#its uh. its well loved. and a little chewed on. and stained. and probably not the cleanest. but its her's <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[telesodalite]

[Train ride :D!]

[Background-less version below]

[quillquiver]

and it’s good

DeanCas coda to 15x19: ‘Inherit the Hearth’

He hasn’t stopped praying.

From an empty world to one filled with people, Dean has gone to his knees every night—on the floor, the gravel, the dirt—and prayed. Head down. Face pressed to his knuckles. Dear Cas…

From each failed plan to their eventual, anti-climactic victory, Dean shares it all. And when it’s all over, when they wake up the morning after with no Jack, no Cas and no world to save, it’s bittersweet. Confusing. Like being released into the wild after living in a cage.

Where does he go from here? What does he do?

What does he want?

Sam doesn’t have a problem finding his own answers, but then again, he never has; he was the one with the life outside The Life: the college boy, the dreamer. Dean… Dean needs some time to adjust. Regroup. Grieve, maybe—whatever the hell that looks like. So, he serves himself a bottle of Jack, grabs a box of Pop Tarts, and makes his way to his recliner. First day of freedom? Dr. Sexy and sweet oblivion sound awesome.

“Hey, uh, what’re you—” Sam cuts himself off, skidding to a halt in the doorway of the Dean Cave. He’s got that pinched look on his face, the one that means: inevitable bitch face, concerned edition. Dean waves him off.

“Chilling out,” he mutters, taking a long pull from the bottle. “Figure I deserve a vacation.”

Sam narrows his eyes. “A vacation.”

“Yeah, genius. A vacation. You know, a little me time?” Dean takes another pull. “You got a problem with that?”

Sam shifts his weight. Frowns at the floor. It’s weird to see him like this; he’s so big, now, but that move is straight out of his teen years—when he’d been gangly and awkward and angry and unsure. He looks up, resolved, and Dean heaves an internal sigh. Whatever the fuck Sam is trying to do, he doesn’t want any part in it.

“What if you come with me?”

“Nope.”

“Dean—”

“Look, Sammy, we fought the big fight, we won, there ain’t nothing left to do,” Dean says reasonably, bitterly, turning back to the DVD menu. “So I don’t wanna go into town, or to the store, or wherever else you’re planning on gallivanting to today. I’m gonna watch my show, drown myself in booze and pass the fuck out, because that is what I’m owed. Capiche?”

“Eileen texted. I’m… I’m going to go get her.”

It’s weird, Dean thinks, how many times a heart can break. He clenches his jaw and swallows the lump in his throat, blinking rapidly. Allows himself a second—one second—of envy and jealousy before he slaps a smile on his face and nods. “Good,” he says. He means it. “You should.”

“So…” Sam trails off.

“So…” Dean echoes.

“…Come with.”

“Sam, I’m not gonna crash your romantic reunion okay? That’s weird.”

“Dean—”

“Sam.” And there’s more that comes out in that word than he ever intended. It hangs heavy in the air between them before dropping to the ground like a stone. Loud. Shattering on impact. Dean thinks his voice might have cracked and his vision is blurring because this pity? This is fucking worse. Shoving a Pop Tart in his mouth, Dean chews with his mouth open in the vain hope that his table manners will prove an adequate distraction, but that shit hasn’t worked for a long time.

It tastes like sawdust.

“Just go,” he says. “You have to go, man.”

It’s as much a plea for his brother as it is for himself, and for one long, terrifying moment Dean thinks Sam’s going to refuse. That he’s gonna be dragged across the country to witness his brother find happiness in a way he will never be able to have.

…But Sam is kind, not cruel, and when those big eyes of his fill with tears, Dean has never been so happy to have given himself up. He watches as his little brother’s shoulders slump. As he readjusts his duffle.

“I’ll be home in two days,” Sam says. “If you’re dead, I’m gonna pissed.”

“Yeah yeah,” Dean replies, forcing himself to tease. To be excited. He deserves this. “Go sing in the rain or whatever.”

“Or whatever,” Sam volleys back, a smile tugging up the corner of his mouth. He looks so happy, and Dean can’t stop himself from mirroring the expression. It hits him all at once, then—a sucker punch to the gut, the heart—that no matter what, he did right by his little brother. That he’s grown up to be smart, and kind and caring, and now he can be happy. And Dean—Dean’ll figure it out. But Sam’s taken care of and that’s… good. That’s a lot.

“Hey, Dean?”

“Mm.”

“I love you,” Sam says. He’s seven and thirty-seven and Dean feels something inside himself ease and break all at once.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I love you, too.”

Sam grins.

***

There’s no more frozen pizza.

It’s already a fucking travesty that the pizza place doesn’t deliver to their secret underground bunker, but Jack polished off the last two pies—and while it’s a little bit hilarious to think of the ‘New God’ (his kid) scarfing down shitty plain cheese in his pjs, it’s also awful, and painful. So Dean slips on his shoes, grabs his keys, and shoulders on the jacket with Cas’s handprint over his hole-y sleep shirt.

It’s not like he’s sober, but he’s done worse.

It feels like a shitty pizza day, so Dean makes a beeline for the Wal-Mart and its frozen section, stocking up on two of every topping from the cheapest brand they’ve got. He grabs popcorn, chips, twizzlers and margarita mix, because fuck it, and smiles at the cashier. It’s not an epic romantic reunion, but this is what normal people do, right? They take an entire day and wallow without the weight of the world on their shoulders.

Dean’s cradling his spoils, twizzler hanging out of his mouth, shuffling out of the garage when—

He freezes.

The kitchen. There’s someone banging around in the kitchen.

Not like aggressively banging—one quick sweep around the area confirms no signs of forced entry—but just like… moving shit. Washing the dishes from this morning, or getting ready to make something new. Dean’s heart is caught between hope and heartbreak and he forces himself towards the latter. It’s probably Charlie, or Bobby or Jody or Donna or, hell, even Jack or Claire. No one else can get in. And if it’s something dangerous… well, Dean doesn’t have a weapon on him, and his damn pizza’s thawing.

But it’s not Charlie or Bobby or Jody or Donna. It’s not Jack. It’s not Claire.

…It’s Cas; freshly showered, dressed in Dean’s fucking clothes, making himself a sandwich.

He’s beautiful. Dean’s shirt—AC/DC, the one with the mustard stain on the collar—is just a little small on him, and he’s humming, and Dean has to blink once twice three times to make sure he’s not a goddamn mirage but no he’s still there, still scooping grape jelly onto the good bread and then putting the dirty spoon on the counter like a friggin’ heathen and—

“Are you gonna wash that?”

It’s sure as fuck not what he’d meant to say, but it gets the job done. Cas drops the spoon—the spoon—and whirls around like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Dean,” he breathes, like Dean’s name is some kind of benediction. Like it’s important.

Dean clutches his groceries tighter to his chest. “A-Are you…?” he asks. Steps forward. Steps back. Stares because he can’t, he can’t— “Are you real?”

Cas is barefoot. He’s quiet when he steps across the linoleum. His hair is turning fluffy where it’s drying and his eyes are blue and bright and he’s a miracle. “I’m real,” he confirms quietly. His hand twitches by his side, and Dean thinks that’s fair. Thinks that he gets that Cas has reservations because of—because.

But they’re unfounded. 

Dean drops his spoils because they’re an afterthought; nothing is more important than knowing, than reaching out to touch his fingertips to Cas’s shoulder. To his jaw. He can’t stop the tears from springing to his eyes like he can’t stop himself from laughing. Smiling. And suddenly he has Cas in his arms and he smells like Dean’s soap and Sam’s fancy shampoo, and they’re holding—clutching each other, and Dean turns his head because it has to be now he has to say it now: “Cas, I—”

“I know,” Cas interrupts. “You don’t have to—I know.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, voice high with something like hysteria. The whole thing is so absurd, so insane, so fucked, that it’s all he can do to bury his face in Cas’s neck. To squeeze his eyes shut. To talk. “Well, you’re a friggin’ moron,” he says. “And you got no goddamn idea what you’re talking about, because—because you changed me, too, you dick.” Cas’s fingers dig into Dean’s waist and Dean’s heart pounds like it’s trying to escape and his throat is dry and he’s sweating and he’s gonna be sick, he’s gonna die— “A-And I love you.”

He wrenches himself away, then, glaring like he dares Cas to take the words away from him. “Okay?” he asks, rhetorically. Menacingly. It’s a declaration and a confession and a challenge. And Cas meets his stare unflinchingly. He reaches up to thumb at the wetness on the apple of Dean’s cheek. “Okay,” he says. He nods. Leans in. “Okay.” Their mouths brush. “Good.”

It’s not even a real kiss, so Dean can’t be blamed for how he chases; how he breathes good, in faint agreement like a lovesick fool, and moves until they’re kissing good and proper—slow and sweet and then deep and wet and it’s good, it’s so good, he’s so good.

Later, they’ll have to make every thawed pizza. They’ll drink the margarita mix and share the same popcorn bowl and pay no attention to Dr. Sexy playing in the background. They’ll talk about Chuck and Jack and Sam. They’ll stare. They’ll tease. They’ll flirt.

But for now, Cas twists his hands in Dean’s shirt and Dean buries his hands in dark hair. They pause for breath only to come together, again and again and again.

And it’s good.

[rvspberry]

Idk if I’m gonna end up posting this on AO3 because it’s very different from what I usually write.

But below the cut is some Johnny Lawrence sexuality crisis angst with a happy ending if you feel like it. (Heavy Christian themes and Lawrusso ending ahead.)

He was righteous, on high, the Almighty personified. Forgiving, and gracious in victory, and good through and through. Set his mind to something and he could make the whole world come alive.

That’s how Johnny felt at the Tournament, at least, when the entire crowd swarmed the floor and lifted LaRusso onto their shoulders, and Johnny snagged the first place trophy. Handed it up like an offering, a sacrificial lamb — all that Johnny had at stake, all that he’d lost, given freely and openly to this holy being.

The crowd grew louder. Johnny called out, “You’re alright, LaRusso. Good match.”

Got a pained, “Thanks,” in return.

He’d touched someone holy and lived to tell the tale.

~

Once Johnny is at Bobby’s house that night, since Sid and Laura flew to Miami for the week before Christmas, he asks Bobby to pray with him.

“You okay, Johnny?”

Johnny glances up to find worried blue eyes looking over at him, sizing him up — no, not quite. Measuring him, trying to gauge Johnny for what no one could see. Bobby’s eyes are such a different blue than Johnny's, clear and crisp but never cold. Johnny wonders if Bobby sees anything, if Johnny shows anything.

“I just…” Johnny rasps, gripping the glass of water in hand again and taking a hesitant sip. They told him at the hospital that he’d have to rest. Asked if he wanted to press charges, but Johnny just shook his head. “I need some guidance.”

“No better place to look to than to Jesus,” Bobby agrees, reaching out to take Johnny’s hands. He closes his eyes, and Johnny pauses for a brief moment, body going stiff, before he follows suit. Takes a deep breath as Bobby begins. “Our Father, who art in heaven. Hallowed be thy name.”

Daniel.

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven,” Bobby continues.

Johnny squeezes his eyes tighter and tries not to let his grip tighten, too.

“Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

Please forgive me. Please. Daniel. I’m sorry.

“And lead us not into temptation—”

Daniel’s eyes. His grin, his mouth, his lips. Daniel’s body. The confident smirk when he gets up into Johnny’s face.

“—but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory,” Bobby finishes, squeezing Johnny’s hands. Johnny blinks his eyes open, jaw clenched, to see Bobby giving him a small smile. “Forever and ever. Amen.”

“Amen,” Johnny repeats weakly, clenching his teeth against the urge to cry. To sob.

To throw himself onto the floor and mourn the loss of a life he’d had for years now, the life he’d fought so hard for. The life of a champion, of a winner, the life of a kid from Encino Hills. The life of someone normal, a leader, head dog even though he came into this life late, no rules established, flying blind and feeling his way into his place.

“You’re sure you’re okay, man?”

“I’m not,” Johnny chokes out. Hangs his head.

There are too many thoughts in his head, too much guilt and shame, and he can’t focus on one without the other flaring up to take his attention. Back and forth, back and forth, between Kreese almost killing him and Daniel’s sensei saving him and Daniel winning the match, to needlessly tormenting Daniel all semester and making a bigger ass of himself each and every time. Over and over, like it was on a loop.

“Do you want to pray again?” Bobby asks, voice dropping lower. “Sometimes it helps. The… repetition. Try to focus on the words this time. Focus on God. Let the spirit take you.”

Take me where? Johnny thinks, but he just tightens his hands around Bobby’s and nods.

“Our Father, who art in heaven…”

~

When Bobby leaves at the end of the summer to go to college in Oregon, a special school for religious studies, he leaves Johnny with his new number and a prayer book.

“If things get hard, turn to God,” he reminds Johnny. Pats Johnny’s back while they hug tightly. Johnny hasn’t been apart from Bobby since they became best friends at thirteen, both newly enrolled in Cobra Kai. “God has a plan for all of us, and you can find all your answers in the Lord, man. You just have to be open to hearing them even when they’re not the answers you want.”

Johnny keeps the prayer book. Says a prayer every night. Calls Bobby once a week, like clockwork, and stops drinking. He gets kicked out of Sid’s house when he turns 18 in July, gets a job as a handyman, then starts apprenticing for a carpenter, then starts working construction. It’s hard work but it’s honest work.

~

Every time his eyes turn to one of his coworkers, when they catch on the sweat and grime smeared over their muscles, or the curve of their ass, or the line of their jaw, Johnny recites one of those prayers in his head.

Dear Lord, please give me strength when I am weak, courage when I am afraid, love when I feel forsaken, wisdom when I feel foolish, comfort when I am alone, hope when I feel rejected, and peace when I am in turmoil. Amen.

Every time he gets asked out for drinks by his well-meaning colleagues, he politely declines and spends ten minutes praying in his car after his shift is over, hands blistered, muscles aching.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among sinners and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

Every night, Johnny lays in bed and freestyles his prayers. God needs to know, he probably already knows, but he needs to know that Johnny doesn’t want to be like this. He wants to change. He wants answers. He wants to be open to them, just like Bobby told him.

~

“Go out tonight,” Bobby laughs when Johnny calls him on a Saturday at his usual time. “Just get out and have some fun. Go to a movie. Buy yourself dinner, whatever. Go meet someone. You’re just working and sleeping. You need to live a little, Johnny.”

Is that what God wants me to do? Johnny thought to himself. To go out and find a woman to settle down with? Is that God’s plan?

It’s what Johnny’s supposed to do, right?

“Okay, okay,” Johnny groans into the phone, ready to slam it back onto the receiver when Bobby whoops in elated triumph. “Some good, clean fun. Fitting for the best friend of a pastor’s son.”

