybe rappel down it if you had a whole team to support you but we won’t.”

I utter a mumbled curse. I feel like punching something. If I’ve come all this way and I can’t go back down and get Elena because Makado bored a hole into the Pit and it threw a fit about it –

I stop. Fumi raises his eyebrows. I look over at him and grin. “Fumi, I know how we can get in.”

“Okay, but how - ?”

“There’s no time,” I tell him. I grab his hand and drag him over to the equipment locker in the corner. “Get a suit on and then help me with mine,” I tell him, crouching down to take the boot off. “We’re going to save Elena.”

Continue with Part 30

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#mystery flesh pit #writing #writeblr #original writing #alt lit #mystery #thriller #caving #disaster #romance #Michael Crichton

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