~

Johnny goes to the movies. The new sequel to Alien, aptly titled ‘Aliens,’ looks halfway decent. Definitely not a good clean movie, but Johnny can live a little. It’s on its last leg, only playing the earlier showings, so Johnny snags the ticket since he figures he can be mostly alone that way. He loiters in the lobby trying to decide between popcorn or an overpriced box of candy to go with his soda. The bored teen behind the counter pops her gum and rolls her eyes as she waits for him to make up his mind.

He doesn’t fidget as he looks in the glass case, even as much as he wants to. It’s been conditioned out of him.

“Back straight, shoulders down, chin up, Mr. Lawrence.”

“Hey, can I get a large popcorn please?” comes a voice from beside him.

Johnny glances over, shaggy hair whipping around his face, and spots the one person he thought he’d never see again. Daniel LaRusso looks the same as he did before — a little taller, maybe, his long limbs filled out a little more, but still the shrimpy kid who kicked his ass.

Same eyes, same voice, same body.

Same mouth.

Dear Lord, please give me strength—

“Johnny? Johnny Lawrence?!” Daniel’s words cut through his prayer.

Johnny inhales sharply. He has to control himself. Give me the strength when I am weak, courage when I—

“Holy shit, man, look at you,” Daniel laughs, tapping Johnny’s bicep tellingly. A year-plus in construction had done wonders for his body, and his arms in particular. “Like a brick shithouse. Are you on steroids?”

“No, I work construction.” Johnny doesn’t know why his voice sounds so rough. He clears his throat and tries again. “Hi, LaRusso. Small world meeting you here, I guess.”

“Yeah, man! You here with anyone?” Daniel glances around, as if trying to pin someone else in the lobby to Johnny, but there was no one to match him up with. No one to match up Daniel with, either.

“No. You?”

“Flying solo today,” Daniel croons, running his hands down his chest. Johnny blushes and looks up at the ceiling.

Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee—

“What movie are you seeing?” Daniel asks, taking the tub of popcorn from the teen and passing a bill over the counter. He snagged a handful and popped a few butter-soaked pieces into his mouth.

“Uh…” Johnny glances down at his ticket. “Aliens.”

“No way! Me too!” Daniel says around chewing the popcorn. He pauses and looks at Johnny with his head cocked curiously. “You wanna watch it together?”

~

O, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended You. I detest all my sins because of your just punishments, but most of all because they offend you, My God, who are all good and worthy of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Your grace, to sin no more and to avoid the near occasions of sin. Amen.

~

The movie theater is empty. There’s butter on Daniel’s bottom lip, shining in the dimly lit room. Johnny licks it off in the black silence of the end credits.

Kissing Daniel feels like coming home. It feels like touching something divine, and Johnny’s stained gold in all the places they touch.

Is this God’s plan? Johnny asks himself. Daniel’s fingers tug at his hair, nails scraping gently over his scalp. Johnny pulls Daniel across the seat and into his lap as he swallows Daniel’s moan.

Below Johnny’s hands, Daniel feels like an answer.

[xans-ex]

Otherside (Pt. 2)

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Genre: Different Dimension/Alternate Universe. Heavy angst, smut, and fluff throughout multiple parts.

Word Count: 4254 words

Chapters-

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

*WARNING- Strong Language, Explicit Sex(Not in this chapter), Explicit Sex Talk/References(Not in this chapter), Violence, Talks of Violence*

This is the second part to the story :) I will include a little of the first chapter in the beginning just with how the second chapter starts, so bare with me ya'll. Also fun fact, when I write I usually find a song that overall gives me the vibes for the story, and the song that helped me write these two chapters is Sextape by Deftones :) Give it a listen-

Jungkook watched as the figure turned back around and ran across the other room and into the room on top that he knew gave stairs to the building. He was stuck. Now here bleeding out only to be given to police. This is it.

You stared at the screen in disbelief. There was no way this was how your brother was going to end this chapter. No fuckin way. You looked around in confusion before your eyes fell on the pencil in its holder. You wondered if you should erase it. Then when your brother hopefully comes back, you can tell him that the police accidentally wiped it and then later on convince him to have a different ending. Yeah...That would work. You grabbed the pencil, the thick handle sitting comfortably between your fingers. You hit the eraser icon and as soon as the pencil tip hit the screen, you felt warmth.

Almost like you were sucked into a hot room. A sauna, but without the humidity. It was bright for only a second, and then it was dark. You blinked slowly, your head pulsing. "Ow..what the fuck..." You groaned as you rubbed your temples. Your hands started to lift you from the ground, and you paused as you felt the feeling of concrete and small pieces of rocks. You looked up, the wind blowing your hair as you looked around. You slowly stood up, your eyebrows furrowed and eyes squinting from the lingering headache. You froze.

The city. How? You...You were just in your brother's room. At your parent's house. In the countryside. Did you never leave your studio apartment? But why were you on the roof? Was this whole time of visiting family only a dream? You looked around in disbelief before hearing a faint moan. You whipped your head around and saw someone laying on the ground, a pool of red under them.

"Are-Are you okay?" You asked, quickly running to them. You knelt down next to them, looking at their wounds. I-It's okay! I'm a nurse. I can help you..." You trailed off as soon as you saw his face. Jungkook. "Jungkook-" You slapped your hand over your mouth as soon as you said his name. He looked up at you, his face a twisted mix of pain and confusion. "Do I know you?" He choked out. "N-No. Um...what happened?" You asked. He scoffed. "You're a nurse. You should know..." He trailed off. He was going in and out of consciousness.

"Fuck, um...I'mma call 911." You said, reaching into your pocket and grabbing your phone. You paused when you saw you had no connection. "D-Don't call the police." Jungkook came back from consciousness, his eyes wide. "I need to get an ambulance for you, you're bleeding out." You looked at him up and down, his blood slowly pooling out as he lost more and more blood. "Please...no." He whispered. You looked around, hoping to see someone but there was none. "So do you just want to die out here?" You asked.

You didn't mean to sound mean, but he was being ridiculous at this point. "No...just...you're a nurse, can you take me to your place? I'll like...pay you or whatever to help me just please don't." He was pleaded but it all sounded like a stupid idea to you. Plus, did you even live here?

"You're fucking stupid, no! You've been shot, I have no idea what arteries might've been hit in that leg-" You panicked and Jungkook closed his eyes. He was really about to die out here. With a stupid, useless nurse. Which made it even worse.

"Fine. Whatever. I'll just die." Jungkook said. You gaped at him. "No fuckin way, come on, I'll take you to the hospital myself. Is there an urgent care near?" You asked. "You don't know? You found me." He winced as you grabbed his arm, putting it around your shoulders and slowly helped him up. "I'm um...not from around here." You murmured. Jungkook looked at you, his eyes scanning your face as you chewed at your bottom lip. "How annoying..." He grumbled. You contemplated dropping him back down and letting him bleed out, but then you realized that you'd have this man's life on your mind forever, and you don't want to deal with that trauma.

You two slowly but surely went to the open stairs of the building, making your way down. "Can we use an elevator? You're heavy..." You complained. He was practically dead weight against you, and as strong as you might think you are, a dead weight body is incredible heavy. "No fuckin way. The cops will find me that way." Jungkook was very stubborn, and he was starting to piss you off. "Fine. Then put more work in. You're fat and I can't carry you down all these stairs."

Jungkook rolled his eyes but started to carefully take some of his weight off of you, not wanting to do too much because he was still weak from losing so much blood. Eventually you two make it out the building from the side door, and stumble a couple blocks to a nearby urgent care. You sighed in relief when they took Jungkook into a stretcher and started taking care of his actively bleeding wounds as he was wheeled off. You sat in one of the chairs in the waiting room, your right side stained with his blood.

"Are you his family?" A nurse asked as she stood in front of you. You looked up at her wide eyed "Uh, oh, no. No, I'm just a nurse. I happened to find him and took him here." You combed your hair back, your bangs sticking to your forehead with sweat. "Oh? Where do you work?" Your mouth opened and closed before opening once more, thinking of how to even respond. "Um...is there a bathroom I can wash up in?" You stood, the nurse stepping back with a confused expression before nodding and pointing you in the direction of the bathroom.

You hurried into the large bathroom, locking the door behind you. You sighed, looking yourself in the mirror and gripping the sink hard, your knuckles almost turning white. "What in the ever loving fuck is going on?" You hoped your reflection would reply. Tell you this is all a dream. This is a dream. Yeah, it's a dream.

You washed your face, hands, and legs, already giving up trying to clean the blood from your pajamas when it seemed to just spread and make your skin wet and sticky. "Fuckin hell..." You sighed before leaving the bathroom and sitting back at the waiting area, away from any nurses who may walk past to avoid any further questions.

-

You felt like you were there for hours. You were there for hours. The sound of people crying and alerts over the intercom helped drown out the sound of your own thoughts. Your mind could beat Usain Bolt right now with how hard it was racing. You just sat quietly, cross legged at the ankles. You should leave. You kept telling yourself that, but at the same time you wanted to stay. See if he was okay. Maybe it's because you kinda pretended as if you were waiting for your brother. Hopefully not in these circumstances but to hope he was okay, might bring you some clarity. "Excuse me..." A doctor said as she walked over to you.

You silently hoped there would be no more questions. "Are you with Jeon Jungkook?" She asked. You slowly nodded. "He's fine, in stable condition. Luckily the bullets missed all the important organs and arteries. The bullet in his leg shattered and we had to take those out so please come back if there's any complications after discharge. But luckily the bullet in his abdomen went straight through with no massive damage so that was an easy fix."

She explained everything to you and you sighed in relief. This means you can leave. Finally. "He is ready to see you now." The doctor interrupted your thoughts. "Ex-Excuse me?" You couldn't stop your constant stuttering. "He has requested to see you." You opened your mouth but no words left you, so you simply nodded and followed the doctor through a set or doors towards the patient rooms.

"He's in here. Our visiting hours are over in an hour." She said, nodding to you before walking off. You looked back at her as she left, then turned towards the sliding door of the patient room. Your hand reached out to grab the handle, your fingers wiggling slightly with nervousness. "Annoying Nurse? I know you're there." You could hear Jungkook's deep voice from the other side of the door and you huffed, sliding the door open and going inside quickly. "Annoying nurse? I have a name you know."

"Never told me it, so that's your fault." Jungkook looked at you from his bed, his hospital gown slightly open showing a wrap around his abdomen. You then glanced at the cast on his leg, and the stack of pillows keeping it elevated. "My name is (Y/N), so you can stop calling me annoying. Please." You sighed, taking a seat next to his bed. "Fine. But only because you said please." He smirked. You rolled your eyes. "I just wanted to say thank you. For saving my life." You looked Jungkook in the eye, his eyes on his hands which were picking at his individual fingers.

"No need to thank me. It's my job." You gave him a soft smile. He looked over at you, and matched his smile with yours. "You work here?" You bit your bottom lip. "No...I uh...I work somewhere else. Out of town." You said it so quietly Jungkook almost couldn't hear you. "Oh...okay."

The silence was so uncomfortable you debated just getting up and leaving now, which you thought would be perfect. "Well, visiting hours are probably already over, so I will get going now." You laughed awkwardly, standing up slowly and wiping your sweaty palms agains your pajama shorts. You turned to walk out the door but then a hand reached out and grabbed yours.

You turned back around and saw Jungkook's bandaged hand engulfing your smaller palm. "Can you come back tomorrow?" He almost had puppy dog eyes with the way he looked up at you. "I...I don't know..." You started. "I'll pay for lunch...or dinner. Or whatever you want. Please?" You thought to yourself. "Hmm...fine, but only because you said please." You teased, and Jungkook snorted. He gave you a toothy grin and you felt your cheeks heat up slightly with his hand still wrapped around yours.

"Goodnight Jungkook." You pulled your hand from his grasp and slide open the door to his room. "Goodnight...Y/N" He said as you closed his door. He looked around the hospital room and sighed. "Such an annoying nurse." He chuckled.

-

Now that you were finally out of there, you could properly freak the fuck out. First off, where the fuck are you? Second, why in the fuck is Framed character, Jeon Jungkook, in the same world as you right now? Third, what in the fucking fuck? Fuck? You raked your hands through your messy hair, the reality of everything setting in. What if you're stuck here? What about your family? Your friends? Your job???

You rubbed at your temples. Okay (Y/N), don't stress yourself out too much now. Maybe if you just...go to sleep...you'll wake up back at home. It's a dream remember? You looked around. Where the fuck will you go? You contemplated everything and just realized you should probably just stay at the hospital. You had nowhere to go.

As you made your way back to the entrance doors, three cop cars pulled up and cops started to jump out their cars. You jumped back in surprise. "Are you alright?" One of the officers said, looking at your blood stained clothes. "Y-Yeah I'm fine, I was dropping off a friend." You stammered. The officer looked you up and down curiously. "Well anyways, have you seen this man? He is currently wanted by police." The officer scrolled on his phone before showing you a photo and you almost choked on your spit. A picture of Jungkook was staring right back at you, his purple dyed hair a mess. It's a mugshot.

"Uh...no. Why? What did he do?" You looked at the officer, trying to hold your composure. Why in the hell was there a mugshot of Jungkook? Is that why he wouldn't let you call the police? "We can't say that. Just wondering if you'd seen him." The officer asked once again, as if telling you to just own up to it.

Like hell you were going to do that. You got questions and this little criminal needed to give you answers. "Nope. Never seen him. If you'll please excuse me, my boyfriend was shot and I'm here to make sure he's okay." Your mouth was moving faster than your brain. Boyfriend? Why in the fuck did you say that? The officer's right eyebrow raised curiously. "Did you shoot him?" You cocked your head in confusion before remembering your current attire.

"N-No! I saved his life. Now...please excuse me." You pushed past the officer as you made your way back into the hospital and into the elevators to go to the patient rooms. Once you arrived on the correct floor you snuck past the nurses station, knowing if they saw you they'd tell you to go home since visiting hours were over. Once you got to Jungkook's room, you quietly slide open the door and closed it once you were inside.

"You're back?" Jungkook's voice could've startled you if you weren't already freaking the fuck out. "Jungkook...I just got stopped by the cops." You looked over at him and you visibly saw his adam's apple bob from the gulp he swallowed. "Yeah? And?" This fucker is playing dumb. "And? Jungkook you're wanted by the police! What did you do?" You exclaimed. "Okay, say it louder for the security down the hall." He rolled his eyes, his arms folded across his chest as he huffed, annoyed.

"I didn't do anything." Your eyes could've popped out your head with how hard your eyes were bulging at him. "The police seem to think differently. They showed me your fuckin mugshot, dude." You sat next to his bed, your hands raking your hair with frustration. "That was from something unrelated. This time...it wasn't me." He looked like he really wanted you to believe him. "What happened?" You just wanted to know. You weren't sure if you were sitting with an innocent man or some kind of killer but it would help to make sure?

Jungkook paused, his eyes dashing around as if he was thinking if he should even tell me or not. "Fine...don't tell me." You were starting to get annoyed. You were hoping he would trust you, with you saving his life and all, but that didn't seem to be the case. "(Y/N)..." He started but you were quick to shut him down. "Forget it. Good luck with your case." You slide open the door, your face turned pale when you saw a nurse walking with a police officer.

You slide the door shut once more, and Jungkook looked at you curiously. "Jungkook...the police are here." You whispered. You felt the room go cold and Jungkook looked around nervously. "We gotta go." He started moving, ripping his IV out his arm swinging his leg over the bed with a groan. "Wait what? What the fuck? N-No!" You walked over to him, trying to push him back by his chest. He pushed your hands away.

"I'm not about to be taken for something I did not do." He was angry. Frustrated. You hesistated, watching as he stood and grabbed his bag of clothes. "I'll...I'll help you." Jungkook turned towards you. "You will? Even though you don't know if I'm some crazed killer or not?" You pursed your lips. "Is that what they're trying to arrest you for?" Jungkook took a deep breath in, not saying anything else as he limped towards his things that were put into a hospital bag and then slipped on his hospital slippers.

He turned towards you again, looking you over once more as you stood there. "Are you just gonna stare at me or are you gonna come with me?" You nodded, going over to him and letting him wrap his arm around your shoulder once more. You slid open the door, looking in the direction of where the nurse and officer were and not seeing them. "They might be talking about you, we gotta go." You whispered and Jungkook nodded, following you towards the nearby stairs.

"Wait, can we use the elevator?" Jungkook looked at you as if you were the dumbest on earth. "You truly are the most annoying person I've ever met." He let go of your shoulder. "You go on the elevator, distract the nurse and cop, and meet me on the side of the building. I'll call someone to pick us up since you apparently don't live around here." He rolled his eyes and opened up the door to the stairs, wincing slightly in pain.

You nodded, ignoring his earlier remark and started for the elevator. Right as you were close, the nurse and cop you saw earlier spotted you. "Excuse me? Visiting hours ended a while ago." She said. You looked at her apologetically. "Sorry...my boyfriend was shot and I just needed to see him one more time. Bring him some snacks and stuff." You continued heading for the elevator, ignoring the calls from the nurse and officer as you pressed the first floor button and mashed the 'closed elevator' button repetitively.

Once you got to the first floor, you walked calmly out the door, ignoring the looks from the earlier officer that questioned you earlier. As soon as you touched the outside, a large exhale escaped your lungs. How long were you holding your breath? As you walked, you heard a low voice call out to you. "(Y/N)." Jungkook called for you in a silent yell. You hurried over to him, grabbing his arm once again to help him balance himself.

"Where is your friend?" You looked up at him. "Behind here." He started walking and you tried your best to help him along the way, the weight of his body was a little easier to handle now. He wasn't extremely heavy, but the amount of muscle on him did add to his weight and made it a little hard to keep hold of him.

As you kept walking you noticed a car parked with its lights off. You opened the door and Jungkook slowly sat into the back seat, wincing and groaned the whole time. You tried to look at the driver but couldn't. What if this is just his plan to kidnap you? You know what he's on the run for, getting rid of you will just make things easier.

"Come on." Jungkook grabbed your arm, pulling you into the car with him. You sat, a little reluctant but deciding it's for the best. You could have somewhere to sleep, if Jungkook doesn't kill you first. Once you were inside, you could now see who was driving. Kim Seokjin. Jungkook's other best friend in this story.

"Jesus Christ dude, who did that to you?" He looked back at Jungkook, his eyes then shifting to you. "Is this a new one?" That question almost seemed like an insult. New one? You don't remember Jungkook being a player in the story? How many relationships has he been in?

"Shut up and drive, dude. I'm sure the cops just realized I'm gone." Jungkook looked around, almost paranoid. "Okay fine." Seokjin started driving, waiting till he was on the road before turning his headlights on. He then turned on the radio, pop punk softly playing. Jungkook was exhausted. Terribly exhausted, and he couldn't help but rest his head on your shoulder. You stiffened at first, but then understood immediately and relaxed.

You smell good. He thought to himself as he took a slow deep breath, taking in your scent. Even though you smelled slightly of his blood, there was this other natural scent from you. Your hair smelled clean. Like you just washed it before finding him bleeding out on the roof. He appreciated this. It helps him relax.

The drive was long, but it helped ease the worry between Jungkook's brow, and he was relieved when you all arrived at Seokjin's brother's house. "My brother is away on a business trip for a month, so this place is yours until you figure things out." Seokjin explained everything to you two as he helped Jungkook get out the car. Jungkook gritted his teeth in pain. He looked over to you, seeing your tired expression. "Is it okay if we use his clothes?"

"Yeah dude, no problem. Just make sure you wash everything before you leave." Seokjin opened the door for you, letting you in first before helping Jungkook. "There's two bedrooms, so there's another place to sleep." You glanced around the place. This was a very nice house. One you didn't mind staying in for as long as Jungkook wanted.

What was that? You were thinking as if you were gonna be here another night. This is just a very long, draining dream. After tonight, you will wake up in your bed or on the floor of your brother's room and wonder what happened. "Thank you, Hyung." Jungkook watched you as you walked around. "Oh, so now we're using formalities?" Seokjin joked, walking Jungkook into one of the rooms and setting him on the bed.

"Alright, I'll leave you two be. Reminder, this is only for a month, so don't get too comfortable. And also, please clean up after yourself. Also please throw all your condoms away in the outside trash or flush them, if ya'll use those. I don't want my brother asking too many questions." Seokjin looked at the both of you and you looked back at him wide eyed, your face as hot as an oven.

"Hyung. Stop. We're just friends." Jungkook looked almost as flustered as you, his eyes quickly averting yours. "Really? Just friends with someone this hot? Then you don't mind if I flirt with them right?" Seokjin flashed you a wide grin and you bit your lip nervously. Seokjin is a very...very handsome man yet you couldn't imagine doing anything with him. Jungkook glanced between the two of you and something rose within him. Jealousy? No fuckin way. Either way it pissed him off seeing his friend look at you like that.

"Jin..." Seokjin chuckled, shaking his head. "And the formalities are gone again." He headed out the room and down the hall. "Alright kids, I'll leave you two alone." You both waited in silence, waiting for the sound of the front door to close and lock before both exhaling.

"Holy shit...um...well. This is nice I guess." You were trying to find anything to get your mind off whatever just happened and you could see Jungkook either was trying to do the same or honestly didn't care because he just slowly laid down onto the bed. "I'm going to sleep. It's been a long night." He grumbled and you nodded, the awkward silence engulfing the room once again. "Gotcha...I'll just...go into the other room." You headed towards the door before hearing the bed creak slightly.

"Goodnight." Jungkook stared at you as you walked out the door and slowly closed it behind you. "Night, Jungkook." You said before shutting it. Once you were out the room, you felt all the stiffness and uneasiness leave you. Holy fuck, you need a shower. You smelled of blood and sweat and it was utterly disgusting. You went straight into the bathroom and started the shower, shedding your clothes off and hopping in as soon as the water was scolding hot. You let the water drop onto your naked body, the water slowly washing the dried blood off of you and trailing into the drain. You grabbed the soap on the side and started scrubbing, almost as if you were trying to scrub five layers of skin off.

After your shower and you felt like you were fresh and raw from the hot water and hard scrubbing, you wrapped yourself in a fluffy towel and made your way into the other bedroom. Once you were inside you opened a dresser and saw a couple large shirts. You were thankful they were huge cause you didn't have any spare underwear to wear.

You pulled it over your head, the soft material falling over your body and resting at your mid thigh. You put the towel to your hair and dried your hair as much as possible, your arms felt so tired that just lifting them to dry your hair was a lot of work. You put the towel on the ground and made your way over to the bed and went under the sheets. This was what you finally needed. A comfortable bed. And now, as you fall asleep, you can look forward to waking up back home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm glad you guys are liking the first chapter so far! Wanted to go ahead and post the second part to kinda get the story going so you know where everything is going :)

Let me know if you'd like a part three! <3

DO NOT POST/SHARE MY WORK ON TIKTOK

[maybe-your-left]

dr ren finding out reader is pregnant with baby number 3

*number THREE?!*

You chewed your bottom lip, almost drawing blood as you stared at the pregnancy test. Groaning on the floor of the bathroom, there was no way! You were on birth control, and had Ren wear condoms the few times you had period sex.

There was no way this was possible, but you glanced at the floor. Scattered around you was 6 different tests... all fucking positive

The sound of a door slamming pulled your focus, little feet pitterpattering around the kitchen. Followed by Rens deep voice yelling at him to put his shoes away at the door. You debated just going out and saying it, so you both could figure out how to deal with it.

Ren would know-he had to. He knew you were before with Odin and you didn’t! So, it would be an immediate shift he would sense. You rolled onto your feet. Briefly glancing in the mirror.

You looked tired, from throwing up this morning to shopping at a Walgreens across town so no one would recognize you buying pregnancy tests. All the way to now, where you spent the past two hours chugging sugar water so youd pee six times in a row.

You splashed your face with cool water, sliding the tests into a ziploc baggy in case Ren wanted to fight you to take a test again. Youd taken plenty, no chance of a false positive.

“Love?” Rens voice boomed from the living room. You could hear him flipping on the TV, probably wondering what channel Odin wanted to watch before taking a nap. “Where are you? Are you feeling better?”

“Yes,” you croaked, cringing a bit at your voice. You padded from your bathroom, throwing on a big black hoodie and sweatpants. Pushing open your bedroom door, met only with your husbands suspicious stare.

“Why are you dressed like a hobo?”

“Nice to see you too, Kylo.”

“Hi, Mommy!” Odin chirped, running from the top of the stairs to come see you. He was still dressed in his school clothes, a few new bruises on his knees. Some grass stains on his shorts, he must’ve had a big day.

“Hi baby,” you smiled at him, crouching down to his level and pulling him into a big hug. Odin was your little snuggler, always wanting to be held by you or Ren.

“I heard you throwing up this morning,” Ren boomed over Odins talk about school, “I brought some soup home for you.”

You whispered a thank you, rocking Odin on your hips. He was so soft and sweet, but getting bigger. In a few months he would be too heavy for you to hold him like this all the time. He was already losing his baby teeth, hair getting longer, growing leaner and taller like his dad was at that age.

You plopped on the couch, keeping Odin to your chest while he calmed down from school. Wrapping a blanket around you both so he would be cocooned.

He didn’t smell like a baby anymore, his skin was losing its baby softness. Cheeks no longer pudgy and small, but growing into his sharper features. The more you thought about it, the harder you clutched him. You didn’t get to see Belle as a baby, only a toddler who wasn’t into being held or coddled by you.

Odin was your baby and now...

“What if we had another kid?” you blurted out.

You watched Rens back tense up, still standing in front of the TV like he was 100. You could count how many breaths he was taking, deep and slow. Exhaling loudly through his nose. You kissed Odins forehead, nuzzling his bangs out of the way, “Kylo?”

“Hm?”

“Did you hear me?”

He turned to look at you, squinting, “I don’t think I did.”

You sighed, looking back at Odin who was now asleep in your hold, “What if-what if we had another baby?”

Ren nodded stiffly, “That’s what I thought you said, but I wasn’t sure.”

“Well?”

He said nothing, moving swiftly past you to the kitchen. You listened to him shed his coat, toe off his shoes, open and shut the fridge, a jumble of other things in order to leave the conversation. Drifting off to the sleep to the sounds of him shuffling about, avoiding you at all costs.

———

You were shaken away, well not shaken. More like stirred, Odin was wiggling in your lap to release himself. While a pair of small arms wrapped around your shoulders from the lip of the couch.

“Mom,” Belle whined in your ears, your drowsiness rapidly being replaced by a headache. You let go of your squirming toddler, leaning into your teen.

“What Belle? I was sleeping.”

“Yeah, I know. You’ve been asleep since I got home from school,” she rolled her eyes. Stomping around the couch to sit next to you, “Dad won’t let us order dinner.”

You heard Ren scoff, “You had pizza yesterday, Belle.”

She shot him a glare over her shoulder, “Well, I don’t want soup for dinner.”

“Belle,” you sighed, “It’s because I’m sick okay, your dad was just trying to be nice.”

She still didn’t let up, getting into a twenty minute argument with Ren about food and her eating preferences. All while your baby fever dwindled when you thought of the chance of having another Belle.

“Fine!” Ren shouted, “Order whatever you fucking want, you’re such a drama queen sometimes.”

You waited in your nook for him, which he inevitably showed up. Dressed down in black jobbers and black t-shirt, face flushed in anger. He sat down dramatically, curling into you.

“I’m sorry she woke you,” he mumbled, the back of his head placed against your forehead. Humming as he felt for a temperature, Ren studied you carefully, probably confused as to why you had no fever.

“It’s okay,” you caught his lips in a kiss, Ren didn’t seem to care. Leaning into you, “I missed you, you’ve been holding Odin since I got home. Haven’t gotten any time with you.”

You opened up your blanket, ushering Ren to curl around you. Both of you sighing in relief when he settled, a head on your shoulder, arms around your middle. A suspicious hand placed on your stomach, right where the new baby bump would be.

Ren kissed your neck, “I found your ziploc.”

“My what?”

“Your pee bag, love the name by the way.”

You chuckled, twisting your face so you could kiss his cheek. Ren hummed in return, pulling you closer together.

“A baby, huh?”

“Yup-another baby.”

“We already have a baby,” Ren nodded towards Odin who was sitting on the floor. Coloring in a workbook from school, laying on his belly while he talked to the TV.

“He’s not a baby anymore, Kylo,” you whispered.

“Can’t you hold Belle like a baby? She still likes to nap with you when she’s exhausted.”

You shook your head, “Nope, she’s not a baby either. And neither are you.” Ren looked around the room, biting his bottom lip with worry, “We could get a dog, one of those little french bulldogs you’ve been begging me for since we started dating. Or a ferret, like the one you saw in the store last week?”

“Kylo,” he looked at you longingly, eyes shining with unshed tears, “We’re having another baby.”

“But-.”

“Ah-uh,” you kissed the tip of his nose, “It’ll be fine, we can clear out your upstairs office. They won’t have to share a room with us, you don’t need two offices anyway.”

“They aren’t both offices, the one down here is a workspace and upstairs is my study. Two different things, that are both needed, we can get a dog. Dogs don’t need rooms or diapers, or college funds...”

“Kylo.”

“What?”

He pouted.

“Fine, I’ll start clearing it out next month.”

———

please consider this non-canonical (i’m not planning on Dr. Ren and reader actually having another child after Odin, but this was fun to think about) 😂

TAGGING: @finn-ray-nal-beads​​​ @onlykyloscenes​​​ @candycanes19​​​ @historyandfandoms50​​​ @caelum-phyriina-vermillon​​​ @ghoulian13​​​ @mrs-kylo-ren​​​ @millenialcatlady​​​​ @relationshipwithmybed @dancingmicrobes​​​ @wayward-rose​​​ @contesa-lui-alucard​​​ @daydreamsofren​​​ @insufferablelust​​​ @ohdamnadamm​​​ @mariesackler​​​ @caillea​​ @safarigirlsp​​ @jalexunderthestars​​​ @shesakillerkween​​​ @glassythoughts​​ @zimmermansbrat t​​ @not-the-teen-witch​​ @jynzandtonic​ @roanniom​ @celestiasin @glassbxttless

[zigtheeortega]

incomparable

pairing | logan x mc

word count | 7.4k

warnings | there’s a lot of angst in this one, and it’s definitely an emotional hurt/comfort fic! if you don’t like the idea of logan trying to move on, then this one isn’t for you!

tags | @raleighcarrera, @pixeljazzy, @senatorraines, @dionneserrano, @blainehayes, @rodappreciationweek

author’s note | a while ago, my sweet friend and fellow mod @/pixeljazzy suggested a fic plot that’s angsty and absolutely demonic, aka logan tries to move on, so i decided to write it! i’d been working on this before the mods decided to create the time capsule challenge, so i’m very content that this fits into the theme well !!! and to clarify, this is an au where my mc raquel writes down her experience with the mpc and ends up publishing it and unintentionally becomes a best selling author! also yes rodaw brought me out of my choices writing break and i’m not mad at it at all

•─────────────────•

She wasn’t Raquel.

That much was obvious – she was taller. Her shoulders were broader. Her hair was short, bluntly cut at her collarbones, and dark brown.

She was tattoo free. The skin of her arm was bare – a clean slate. Untouched.

She seemed more innocent, too. Not in the way that Raquel was when they first met.

This woman was grown with a full time job and a comfy apartment in the heart of the city, but… there was something missing.

She probably had no clue that there was a seedy underbelly to her home. Didn’t have the misfortune of crossing paths with someone like him when he was at his worst.

She was privileged enough to go about her life while a whole microcosm of crime happened right under her nose. And she didn’t want to know. Didn’t need to know.

Logan wasn’t exactly jazzed to shatter another woman’s innocence the way he did with Raquel.

This girl seemed… safe. Level headed, secure, and millions of miles away from the life he’d abandoned.

It kind of happened by accident. Meeting her, that is.

It wasn’t a carefully crafted “accident” like with Raquel. She actually just… caught his eye.

He’d gotten an honest job as a mechanic on the outskirts of L.A., working mostly with the struggling working class that had long been banished to the dingiest corners, despite being the most important cogs in the city’s machine.

The autoshop was family owned, and had been for generations – the owner, Nicandro, had accepted Logan as his own, and Logan had practically become a part of the Alvarez family.

He hadn’t anticipated finding his own home in the same city that’d chewed him up and spat him out time and time again.

A couple months into working there, he was finally settling into his routine. Nine-to-five job on weekdays, community college classes on weekends, and the occasional Saturday mass when he was invited by the Alvarezes.

He was functioning. He had a routine. And then this girl came in and disrupted it all.

The Honda Civic girl.

When the average looking car pulled up outside, he didn’t give it a second glance.

He went back to work, arms deep in the engine, grimy and stained from repairing Miss Anita’s ancient artifact she insisted on saving even though it was less than a thousand miles away from crumbling cartoon-style till only the wheels were left.

(But she was family to the Alvarezes, so Nicandro insisted on repairing the car for free nearly every week when she needed something new tweaked.)

He heard her voice from across the room and still didn’t look up from his hands.

“Hi, this is embarrassing, but my engine light thingy came on and I have no clue what it means,” she said with a nervous laugh. “I’m on my way out of town for a couple of days, so I thought I’d stop and get it checked out before you closed for the night.”

“Aye, Lo, can you help her out real quick? We’ve gotta truck coming in with parts soon and I gotta keep watch,” Nicandro called across the garage, shooting Logan a toothy grin as soon as he looked up.

“Sure,” Logan smiled politely, scrubbing his forearm over his brow, the sweat managing to hold a couple strands of his hair captive against his skin.

He was assuming it’d be a typical oil change, but the second she came into view, the ghost of the last time he left L.A. gripped his heart and squeezed until adrenaline shot through every vein in his body.

Her t-shirt, tucked neatly into her denim shorts, read “Langston”.

It wasn’t the sweatshirt, but it was the same design, same color.

He knew staying in L.A. was a gamble, but he was willing to risk it. Staying away from Raquel was priority for her safety, but… he couldn’t bury the inkling of hope that pushed its way to the surface when he walked into a coffee shop or a bookstore – places he knew she’d love.

Once he saw the shirt and her big brown eyes, he was done for.

She wasn’t Raquel, but something about her lived in this stranger.

Before he could stop himself, he was comparing her to his first love – a disaster waiting to happen.

Their first date was anything but – she insisted on bringing him a vanilla milkshake from his favorite burger place to his work.

“How’d you know I was working?” He asked earnestly, mirroring her soft smile.

“I didn’t. Nicandro told me vanilla milkshakes were your favorite and I didn’t want to ruin the surprise so…” she shrugged, her cheeks flushed. “I’ve, uh, brought milkshakes up here every day this weekend.”

He laughed – a real genuine surprised laugh – and took a sip from the styrofoam cup. “You didn’t let them go to waste, did you?”

“Nah, Nicandro’s been really happy with me.”

“Yum,” he hummed. “I’m happy with you, too.”

She grinned in delight, taking a sip from hers. “I’m glad my hard work paid off.”

She stayed there for his whole lunch break, and they chatted, casual conversation with no substance, and he actually enjoyed himself.

The last time he remembered having casual conversations about nothing with a girl his age, he was curled underneath the sheets with Raquel, tracing the outlines of her sleeve of tattoos. He could’ve listened to her talk for hours.

This girl… she was pretty tolerable – she listened to him (hung on every word, even) and cared about what he had to say, even though it was a laid back, low stakes conversation.

“My name’s Renée, you know. I realized I haven’t told you,” she smiled, resting her cheek on her hand. She was facing him, and they were seated on the same side of the old wooden table out back behind the garage.

“Renée,” he repeated, shaking the styrofoam cup to gather the last bit of milkshake at the bottom before tipping it back to lap it up. “I’m Logan.”

“Logan,” she nodded. “It suits you.”

“S’not my real name,” he shrugged.

He didn’t know why he was telling her that. If he told her too much, it’d end the same.

She tipped her own cup back, tapping the bottom to get little stray ice chunks out. “Fine by me. I still think it suits you.”

She was way too trustworthy of a man she didn’t know, but… wasn’t that what attracted him to Raquel in the first place?

Without a shred of judgement in her eyes, Raquel took everything Logan said as the truth, despite how many times he’d fucked up. Betrayed her.

Renée didn’t look at him like he was a criminal and… well… he wasn’t one anymore. He was still in the criminal mindset, though, since he’d been ostracized for so damn long.

The next couple weeks were uncomfortable – not because Renée made him uncomfortable in the slightest. If anything, she was doing the opposite, and that was the problem.

He’d had to reopen himself to caring about another woman, and to say it was a difficult task was an understatement. The gates were stubborn, rusted shut, so much so that he had to force them apart, ignoring the grating screech of metal and the inevitable pain that came with being vulnerable again.

They went on a few dinner dates. She brought him lunch at work. She invited him to her apartment. They went to a food truck festival together.

Renée disrupted his routine, and it was a breath of fresh air.

He’d gotten so comfortable with his quaint life and his work family that he hadn’t pushed himself to do much more than that.

But the first time she held his hand, he froze.

She casually grabbed his hand to lead him through a crowd and his body reacted like he’d been electrocuted. It wasn’t wrong, but it felt wrong.

“Are you good?”

“I’m fine,” he reassured her, wiping his clammy palm against his jeans before letting her grab his hand again.

It wasn’t wrong, but it was wrong.

He should’ve ended it that moment, but he didn’t. He’d convinced himself that if he could push through the initial weirdness of it all, he’d be happy. Eventually.

So he went through the motions with her, trying his hardest to push his comparisons of her to Raquel to the back of his mind, but every so often it’d bubble to the surface.

It’d manifest in the most random ways.

She liked Coke icees, not cherry.

Oh we watched that rom-com together, and she hated it because it was too corny.

She likes that TV show as background noise because she thinks it’s dumb, and I do, too.

It was unhealthy to think of Raquel that much – to compare Renée to her that much – but he couldn’t help it.

The last time he was happy, safe, loved, was with Raquel. He hadn’t chased that feeling for a long time (because he wasn’t sure he could find it again), but with Renée he was getting closer to what he used to have.

Maybe it was selfish, but he wanted that warmth – that comfort – again.

She wasn’t Raquel, but she’d have to do.

A month into their casual dating, Renée kissed him. Well, she tried.

She’d insisted on driving him to a boujee rooftop bar near her place and was thoroughly buzzed off a couple of cosmopolitans less than an hour into them being there.

The party was in full swing around them, the corny ass cover band on their fourth “tribute” to Billy Joel.

He was out of his element to say the least. 

Just as he was about to lean over to tell her he needed to use the bathroom, she’d wrapped her arms around his neck and smashed her mouth against his, planting sloppy, sugary, open mouthed kisses on his parted lips, frozen in shock.

“Logan,” she breathed, squeezing him tighter, not even registering how tense he was.

“Renée… hey, hey,” he said, gently but firmly pulling her away from him. “I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink.”

Her big brown eyes welled up with tears and his chest twinged with guilt, the distant memory of the first time he’d betrayed Raquel floating around the back of his brain.

“I’m sorry I – I don’t know what came over me –” she turned away from him, dabbing her eyes with the crook of her finger.

“It’s okay. No need to apologize,” he reassured her, rubbing his palm in small circles on her back. “We’re good.”

“I wanted our first kiss to be special and I royally screwed that up,” she sighed, swivelling back till she was facing him again.

“Can’t do worse than me.”

She chewed her lip, trying to hold back a smile. “Oh yeah?” 

“I was a girl’s first kiss… five minutes after we’d outrun the cops.”

Her laugh was a surprised one, her bright smile replacing her disappointed expression almost immediately.

“That’s surprising. I never pegged you as a law breaking type,” she blinked, the alcohol clearly making her a bit more ballsy than she normally was.

It was his turn to laugh – he doubled over, nearly knocking over her half empty glass in the process.

“I used to be quite a troublemaker.”

Despite her not-so-subtle hints over the next few weeks, he couldn’t bring himself to kiss her.

She probably thought he was the prudiest of the prudes, the local catholic church’s golden boy,  the working man’s poster child of abstinence till marriage.

He just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Yet.

He was wearing himself down more and more each day – he was on the track to kiss her in… a couple months to a year. Probably.

Two months in, she invited him to a swanky event her job was hosting.

She was one of many accountants working in the financial department for a large publishing company. She had a really cool gig, and she knew it. She never bragged, but she was proud of her accomplishments. 

So why was she dating a mechanic who was making a third of her income? He had no idea.

Either way, he tried to enjoy himself. The car that picked them up was luxurious, and that and the food and booze reflected just how much money their company had made that year.

The venue was huge and packed to the brim with hundreds of people, the standing tables a couple feet apart all throughout the ballroom.

“Damn, they weren’t playing around with this, huh?” He mused, taking a sip from his mug, filled to the brim with locally brewed beer.

“Yep, they’re serious about giving a warm welcome to new authors,” Renée said over the rim of her drink, gesturing vaguely to the room around them.

“Yeah, so is that what they’re doing?”

“Mhmm. Every year we hold a big party to celebrate our deals for that year. It’s really just to pat ourselves on the back and give our new authors a sense of comfort here, you know?”

“Can I get a booklist or something? I might wanna check out some of these books afterwards. I feel guilty as hell eating duck, drinking their expensive ass alcohol, and rolling back home without, ya know, doing anything,” he shrugged, the fabric of his hand me down suit straining with effort at the motion.

“One of the authors insisted on not being included in any of the party promos so… she kinda ruined it for everybody. But she’s our number one best seller for this year, so…” she rolled her eyes, tipping back the last of her cosmo.

“And don’t worry about it. We budgeted for this and we’re good,” Renée nodded, giving Logan’s hand a squeeze over the table.

“So what’s the itinerary for the night?” Logan asked, rolling his mug around by its base, the beer swirling around the edges, just barely kissing the rim, but not quite overflowing.

It was stupid to relate to a fucking mug of beer, but he did.

Anytime he pushed himself to his limit with Renée, he retreated, never breaking past that threshold, that barrier he set in place for himself long before he’d ever met her.

“The President is gonna give some speech – he’s that guy right there –” she said, scooting around the table till her arm was pressed against the sleeve of his jacket, “Then the Vice President – that woman – is gonna introduce the guests of honor, and they’ll give introductions. Then a brief presentation from my boss about how much money we raked in this year, then… yep. We can leave.”

“Sounds painless enough.”

She laughed, leaning her head against his shoulder. “Thanks for coming with me, Lo. I really appreciate it.”

Before he could register what was happening, she’d tipped his chin towards her, pressing a tender, gracious kiss on his lips.

She pulled back, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

He mirrored her smile, but inside he was screaming.

He felt nothing. The kiss elicited absolutely nothing from him.

She kissed him and it felt like he was kissing a friend. Completely platonic.

He’d sunk months into getting comfortable with her just for it to blow up in his face. The second he’d let his guard down so things could progress naturally, it backfired.

He’d taken Raquel for granted. Being with her was so effortless that he didn’t have to think about it, and he let that slip away without trying to get her back.

He thought he was doing the right thing by her, but it was hurting him more than he’d ever anticipated.

It wasn’t that he considered her another notch in the bedpost. It was the opposite – the bedpost didn’t exist anymore.

There was only her. No one else. No matter how many times he tried to remedy his broken heart, it’d just bring him right back to her: the only woman that ever had the privilege of making herself a home there.

“I, uh, need to go to the restroom. Excuse me,” he said, jabbing his thumbs toward the double doors, heading outside before she had a chance to respond.

He pushed his way out of the room, his heart in time with the slap of his shoes against the flooring.

As soon as he was out of the doors, he kept walking, striding past the laggards mingling in the hallway, past the bathrooms, past the security, till he felt the dirty L.A. air coat his lungs.

God, if he could only catch his breath maybe he could go back in there and salvage the night. Maybe even make himself look less like a skittish idiot.

Despite the fact that his brain was wired to unintentionally treat her like a friend, he didn’t want to hurt this girl. 

He didn’t smoke often – just a taste of nicotine when he was drunk or the occasional cigarette when he was stressed.

There was a crumpled pack in his glove box that’d been there for months.

Why didn’t he just drive? He was fucking stranded. He couldn’t run. Couldn’t put distance between him and this situation that he’d willingly put himself in.

None of this was Renée’s fault. There wasn’t a single aspect of the situation that was her fault.

She was a girl who wanted to date a boy because of reciprocated interest.

He felt like the biggest loser in the world. Here she was, a beautiful girl with a lust for life and ambitions that dwarfed anything he’d ever imagined for himself.

And all she wanted to do was love him.

And he wouldn’t let her. Couldn’t let her.

His back slid against the brick wall until he was squatting, arms braced against his knees while he tried to gulp down fresh air as fast as the wind whipped at him.

He’d managed to find the one corner of the building that was completely unoccupied. For once, he was thankful for his gut instinct to lurk in the shadows.

He’d barely gotten a minute of solitude before the door closest to him flew open, a blur of tulle streaking across his peripheral.

The person’s breaths were labored, panicked, as they ran the opposite direction until they were at the edge of the pavement.

They bent down, just like he had, and clasped both hands over their mouth, letting out a small muffled scream.

When she was finished with that, she tilted her chin upwards, her skin illuminated by the light from the parking lot that spilled onto their side of the building.

If he thought breathing was difficult before, it got a whole lot worse when she noticed he was there.

She jumped, yelping like a wounded animal before stumbling back, catching herself with her hands. “Oh my god, I didn’t know anyone was here – I’m sorry –”

Pushing herself back up to stand, she brushed her palms off and shook the tulle skirt clean. “I’m just a little stressed. Sorry again for the outburst.”

That can’t be her. There’s no way, he thought, his mouth drying out when he got a clear view of her face.

“Raquel?” He asked, timidly, voice cracking on the first syllable.

She froze, searching the shadows, her hands white knuckling her skirt.

He didn’t speak, and neither did she. He couldn’t tell how long they’d been quiet when he pushed himself to his full height and took a step towards her.

“No, no, no, there’s no way,” she whispered, stumbling backwards, catching herself on the brick wall.

“It’s – uh, it’s me –” he said, laying his palm flat against his chest. “It’s Logan.”

His voice trembled, the effort of speaking (despite nearly being rendered speechless) was more than he could handle – it was as if he had to manually pick up his words like stones and drop them, and they were heavy, and he was weak.

She slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. She didn’t respond.

“I… uh, what are you doing here?” He asked finally, forcing the question past his lips.

If he didn’t say something he’d be drinking her in all night. It’d been a couple years, but she looked exactly the same.

Yeah, her hair was mid-length, the ombre traded for a black tone, and she’d gotten a few more tattoos that he could see, but she was the same old Raquel.

Same old Raquel, but professionally styled. He wasn’t self conscious of his hand-me-down suit until he noticed how polished she looked.

“I could ask you the same thing,” she breathed, a strained tone followed by a struggled breath.

His heart dropped to his stomach. He’d completely forgotten about Renée.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened and closed it again, like a fucking fish out of water. There was no way to beat around it.

“I’m a plus one.”

Her perfectly gelled brows furrowed, and his gut clenched at the motion.

He was scared as hell, but damn did she look exactly like she did when she was hunched over a textbook, scrawling notes as quick as her brain summarized the words on the page.

“You didn’t… deliberately come here to see me?” She asked, searching his face for something (the truth, probably).

He ran a hand through his unruly hair, an inch or so shorter than she’d last seen it.

Why’d he have to run into her after he’d gotten a trim? He’d imagined this moment going so many different ways, and every scenario he’d pictured them looking like they did the moment they parted – if he had it his way, every detail would be exactly the same as the day he disappeared into the night, from his head down to his shoes.

“I, uh… No, I didn’t,” he stammered, taking another step her way, and that time she didn’t move back.

Shaking her head, she watched him, expression incredulous. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Just because I didn’t come here for you doesn’t mean I’m not happy to see you,” he said, reaching out towards her.

He thought she’d flinch away, but she stayed planted in place, her eyelids fluttering shut when he stroked the pad of his thumb against her jaw, revelling in how soft her skin was. Just like he remembered.

“So beautiful,” he murmured. “The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

She turned her head just enough till she could kiss his palm, leaving a streak of lipgloss on his calloused skin. “This doesn’t feel real.”

“It is, baby,” he reassured her, before testing her even further by tugging her into a hug. “This isn’t a dream, but it sure feels like one.”

She ran her hands across his back, like she was refamiliarizing herself with his frame, before squeezing him tight, her arms shaking with effort. “You smell exactly the same.”

He laughed, burying his nose into her crown, pressing a kiss there. “You do, too. Like lavender’n’heaven.”

Raquel was in front of him, just as warm and pretty as she was the last time he’d seen her. She even felt the same in his arms, molding to his shape like no time had passed.

Adrenaline surged in his veins, and he took advantage of his momentary courage by tipping her chin upward to get a good look at her.

God, she was so fucking pretty.

Nothing else mattered to him anymore. His mechanic job, his car, his friendships, his home in L.A. –

He’d made a home in those dark brown eyes, and he was willing to drop everything and follow her to the ends of the earth if that meant he’d be back in the one home he’d ever known.

She blinked away a few tears, her bottom lip trembling, dimpling her chin.

He cupped her face between his palms, cradling her face as gently as he would with something breakable, soaking in the moment for as long as he could.

He could’ve held her like that and re-committed every inch of her face to memory, but she broke first, closing the gap by pressing her lips against his and Christ did she taste sweet.

Their mouths, arms, bodies, slotted together perfectly, not an inch of space between them.

Just as he parted his lips for her, she stiffened, retreating from him immediately.

“You taste like cherry. I hate cherry.”

Her tongue darted out to lick her bottom lip. “You hate cherry.”

He went rigid, the details from a few minutes before flooding back to him. Renée was wearing cherry gloss.

“Oh my god… you’re here with someone?” She asked, but she said it with such conviction, because she knew it was true, and she was begging for it not to be.

His mouth popped open and shut again. “I’m sorry –” “You don’t have to apologize. You’ve moved on and that’s okay. I’m happy for you.” Her voice was trembling with each word – the stones were heavy, and she was struggling, and he could tell.

“No, Raquel, it’s not like that. I promise –”

“Please don’t make me any promises, Lo. I don’t know if my heart can take it,” she said, palms up in surrender.

And she said his nickname. It sounded wrong coming from anyone but her.

“I’m serious, baby, I didn’t think I’d see you again, especially at a schmooze fest like this.”

She blinked, once, twice, processing what he’d said. “So… not only did you insult me by showing up with another woman, but you’re insulting this event that I’ve worked so hard to attend, and you’re insulting me.”

“Raquel… I never meant it that way, I… I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

He dug the heel of his palms into his eyes, groaning in frustration. “I stayed in L.A. in case I ever saw you again, but I didn’t think it’d be this soon, and I dreamed up lots of scenarios but none of them went like this. I fucked it up majorly and I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t fucking know.”

She didn’t say anything for a while, her arms folded across her chest while she mulled over his words. “I never tried moving on.”

It hit him like a gut punch, grabbing his organs and twisting till pain shot throughout his body. “You didn’t?” Was all he could manage.

“No, I couldn’t. There’s no way I could when I’m still in love with you.”

She screwed her eyes shut, a sob leaving her before she could contain it.

“Raquel, please believe me –” Logan pleaded, stepping towards her. “If I woulda known you were gonna be here, trust me, I’d be dressed better and you’d be my date and I’d be showing you off to the world –”

Her watch buzzed, startling the both of them. “I… have to go. We can talk after, if you want.”

“Yes, please. That’s all I want,” he laced his fingers with hers, gently tugging her hand towards his lips to press a soft kiss on her knuckles. “I’ll find you after. I promise.”

Giving him one last once over, drinking him in, like she was second guessing if he was real, she stepped back through the doors.

He took a few deep breaths to compose himself before heading in – explaining his outburst to Renée hadn’t crossed his mind till he walked back inside.

He made his way back to the table, running over how he was going to apologize, but nothing stuck. He couldn’t think of anything but Raquel.

Renée was sipping on her second drink of the night, and his beer looked like it’d been dipped into as well.

“Are you okay?” She asked immediately. “I’m sorry about kissing you like that I just – I just thought you were comfortable enough. I screwed up again, Lo, and I’m so sorry.”

“Renée…” He couldn’t get over how unnatural “Lo” sounded coming from her. “The way I’ve been acting has nothing to do with you, okay? You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Kinda sounds like you’re breaking up with me,” she laughed once, rolling her eyes. They widened as soon as it dawned on her. “Wait… are you?”

“Can we talk outside? I really want you to hear me out –” “Logan, if you’re gonna dump me, at least respect me enough to not do it in the parking lot,” she sighed, chugging the rest of her drink.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he agreed, sliding his half empty mug of beer her way. “I do respect you, though. A lot. You’re an amazing person.”

Sighing, she tipped back the beer, gulping until he could see her eyes through the transparent bottom of the glass. “I’ve definitely heard this spiel before.”

“I’m gonna tell you this story, and you’re probably not gonna believe it, but it’s true, and it was my life – it is my life,” he started, leaning against the table so she could hear his low tone.

“Years ago, I met the woman of my dreams, and she was innocent and way too fucking good for me. I was breaking the law daily by doing jobs with crews of criminals like me, living off the grid, making money in ways I’m not too proud of.

“She was a part of one of my last jobs before I left L.A. to lay low and I, uh, I fell in love with her. I’m still in love with her. I don’t know what my life would look like if I wasn’t in love with her, you know?”

Her face screwed up in disgust, and she all but slammed the mug down, whispering furiously. “Are you mocking me? Did you seriously just regurgitate the plot of Ride or Die to me? That’s the story you’re going with? One that isn’t even your own?”

“Huh, what? What are you –”

The speakers crackled and a mic squeaked as who Logan assumed to be President tapped the surface of it, cutting off his response.

“Hello everyone, I hope you’re all having a wonderful night so far. As most of you may know, my name is Arnie Harris, and I’m the President of Harris Publishing. When my grandfather founded Harris Publishing back in 1901, he only did so because he wanted to be able to publish a few of his wife’s poems as a gift. Publishers refused to register it under her name, so he made his own company so my grandma could achieve her dream of being a published author, and throughout the years, we’ve been committed to giving voices to women and minorities alike.

“This year’s been one of our best yet, and I’m so thankful to our new authors for seeing something in us and our mission statement. A big thank you to everyone here tonight – Editing, Marketing, Finance, all the staff and employees, hell, the caterers here tonight, valets, everyone. Tonight wouldn’t be possible without you.”

He droned on for a bit longer before the Vice President took the stage, and she began introducing the newest authors that they’d signed that year.

They’d copped quite a few best sellers, which was impressive. Each author took the stage briefly to thank Harris Publishing and give a brief summary of their goals for the next few years.

Renée was ignoring him at that point, refusing to even look his way. He’d be more upset about that if he wasn’t scanning every inch of the room for Raquel, trying desperately to spot the rose colored tulle and midnight hair in the crowd.

“– and the last author of the night, the number one young adult New York Times’ Best Seller for five months and counting, Raquel Olvera with Ride or Die!”

His head snapped towards the stage, his eyes wide. “What the fuck –”

“Renée, she… who…”

“She’s our top seller. The one I said didn’t wanna be in the promos?” She answered flatly, still staring straight ahead.

“Renée, that’s – that’s her, that’s the girl I’m in love with –”

“Oh, please –” She stopped when she saw how genuinely caught off guard he was. “Oh my god, you’re not lying.”

“No, that’s her – I didn’t think – I ran into her outside and she said we’d talk later, but I – I didn’t think she was coming back inside for this –”

“You’re who she wrote about,” Renée whispered, her eyes as wide as Logan’s were, words beginning to slur just a bit. “Holy shit, I just thought the names were a coincidence, but no, you’re him.”

“What… huh?”

“Oh, Logan…” Her eyes filled with tears. “Ride or Die is about you, your old crew, and how she fell in love with you.”

His heart sank. “About me?”

She nodded. “She changed most of the names but kept some, including yours. The ending… you really had to leave L.A. to flee the cops?”

He nodded. “The feds were on our tails.”

“My god… she’s so in love with you. You have to go to her,” Renée shook her head, her hair swaying around her. “No hard feelings at all. You can’t let her go – I’m serious.” 

She’d taken the stage, and had begun thanking people while Logan and Renée whispered furiously at each other. By the time they looked up, she was beginning her speech.

“I never really set out to become a writer. Even though I’m a published author, I don’t really feel like one. Every time I step back to assess the response I’ve gotten to ‘Ride or Die’, I’m rendered speechless without fail. I just wanted an outlet to get my story out, and surprisingly – thankfully – the lovely staff of Harris Publishing decided to take a chance on me. I never thought this level of success was possible, and I’m so grateful for everyone here.”

She held for applause, smiling as though she was grateful for each clap.

“But beneath the positivity and praise I’ve received, I’m still healing. I’m still hurting. Most people know that ‘Ride or Die’ is somewhat of a true story. And yes, I know there’ve been discussions on whether this is a fake autobiography and that I wrote this for attention. Honestly, for the first year after they left, I wished that it was fake, because I was in a lot of pain. Emotionally, I was in shambles.

“I’ve loved telling my story as a form of therapy, but I wouldn’t wish this pain on anyone. The love of my life vanished into the night and I couldn’t do a single thing about it. No closure, no healing, no moving on.

“Stagnancy’s been the norm for me for so long that I forgot what life was like when I was smiling every day. I’m still getting used to happiness being an everyday feeling for me.”

Raquel shook her head, taking a deep breath and dabbing at the corner of her eyes. The audience took this cue to clap again, encouraging her to continue.

Logan watched the monitor on the wall, which zoomed into her face, catching her dazzling brown eyes. He was in awe. She was tough as nails with a heart of gold and he still didn’t deserve her.

“I thought that a life without love was bleak, and that I was doomed to suffer because I didn’t know if I’d ever see Logan again.”

She took another deep breath, squaring her shoulders.

“I’ve realized that I’m surrounded by more love than I know what to do with. By those who love my story, who resonate with my story, and who want or already have a Logan of their own. I get to experience love every day through that affirmation, and I took it for granted till… well, tonight, honestly.

“The end of the story wasn’t really the end of the story for me. I thought that ‘Ride or Die’ was the first and final book, and I’ve been terrified for a while that by the time the hype for this book died down, so would my hope, and I’d have to move on… but like I’ve said, the closure I’ve craved is in everyone that carries my story with them. You’re all healing me by making me feel seen and heard and loved.

“This might be a lot for a speech at a fancy event at the publishing company that signed me, but through all of you who’ve made this possible, I feel like the version of me from years ago when I hopped in a sports car with a stranger who later turned out to be the love of my life.

“The adrenaline, the lust for life, feeling alive – I owe it all to you. Thank you.”

The cheers were raucous by the time she stepped off stage.

Logan’s throat was tight – she still loved him no matter how much it hurt.

Jesus fucking Christ, he would never deserve her.

Renée was sniffling next to him, hand over her mouth. “Logan, you seriously need to go to her. You can’t let her get away again.”

He pulled her in for a quick hug, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Thank you, sweetheart. You really do deserve so much better than me.”

She grinned and patted his cheek lightly. “You’ve never been more right.”

He turned, darting towards the doors, shoving past anyone and everyone to get outside.

When he made it out of the doors, he ran smack into Raquel.

Thankfully, the only people outside of the room were the security guards, who’s attention was focused on the front door.

Raquel pulled him down the hallway and stopped at the last door on the left, a sign with her name on it taped to the outside of the door.

She fumbled with the keycard, her hands trembling.

“Shit –” she cursed, the card tumbling from her hands and onto the tile floor.

He snatched it off the ground and scanned it in one swoop. Within seconds, she’d shoved the door open and slammed it behind them.

His heart was racing. The last time she’d been this hasty was their final kiss, and he couldn’t fathom going through that again.

She stood in front of him, his back to the door, her gaze trained on his chest.

From his height he can see that her face is contorted, but she buries her face in her hands before he can get a good look.

“She looks just like me.” Her voice was a mere whisper, like she couldn’t manage anything more than that.

His heart sank to his feet. “Raquel –” “You say you didn’t know I was going to be here, but then why’d you date someone that works at the same company my book’s being published at?”

“I know it’s hard to believe, but I didn’t come here with the intention of hurting you,” he started, gently resting a palm on her shoulder. “Especially knowing how hard it’s been for you, I –”

He broke his sentence off, cursing himself. “Shit, I didn’t know you were having just as hard a time as me. I figured you’d go to college and meet someone better than me. I don’t know.”

“You can’t just say you expected me to move on because you clearly haven’t. What, is her name Rachel or something?” She pulled back, putting a step of space between them. 

He shook his head. “Renée.”

“It even starts with the same letter,” she shook her head, biting her lip. “You thought I’d move on so you started dating the first person that reminded you of me?”

“I – I’m –” He stuttered, dumbfounded that she’d gotten it in one try, as much as he didn’t want to admit it out loud.

“I want you to understand why I’m upset, Lo. You came back to L.A. because you thought there was a possibility that you’d see me again, but you ‘figured I’d move on’. You’re seeing a girl that looks like she could be related to me, yet you’re avoiding discussing that. “I’m mad because while I’ve been trying to heal, you’ve been making yourself suffer, and that’s not fair to Renée. You had no idea if you were gonna see me again so you tried to get the next best thing. You have to see why that’s fucked up, Lo.”

“Even if I was dating Renée because she reminded me of you, none of that matters now.”

“You can’t just dump Renée because you took one look at the girl you dated for a month years ago and decided you wanted her instead –”

“Stop. Don’t try to downplay your role in my life, Raquel. You’re not ‘just the girl I dated’, alright? I loved you then and I love you now.” 

“You can’t love me and string her along at the same time, Logan,” she furiously whispered, her voice nearing hysterics.

He blinked, shaking his head. “Did… you think I was coming here to show you that I’d moved on? And wanted to rub it in your face?”

She chewed the inside of her lip, her dark brown eyes downcast. “Maybe.”

“Renée ended things first. Just now, actually. The minute she realized that I’m the Logan from your book, she told me I needed to go to you,” he reassured her, reaching out to tip her chin up with a crooked finger, forcing her to meet his eye.

“Raquel, I had no fucking clue you’d written about us and the old crew. All these years, I’ve always known how much I love you but… goddamn, I didn’t know you loved me the way I loved you.”

Her eyes glistened, her surprised laugh coming out as a soft sob.

“So… you really do love me? It wasn’t just circumstance?” She asked, leaning into his palm when he slid his hand up to cup her cheek.

“It doesn’t matter how we felt back then, baby. None of that matters now because we fell for each other while we were apart,” he smiled softly, leaning in to press a soft kiss on her lips.

“God, I love you,” she whispered against his lips, deepening the kiss.

“Say it again,” he murmured. “I need to hear it again.”

“I love you,” she repeated, louder, more confident this time. “I’ll say it as many times as you want, as long as you say it back.”

“I love you,” he said, no hesitation, tangling his fingers through her hair and pulling her in again.

The only time they came up for air was to whisper sweet affirmations against each other’s skin before delving back into silently relearning what they could about each other.

Logan had never been the best with words, and he was at peace with that. He knew that when it mattered, he’d show it. And in the dim lighting of Raquel’s green room, he showed her over and over just how much she meant to him.

Kiss by kiss, they adhered themselves to each other, undoubtedly deciding they’d never let each other go again.

She wasn’t Raquel. That much was obvious. She’d grown into much more than the timid girl he’d met on her 18th birthday, and even more than the headstrong driver he’d left behind. 

And he loved her this way and that way – any way he could get her. His love for every version of her was boundless, incomparable to anything he’d ever felt before.

[writer-k-pop]

Picnic

식이오법에 최소한 약간의 야채가 필요해. You need at least some veggies in your diet. 

Description: Just going on a picnic with Mingyu because Mingyu deserves the fluff and love.  Warnings: None Genre: Fluff, BF!Mingyu x Fem!Reader Word Count: 1.9k

Seventeen Masterlist | Masterlists

"MINGYU!" You yell and his head pops into the doorway, eyes bright with excitement.

"Yes?" He coos at you with a silly smile.

"Did you grab the portable charger?" You ask, a hand still resting on the open drawer where the charger should've been.

Mingyu quickly nods his head, "Yeah, it was the first thing I packed."

You pout, "Could've told me." Closing the draw, you pick up your purse from the bed and walk towards the human embodiment of a puppy you get to call your boyfriend.

"I did." He pouts back when you reach him, "But I think you were busy wrestling with the blanket."

You search your brain for the memory of his voice telling you he packed the charger but your brain sits silent. "I definitely didn't hear you."

"Get better at hearing then." Mingyu jokes and wiggles the tip of your ear between his fingers.

You bat his hand away, "Maybe you need to get a louder voice." You joke back.

As you take a step towards the door, Mingyu sucks in a large breath, preparing to do just that. Quickly, you realize what he's doing and leap to cover his mouth with both your hands.

"No need for it right now, though." You say softly and Mingyu's shoulders shake with a muffled chuckle while his squinting eyes mirror the laughter.

Mingyu lowers your hands and reveals the smile on his lips. "We should probably get going so we can find a good spot." He reasons and walks past you to grab the picnic basket filled with your dinner, drinks, and some desserts for after.

You silently agree and grab the blanket, all zipped up in its built-in bag. As you walk out of your apartment, Mingyu's excitement grows steadily. You can see it in the way his hand opens and closes around the picnic basket's handle and in the way he takes a few tiny fluttering steps after every few steps. You can feel it in the way his hand holds yours tightly and how he swings your intertwined hands between the two of you.

"Do you think there'll be a lot of people?" You ask, watching as most of the people around you head in the opposite direction with similar accessories as you and Mingyu.

Mingyu shakes his head, his eyes following two children as they laugh happily, "It hardly ever is and I don't think the holiday is going to change that."

You nod, "Okay, if you say so."

"I know so." He sasses with a smirk.

Rolling your eyes, you let out an airy laugh, "Whatever."

"See, what did I tell you?" Mingyu lifts both of his hands, gesturing at the empty park in front of you.

You smile and nod in agreement, "You were right."

He skips ahead a couple steps, "Let's set up over here. We'll be able to see everything from here." Mingyu stops just before the hill breaks away and sets down the picnic basket.

Making your way over, you take in the view. The city is spread around the park and the river splits the city right down the middle. Along the river banks, people mill around while they spend the evening with their friends or family, enjoying a meal and waiting for the fireworks. From up here, you'd be able to see the whole show and your ears wouldn't be terrorized with the explosions.

"Ack!" Mingyu yelps in surprise. You break from your thoughts and look over at him. Somehow, he slipped the blanket out of your grasp and was attempting to lay it out but the slight breeze had other plans. The unfurled blanket is now sliding down his front side and an unimpressed expression paints his face.

You press your lips together to suppress a laugh but a smile still shows.

"Help please." He pouts holding out the crumpled blanket.

"Okay." You nod and pick up the two corners he's not holding. Within seconds, the two of you have got the blanket flat against the ground. Clambering onto the blanket, you use your shoes to hold down two of the corners while Mingyu copies your actions.

"I wonder why no one ever comes here to watch the show." You wonder as Mingyu begins pulling items out of the basket. "It's such a good spot."

Mingyu hands you a container of pasta and answers, "It's pretty far away and I guess most people like to be down there with all the other people." He holds out a fork and you pluck it out of his hands.

"Lucky for us that we don't mind being alone then." You smile happily.

"Very lucky for us." Mingyu repeats before taking a large bite of pasta. "Mmm," He hums happily, "This is so good. I'm such a good cook."

"I helped!" You retort, twirling red stained noodles around your fork.

Mingyu swallows and nods, "Right, and my sous chef did an amazing job of opening the noodle box and placing the noddles in the boiling water."

You roll your eyes but let the comment slide and bring a bite of pasta into your mouth. "Who's recipe is this?" You question, taking in the flavors as you chewed.

"Uh, I found it on the internet on a blog of some sorts. Though I tweaked it a little cause I know you don't like some of the things that were listed." Mingyu explains before taking another bite himself. "OH!" He mumbles with pasta hanging from his mouth. Quickly slurping up the noodles, he reaches back into the basket and pulls out two more containers of food.

One container holds garlic bread and the other a simple salad.

Picking up a piece of garlic bread, you hum happily, "I was starting to think we were forgetting a pivotal side dish."

"I would NEVER forget the garlic bread." Mingyu feigns offense that you would even think that about him, "Also make sure to eat some salad. You need the veggies."

"Mingyu." You state and straighten your back.

"(y/n)." He mimics you while righting back a smile.

"When eating pasta, the only thing needed to complete the meal is good bread to dip into the sauce." You argue, "Salads were never invited to the carb party and I don't know when they decided to show up but I'm not giving into their presence. And you can't make me." You point your fork at Mingyu, teasingly.

Mingyu's mouth twitches into a playful smirk and his eyes sparkle with the laughter he's holding back. "But eating all those carbs isn't really that good for your health. You need at least some veggies in your diet."

"I eat veggies!" You counter, spinning more pasta around your fork.

Mingyu chuckles, "Nibbling on a slice of cucumber every other day is not enough."

You pout while chewing and he can't help but smile adoringly at you. With another glance at you, he lifts a forkful of pasta up to his mouth.

"Garlic bread will always be the right hand man to pasta." You say while stabbing some lettuce pieces grudgingly.

Mingyu nods, letting you win the banter, but you don't notice the corners of his mouth tick up. He, honestly, can't help it. He loves you and whatever playful mood you're in whenever. Whether it's when you're so certain that you could do something better than him or when you're like this and know he's correct but will do everything in your power not to outright admit defeat.

"I made it with your favorite dressing so I'm sure you'll like it." He tells you and follows your actions of stabbing some salad onto his fork.

You chew in silence before sighing happily. The weather is perfect, the view is perfect, and the meal Mingyu prepared fits the mood perfectly.

"I can't wait to see what kinds of fireworks they have prepared for this year." Mingyu comments, looking up at the sky.

You nod in agreement, "Last year's show will be tough to beat."

"Especially the heart eyed emoji. That was the best." He nods and twirls his fork around.

"No, that wasn't the coolest." You shake your head, "The coolest was the one that exploded like three different times. The first was into three stars and then the points of those stars exploded into more stars and then those points exploded into hearts. That was the coolest."

Mingyu chews and glances at the sky in thought before swallowing. "You know," He says with a laugh, "I don't remember that one. Must've not been that impressive."

Your fork drops into your pasta container and your jaw drops as well. "What do you mean you don't remember that one? You weren't even there!" You nearly exclaim, remembering that he had to miss the fireworks last year, but then you see his squinted eyes and the wide smile on his face. "Kim Mingyu. Why do you do this to me?" You sigh and pick up your fork again.

"Because it's fun to see your reactions." Mingyu explains a little too happily.

"One of these days..." You let the threat dissipate and put another bite of pasta in your mouth before taking a bite of bread for completion.

Mingyu rolls his eyes, "Yeah, yeah, one of these days, I'll pay for all this." Then, he leans closer, "I am looking forward to it."

Nearly choking on your food, you push him away while he laughs giddily.

30 minutes later, when all the food has been finished and put away, Mingyu opens his arms and you scoot over to him. Resting your head against his shoulder, you sigh in content. The sun has just disappeared from the sky and the park lamps are slowly illuminating one by one giving the park a warm, artificially yellow glow.

"I'm glad you could come this year." You say, staring out at the city as it lights it while the sky darkens. "Last year was very boring without you."

A chuckle rolls through his chest, "I know, trust me, I was wishing I was with you watching fireworks every single moment. Stupid work." He says, playfully angry but in reality he loved his job. Though it did have its downfalls with having to miss attending some events with you.

"Promise me next year?" You ask, hopeful but knowing that it was a slim chance as a year is a long time to promise something.

"I promise I'll try to keep my schedule clear for next year." Mingyu says and places a kiss on the top of your head. "It would suck to miss another one."

"If you can't come next year, I don't know if I will go." You tell him, "It was weird doing it without you and I don't know if I want to go through that again."

Mingyu pulls back slightly, "Then who's going to show me blurry pictures of the fireworks and who's going to tell me about the coolest fireworks?" He asks, a touch of panic in his voice.

You shrug, "Someone else?"

"But you explain them the best." He shakes his shoulders making your head bounce up and down.

"Okay, fine. I'll go but know I won't enjoy it." You smile at the thought that Mingyu likes your explanations of fireworks.

"I love you, (y/n)." Mingyu says softly as the first firework is launched into the sky and explodes into shimmering flames.

"I love you, too, Mingyu." You reply, snuggle closer to him, and let your eyes wander up to the sky where another firework is exploding into specks of green and red.

[rosy-cheekx]

Hypothetically

 @aspecarchivesweek Day One: Wish

I wish to make you happy.

Jonathan Sims/Georgie Barker

This was it. Jon fiddles with the pale green collar of his shirt; eyes focused resolutely on the version of himself in the mirror that hung on the wardrobe in his student flat. Tonight’s the night I’m going to ask Georgie to…

He shakes his head to himself, wincing at the end of that sentence. He knows what he’s going to do tonight, what he wants to do tonight, what difference does vocalizing it make, even if it’s just to himself?

Glancing down at his watch, Jon chews his lip. He was meeting Georgie at the bar in thirty minutes. The bar was ten minutes away…He should probably leave now, right? In case he needed to find them seats or use the loo or if the walk ended up taking longer than the dozens of times he’s been there before? He doesn’t want to be late, that would just make everything worse-

Huh. He’s pacing. Jon forces himself to stop and stands in the middle of his bedroom, wrapping his hands around his sides, thumbs digging into his back, feeling his diaphragm push his ribs out and in as he breathes, focusing on the solid movement of his body. Why am I so nervous? His therapist had talked to him, years back, about identifying sources of his anxiety. He hates that it works, hates that it means confronting his own brain and acknowledging his faults.

Is it the bar? No. This bar, The Addison, is one of the few pubs Jon actually enjoys. It’s always got a bit of a draft so even in the busiest nights it never feels like the heat of the room is inescapable. Jon’s not the biggest fan of beer, per se, but he can knock back a pint with the best of them, so long as he has something in his stomach first, and the pretzels and beer cheese The Addison makes are his favorite. The thought of them make his stomach growl.

Is it Georgie? No. He has a lot of strong feelings for Georgie, feels comfortable being himself around her. He drops his stuffy academic persona and can be his regular, less-stuffy-but-still-academic self, the one who speaks to her flatmate’s cat in a higher-pitched voice but still with proper Queen’s English, because “they deserve to be treated with respect, don’t you Madame?” She cares about him, too, he knows that, and he’s enjoyed their months as friends and the past few weeks they’ve been a couple.

As a couple…He feels a twinge of anxiety in his chest that makes him flap his hands instinctively, a quick stim to ward off the impending doom building in his belly. Ah. Found it. He and Georgie have only gone on a few dates: a coffeeshop on a Saturday morning, and a movie night in Georgie’s flat, an evening which had been planned to be a movie marathon of Georgie’s favorite bad horror movies, the B and C rated films that were truly just a vehicle for half-naked women sprinting down alleyways and gratuitous fake blood effects. Any excuse for them to laugh over popcorn and predict the plot points, except Jon had fallen asleep partway through the second movie and had woken up the next morning on Georgie’s couch, a worn fleece blanket over his slumped form. But this? This was a proper night-time date, involving alcohol and a walk home and, Jon was sure, a “mind if I come in?” and it would be different because it wasn’t a friend he was talking to, it was his girlfriend and there were expectations and he was a virgin and didn’t want to disappoint her because he knows Georgie is experienced and she deserves to have a good time and it’s his responsibility as a boyfriend to do that, even if he’s terrified because he hasn’t before—

Woah. Jon takes a deep breath. That was a lot. He did a full Sims, as Georgie would say, letting things snowball in his head until he explodes. He closes his eyes, wringing his hands again, just a gentle flutter at his sides. It’ll be fine. She’ll understand. She has up to now. Georgie has understood his weird studying habits, his deep aversion to spiders, his need to be early everywhere, his sudden shutdowns and stimming habits and how he loves to be held and touched. She can certainly handle him being a nervous virgin.

Jon slips a condom in his wallet and then, hesitating, tears off two more and throws them in. In case he messes up the first time. Checking his watch, he sees its quarter to eight. If he leaves now he’ll only be five minutes early. Perfect.

--

The Addison is a healthy dose of busy on a Thursday night in late autumn, the hum of conversation and music floating over Jon is just the right amount of chaos for him to reach equilibrium, feeling enthused by his nervous energy. He’s sitting at the bartop, spinning the cap to his beer bottle, watching it whirl, whirl, whirl, clattering on the stained wood and spinning all the while. It’s entrancing.

Georgie is speaking to him now. She smiles warmly at him and feels his stomach flip. God, she’s gorgeous when she smiles. Her hair’s in braids this month, pink and orange weaved tightly together, contrasting with the tight black turtleneck dress she wears. He catches himself staring at her profile, the planes of her face animated as she tells him a story about her professor and his alleged vow to fail her this semester. His face is warm. See, he soothes himself, you are attracted to her. You’re just nervous.

“Jon. Jon?” Georgie’s eyebrow is quirked up and she’s smirking at him, like she’s caught him in a lie. “Everything alright? You’re staring.” Jon feels another rush of blood to his cheeks, prickling at how exposed he feels to have been caught up in his thoughts about her.

“Oh-uh, yeah,” he nods, hesitating before reforming his own features into a smile. “I-I was just thinking. Well. How nice you look tonight.” Georgie isn’t immune to compliments, he knows this for certain, and its reaffirmed as she ducks her own head briefly, smile shifting from teasing to soft.

“O-Oh. Thank you, Jon.” She sips her drink, preferring something a little harder than Jon’s beer, usually a vodka cranberry she can nurse throughout a night or throw back when she needs a little something more in her bloodstream, fogging her mind. “You look really nice too, you know. Your green shirt is my favorite.” She gestures to the button up and he nods absently, glancing down at it. When he looks up, her face is close to his, hand weaving into the curls by his ear. He sighs and leans into the touch, feeling a shiver run through him when they kiss. He tastes the cranberry on her lips, vodka on her tongue, her liquid courage enthusing him as well as her (not that she needs any excuse to be bold, really), and makes a choice.

When they pull away for air, he grins wildly at her, the face he makes when he knows he’s about to a very Not-Sims thing. When the bartender makes his rounds again, a pale man in a black button-down, Jon orders his own ruby-red drink. Georgie’s eyebrows meet her hairline as he does so, folding her hands together. “Who are you and what have you done with Jonathan Sims?” The chuckle behind her voice balances the sternness of her words. He just grins at her and takes a sip of his newly-acquired vodka and cranberry juice, the dry flavors curling on his tongue and making his head feel light and warm after even half the glass.  

-

Jon is drunk. It doesn’t take a genius to see that. He knows he’s a lightweight and even the divine soft pretzels he’s been munching on since his arrival can only handle so much. He’s finished his second hard drink on top of the beer and is feeling properly light and airy. Like a cake, he giggles to himself. He’s having fun, chatting with Georgie about life and cats and uni and their plans for the future. Jon’s entertaining a couple of options, a few research jobs in London, and Georgie is poking his side, making him laugh as she teases him about his studying skills being useful for something more than exams.

“At least I have studying skills!” He says, pushing her off his side, linking their fingers together to inhibit her from poking him again. “You can’t ride my coattails forever, you know.”

“I won’t have to! It came in today.”

“What did?” His thoughts are clouded, edges of anxiety smoothed over into something more ignorable.

“My microphone! So I can start my podcast about spooky shit, remember?” Georgie squeezes his hand and finishes her own drink, far along as Jon in liquid consumed but not nearly as affected as he is. “I’m going to uncover the world’s mysteries and teach my faithful audience about the supernatural. I’ve got the title nailed down, too.” With her free hand she paints a banner in the air. “What the Ghost. ‘Cause it’s like ‘what the fuck’ and I can talk about all sorts of weird shit.” Georgie swears a lot, and more when she’s tipsy.

“Can I see it?” The words are out of his mouth before he can think them through. “The-the microphone, can I see it?”

Her eyes widen and she nods, “Oh, yeah of course! I haven’t been able to test it out yet, so maybe you can help me.”

Jon insists on paying. So does Georgie. They resign to splitting it, each vowing to pay next time and knowing they will never outsmart each other.

-

Jon doesn’t realize how drunk he is until he’s walking the five minutes to Georgie’s flat. Tucked into her side, the air is cool around his face, the wind an icy hand cupping his cheek. Everything feels smeary, liquid, warm. Hands in the pocket of the peacoat he knows he bought for the aesthetic and not to keep him warm, he fingers his wallet, feels the circular outline inside, and feels…nothing. Good. He can do this.

He’s always loved Georgie’s flat. It is warm, all orange and yellow lamplight, houseplants, and a cosy cluttered look. Her roommate exists only in residuals, the sneakers she leaves by the door and the dishes she does at odd hours more proof she exists than anything like conversation. Jon respects that. Georgie’s room is a lot like the rest of the flat, which means it’s a lot like Georgie herself. Warm, dark, soft, and scattered, with hidden elements of cat hair no matter how many times she cleans. Jon throws his coat over his desk chair and collapses onto her bed, reveling in how her pillows feel under his back. He takes a moment to greet the weird smile-faced stain on her ceiling before sitting up, watching Georgie fold herself next to him and open a carboard box, taking out a chunky black microphone with a USB cable. She brandishes it like a sword, before angling it to her face.

“This is BBC 4 with breaking news,” she intones into the microphone, putting on a crisp RP accent and lowering her voice an octave. “Ghosts and ghouls have been discovered at King’s College, Oxford, residing as university professors. News anchor Jonathan Sims has the story. Sims?”

Jon presses back his giggles and leans into the character, accent already pretty close to the posh voice she puts on. “There’s been an error, actually. They’ve been the students all along. Journalism student Porgie Parker has been found out to have been a ghost. These discoveries were made after her boyfriend, English Literature student…Bonathan Bims, realized she had never picked up a textbook because she couldn’t! Her hands went right through them!” By the time he’s gotten to the word textbook, Georgie has pounced on him, microphone forgotten as she wrestles him to the bed, alternating between poking and tickling him until he lets the bit trail off, voice a mix of giggles and pleas for her to stop.

When she lets off, Jon abruptly realizes the intimacy of their position. She’s straddling him, her hands pinning his wrists to the plush pillow behind his head. They’re both breathing hard, cheeks flushed, and smiling.

Jon isn’t sure who started the kiss, but it doesn’t really matter. His arms are wrapped around Georgie’s neck and her hands are cupping his face, cool to the touch, nails lightly scratching his jawline. The bed is soft and Georgie is warm, pressing in from all sides, and it feels good. This he likes.

She kisses along his jawline and he feels heart rate pickup, flexing his hands (when did he curl them into fists?) as she presses against his neck. He wishes vaguely she’d put her hands back in his hair, he likes that soft feeling of pressure on his scalp. The smile on the ceiling is smirking at him now, the curve of the water stain looking more vicious than it had earlier.

Her hands are on his chest, she’s unbuttoning his shirt. Her hands feel too cold now, the shiver running through him one of anxiety, not desire, and Jon is sitting up before he knows what he’s doing. Fuck. Georgie, the saint, backs off him and kneels beside him on the bed. Jon’s hands flit to the undone buttons, fingertips circling them, suddenly unsure what to do.

“Are you okay, Jon?” Georgie’s voice is softer, eyes searching his face as she wedges her hands underneath her knees. He watches her wrists, the swing of her braids as she cocks her head, anything to avoid her eyes.

“I-” he gestures to her vaguely. “Y-You know I haven’t before, right?”

“Oh. Oh.” Georgie nods, understanding maybe a little better than he expected. “No offense, but I kinda figured, Jon. Not in a bad way!” She backpedals. “I just figured, you know, there’s no rush.”

“I mean, there’s a little of a rush,” he admonishes under his breath. At her hum of confusion: “You know, the whole-” he gestures again, as if he could pluck the word from the air. “-third date…thing.”

“Jon,” Georgie sighs his name, voice soft and so patient, a voice he doesn’t think he’s heard used anywhere else. “There’s no rule saying what we have to do when. Or how. Or ever, for that matter. It’s no one’s business what we do except ours.” She reaches out a hand, waiting for a slight nod, before taking his thin hands in her own. “Is that why you drank more than usual today?”

Jon nods, feeling a sag of relief spread throughout his body. “I just- I want to make you happy.”

“You do make me happy, you twit. That’s why we’re friends and it’s why I’m dating you.” She presses a kiss to his knuckles. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t need sex to be happy. Is it fun? Yes. But not necessary.”

Jon frowns, chewing on his lip and eyeing the window of her bedroom, tracing the rectangle with his eyes over and over again. “I-hmm.” Georgie watches him search for words; she knows how he ticks well enough to know they’re coming if she waits. “What if, hypothetically, I never had sex with you? Ever.”

“Well,” she gave his hands a light squeeze. “Hypothetically, I’d be totally okay with it, though I’d ask if you were asexual and make sure we had appropriate boundaries.”

“Huh?” The word draws him back to her face, the deep brown eyes that search his own. “Asexual. Like, no sex?” She nods, again, ever-patient. “Huh. Asexual.” He drops the pretense. “Maybe.”

Asexual. The word felt good as he rolled it around in his mouth. He traced the letters with his fingertips in cursive against his thigh as Georgie let go of him, rolling off her bed to pull on sweatpants and a t shirt instead of the dress she was wearing 

“Let’s look into it, if you want. Together.” Georgie grins at him now, rye and warm. “I will have to ask you if want hypothetical crisps, because I’m hypothetically fucking starving.”

[writingthingsisdifficult]

Saving the world (Double booking pt 2)

I was asked to write a second part, and as inspiration struck, well… here it is.

They've shared a room. Now what?

If you like it, let me know :D

Word count: 5655

Part 1

_______________________________________________________________________

The light is seeping under the curtains, dragging you back to the conscious world, but you're not ready to get up just yet. So you squeeze your eyes shut and stretch your back. It's stiff as a board, and your cheek has seemingly set in a permanently squished position. The room feels stuffy and warm, and there's a soft noise you don't recognise at first. But when you finally open your eyes, you can't help but smile.

Everything's a bit blurry without your glasses, but there's no mistaking the man sleeping in the bed next to yours. His arm, which you suddenly notice isn't gloved, but a prosthetic, is hanging over the edge of the bed, and if you strain your imagination, it's almost stretched towards you.

It looks like he hasn't moved at all during the night. Neither have you when you come to think of it. When you stretch again, your neck cracks as if you were eighty, and it's a struggle to lift one leg over the other, though that might just be that you're still half asleep.

As you fumble for your glasses, Bucky opens his eyes and gives you a sleepy smile. "Good morning."

Your heart skips a beat, and it's as if you've forgotten all suitable responses to such an innocent greeting. "Yeah." That's what comes out of your mouth, and you groan.

"You sleep good?" He yawns and props up on his elbow.

"Mhm. Like a baby."

"Me too."

You grin and roll over on your back just as the loudest growl erupts from your stomach. Heat creeps up your neck and ears, and you mutter a soft "Sorry."

Bucky laughs. "Don't apologise for being hungry. What do you say we go get some breakfast?"

"I could eat."

After a quick shower and a couple of frustrating minutes picking an outfit, you really don't want to look like a slob in front of Bucky, you're both seated in the restaurant, devouring the bacon and eggs like your lives depend on it.

The conversation is light. You're slowly getting to know each other. "I'm freelancing for the government," Bucky says and gulps down his orange juice. "It's all really boring, though."

You nod and stuff your mouth with bacon. "I'm sure it isn't. But paperwork, am I right?" you add with a chuckle.

Nodding, he wipes his mouth and takes another bite. "Mhm. How about you?"

"Oh, it's not very interesting. I freelance too, I guess. Right now I've been hired to design a calendar with paintings from the city. It's not well paid, but it's fun."

"So you're an artist? May I see some of your work?"

Suddenly you feel a bit self-conscious. That's weird. You haven't had doubts about your art in forever. "I've got some photos in my phone." You hesitate for a second, then fish it out and unlock it. Scrolling down, you find the series of paintings you did last spring. Green and lush, you get a pang of longing for the fresh air and colourful flowers. The contrast is vast from the grey city.

"Wow, these are good!" Bucky exclaims and starts gushing over your lines and colour and the composition, and you feel your ego inflating with every word. All you can do is sit there with a stupid grin on your face, and a pulsing heat in your cheeks, while he builds you up like he's a professional.

You've totally forgotten the time when the staff tells you that the restaurant, unfortunately, is closed now, but that you're welcome back for dinner later. With many an apology, the two of you get up and head to the lobby, where you stay, talking for almost an hour before you remember why you are here in the first place.

"Sorry," you say, and mean it. "I need to get some work done before the light goes. I was thinking of heading down to the harbour today. See if the water can inspire me."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess." Bucky looks down on his feet and gives you a small smile. Then he looks up again, his eyes shining, competing with the glorious smile that grows on his lips. "Do you mind if I come with you? I mean… you don't have to say yes, I just…"

"No, of course." You're relieved that he asked, letting you out of asking him yourself. "Some company would be lovely. Just gotta get my stuff. Meet you back here in ten minutes?"

He nods and sighs almost imperceptibly once you've turned away, watching as you almost skip towards the elevator. A tiny voice in the back of his head warns him that he has tripped and is going to fall hard if he doesn't get a grip soon, but he ignores it. The feeling is too pleasant to care just now.

The next few days you establish a routine of sorts. Bucky knocks on your door, asks to sleep next to you, you say yes, and you wake up, turned towards each other. After breakfast, you head out into the city, sometimes he's leading the way, sometimes you have a plan, and you spend the day drawing and talking and without realising it, falling hard for him. Every evening you have dinner in one of the restaurants near the hotel, and every evening you forget what is happening around you, and all you can focus on is Bucky.

_____________________________________________________________________

The sun is shining. A bird is singing in the tree behind you. You can barely hear the traffic from the road outside the park. Bucky is lounging on the grass, chewing on a straw, and you've been drawing him in secret for the past two hours, your original subject completely forgotten and rejected. When he looks up at you, his face is filled with happiness. "This is nice," he says, careful to mask his full joy.

"Yes, it is," you reply, quickly hiding the drawing under a sketch of the bridge and skyline.

He sits up and looks like he wants to say something, but he closes his mouth instead. After a small pause, he gets up and holds out his hand. "Let's go grab something to eat."

"Okay," you whisper, breathless from the feel of his hand in yours. "Lead the way."

He takes you to a small café at the edge of the park, explaining that it's famous for its fries, and they've got the bestdipping sauce, you just have to try it.

You're in the middle of the meal, laughing at a joke, when a shadow interrupts. Looking up, you hear Bucky mutter a curse under his breath, and you feel a pinprick of fear in your neck. He's glaring at the stranger, and the stranger surprisingly returns the look.

"Um…" You look between Bucky, sat at the table with a curly fry sticking out from the corner of his mouth, staring daggers, to the man who just interrupted your lunch. The truth smacks you in the head with force. Holy shit! That's Captain America. Captain freaking America! And it slowly dawns on you who Bucky really is.

The glass you just picked up slides back to the table, sprite sloshing over the sides as it hits, but you don't realise your hand is cold and wet. All you can focus on is that your roommate for the last week is… Bucky Barnes, AKA The Winter Soldier. Yeah. You try very hard to swallow the food in your mouth, but it's so dry, and forcing it makes your throat ache.

Said soldier quickly chews the curly fry and swallows thickly. "What do you want, Sam?"

Sam hands him a pad, and upon reading the contents, Bucky's frown deepens.

"It's very nice to meet you," Sam says, his shining smile lighting up the whole room. "I'm Sam, by the way."

"Y/N," you reply, still unaware that the hand you're using to shake Captain America's hand with is wet and slightly sticky. Actually, you're kinda unaware of your surroundings altogether.

Sam laughs, making Bucky look up from the message, scowls at Sam, then returns to his reading. "So you're the one who's keeping Bucky busy, huh?" He winks, and you feel that heat creeping up the back of your neck. "From the look on your face, I'd say you didn't know who you're having lunch with, right?"

You nod, squeaking a confirmation.

Sam laughs. "I thought after the whole Flag Smashers case, everybody knew who Bucky was."

Your ears burn, and you breathe a little faster now. Of course, you've been to the exhibit at the Smithsonian, and of course you know about Steve Rogers' best friend, it just never connected in your brain that this super sweet man is a WWII hero and assassin.

Your eyes flick from his prosthetic arm and up to his face. "Uh… I'm just not super into the whole celebrity thing?" you offer, blurting out the first thing that pops into your head.

Snickering, Sam turns to Bucky. "And you didn't tell her?" There's a hint of annoyance in his voice.

Bucky picks on a stain on the table before setting up a defiant face. "It didn't come up." And he wants to add And by the way, how do you go about saying Oh, and FYI I'm a former assassin and murderer, to a woman you really want to get to know better?

He looks so uncomfortable, you get a strong urge to hug him, but now you're uncertain of all this. What if the two of you are against the rules? Wait, what are you, really? Friends? Accidental roommates? You like Bucky. You really like Bucky, and you had kinda hoped it would grow into something… more, but now… Swallowing the lump in the back of your throat – that was an unexpected reaction – you smile flatly. "Are, are you allowed to, to… I mean, can you be friends with…" You swallow again. "Civilians?"

Sam's eyes widen for a split second, and somehow you feel as though he can see right through you. Then he laughs, and all the tension around the table dissipates. "Of course. We're human, Bucky's human, as difficult as that is to believe. Of course we're allowed to have friends, relationships, family. Wouldn't be much of a life without it, would it? But expect them to do a background check on you, hell, they probably already know what you ate for dinner on your twelfth birthday."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry, Y/N, but I'm afraid I have to whisk your boyfriend away for a while. There's a situation."

"We're… we're not…" You have to admit that thought feels good, but really, any hope you had has been well and truly smashed.

Bucky gets up and smacks the pad at Sam. "I'll see you later?"

"I'll be here," you reply with fake confidence. "Please be safe. Both of you," you add with a small smile.

"You too," Bucky says softly. "Be careful if you go out after dark. It's not as safe as you think here."

That makes you snort. "It's me. I don't even like people, what am I supposed to do outside after dark, huh? Don't worry. I'll probably stay in my room and paint all day anyway."

He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "good", but it's hard to hear over Sam. "I'll take care of him," he laughs, ducking under Bucky's hand as he swats at his head. "Come on, Buck. Let's roll."

"Be safe," you mutter again, looking after them as they head to the black, unmarked car waiting by the flower shop on the corner. It's as if all colour drains from your vision.

_______________________________________________________________________

The first sip of coffee feels divine; just what you need to wake up after spending another night without Bucky. It has been another restless night. You tossed and turned and couldn't settle properly. And the dreams… You'd rather not think about them. Never before has your brain produced such chaotic absurdities, such eldritch horrors, but to be honest you're not really surprised. Sleeping next to Bucky; something just clicked. You smile into your cup, feeling calmer just thinking about it. It's weird how quickly you got used to his presence, and how wrong it feels when he isn't there.

But you don't get to enjoy your drink for long. Before you've even finished the second sip, someone shoves you hard from behind. The coffee spills over the sidewalk, painting the concrete and splashing all over your shoes. "Hey! Watch where you're going!" you bark, turning to confront whoever pushed you. But before you can even see them, they pull a bag over your head.

Panic rises in you, and you scream until your throat feels raw. Someone smacks you across the mouth, and the shock and pain shuts you up. Your lip thumps: it's split, you can taste the blood now. Tears stream down your cheeks, the soft fabric of the bag clings to your skin. Feeling the darkness caress your mind, the world starts folding in over itself. Still you possess enough awareness to kick the person holding you. They yelp and swear, resulting in a sharp rap over your ear. Your head is ringing.

A pair of strong arms pick you up as if you weigh nothing, and haul you along, struggling with your flailing arms and legs. There's a metallic clang, like a van door opening, then you're half lifted, half pulled up, all while screaming and cursing, hoping someone – anyone – will hear.

Someone speaks a language you don't recognise; your sleeve is pushed up and there's a sharp prick in your arm. Seconds later your brain starts spinning. The faint light that seeps through the weaving of the bag blinks like a starry sky.

You sway back and forth, feeling off kilter and fuzzy, as the voices around you grow all garbled and muted. Someone pushes you backwards, but before you hit the floor, you're out. As the world fades from your consciousness, you just wish you could have seen Bucky one more time.

When you come to, your head is pounding, your mouth is dry, and everything is dark. You try to move, but your hands are shackled, and your feet are bound to whatever you're sitting on. At least you're right side up, you think, before the situation dawns on you, and the contents of your stomach threatens to make an appearance. You swallow thickly. God, your mouth is so dry. Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth, and there's not enough liquid to even wet your lips. All you can do is grimace, feeling how they crack and pop. It stings. The taste of metallic, rusty blood coats your tongue.

Your throat itches, so much so that you can't even speak, but you can cough. Hard, like explosions in your head, and it's enough for you to lose your breath.

Something floppy is shoved into your hands.

"It's upside down, you idiot!" someone shouts, and the paper is turned.

Panic surges through your body, and your throat constricts, increasing your coughing. Your heart is racing, but everything happens so fast you just can't process it. Someone removes the bag from your head. The light burns in your eyes, and the shock stops your coughing instantly. Everything is white. There's voices, and movement, but you can't see anything clearly, and for a moment you wonder if you've lost your contact lenses. Slowly your vision returns, but they all keep to the shadows, and they've covered their faces, so you can't make out any details. The buzzing in your ears almost drown out every sound in the room.

"Look straight ahead," they command, and by some miracle you actually manage to move your head. "Keep your eyes open. Ready!"

There's a bright flash, someone else yells "Got it!" and then, in a flurry of motions you're untied, dragged through a dark hallway and unceremoniously dropped on the floor. The door clangs ominously behind you, and you freeze, waiting for someone to grab you or hurt you. There's no one in the room, but you remain in the floor, rubbing your wrists and trying to calm your breathing.

It's cold in your cell, room, whatever people call it, but at least you've got a blanket, and they've fed you, so there's that. But no matter how many times you've asked, nobody tells you anything.

You're over the initial shock now, and the fear has begun to settle into anger, but you're too numb to react.

"Who are you? Why are you doing this to me? I'm no one, never been important in my whole life, hey, someone please say something." Silence. You bang on the door, not sure what you're hoping for. In the back of your mind you know it's risky, but you need to know. The silence is making the walls come closer. You lick your lip. It's bleeding again.

You figure your friendship with Bucky has something to do with your current predicament, but you're not sure exactly what they hope to achieve. It's not like you're best friends or anything, but maybe what you have is enough for him to come for you. That thought sends an electric jolt straight to the small of your back. For a moment you allow yourself to hope, to imagine him blasting through the door and marching in with murder in his eyes, angels singing, and the light surrounding him like a halo.

You laugh grimly. What are even the odds of him finding out where you are? Does he even care? He is the Winter Soldier, after all. He's probably got better things to do, he's busy saving the world, no doubt.

_______________________________________________________________________

Bucky smiles as he walks through the hallway, the ugly carpet muting the urgency in his steps. He can't wait to see you again. It's only been four days, but it feels like forever so the moment he got the all-clear after mission report, he made Sam drop him off at your hotel.

A short walk later he's standing outside your room, heart in his throat and arm outstretched, ready to knock. His stomach dances, pure happiness courses through him. It's been so long since he felt like this; he swears he can almost feel it in his metal arm.

A soft knock. No answer. He knocks again, harder this time. Still no answer. It's only a few minutes past eleven, you won't be asleep yet. You never fall asleep before midnight.

Suddenly it's like someone's poured a bucket of ice water over him. Putting an ear against the door, he listens like some kind of creep, but the room is silent. Maybe you're out. But that doesn't make sense either. It's too dark to get any proper work done, and you're not one for night clubs, or so you've said. Could you have checked out? Bucky's heart skips a beat. What if you're gone? But… wouldn't you at least have left him a message?

Turning on his heel, he marches back to the elevator as if he's got the devil on his tail. There's a really nasty feeling growing in his gut, something he just can't afford to think about now.

He presses the elevator button multiple times, but it takes its sweet time, so instead, he heads to the stairs, taking several steps at once, then skips the steps altogether and jumps over the railing, landing with a heavy thud on the ground floor.

There's a tenseness to his stride as he walks to the front desk, feeling more and more anxious with every breath. He never thought he'd feel this way again; that pit in his stomach and the growing stone in his chest. Last time, he was on a plane, heading for Italy in 1943, not knowing what was waiting for him.

"Excuse me," he says, rather gruffly, spooking the receptionist, though how she didn't hear him stomping through the lobby is a mystery. His own ears buzz loudly, and it's a miracle he can hear her at all.

"Good evening. How may I help you?" She smiles in that professional way people do when they're interrupted and don't really want to talk.

Bucky glances at the reflection in the glass wall behind her. Solitaire. He shakes his head to clear it a bit. "Um, yeah. Is there a message for me? For James Barnes or maybe Bucky."

She looks through the papers on the desk and shakes her head. "Sorry."

He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose. "Okay. Don't suppose you could tell me if Y/N has checked out of room 508?" His brows furrow, but he tries to smile anyway.

Another head shake. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I'm not allowed to disclose that kind of information." She looks briefly at her screen, then back up at Bucky, fake smile plastered on her face.

Bucky bites his tongue and swallows the rage that's building in him. It's not the receptionist's fault. She doesn't understand. But then he gets an idea. "Right, of course," he says, making his voice sweeter. "But maybe you will allow me to leave her a message?"

"Certainly. Let me grab a pen and paper for you."

So you haven't checked out. From the look on her face, the receptionist doesn't realise she's confirmed his suspicions. Well, he'll leave a message just in case, but it's time for drastic measures.

Outside it's dark now. Low clouds are threatening with rain. No one sees the dark figure slipping around the corner and jumping to grab the lowest rung of the fire ladder. Bucky easily hoists himself up, and climbs to the fifth floor, keeping to the shadows and making as little noise as possible. He knows where the window to your room is, and in less than a minute he's standing on the tiny balcony, peering in.

The room looks untouched. The bed is made, your stuff is all there. There's an almost finished portrait on the sketch pad on the desk; a smiling, content picture of himself. Nothing is missing except you. Bucky is three seconds from losing it.

A cold raindrop hits the back of his neck, drawing him from his haze. Soon the sky has opened up, and he's blasted with icy water. It soaks through his jeans, and drips from his hair into his eyes. Without looking back, he slides down the fire ladder and lands in a puddle. He doesn't know what to do next. Maybe Sam knows, so he ducks back into the hotel to get out of the rain, but before he can make the call, he's interrupted by the receptionist.

"Mr Barnes, I apologise. I didn't see this before. Someone left this for you." The woman hands him a large, brown envelope. All of a sudden he's transported back in time; drowning in flashes of memories of past missions, but he shakes himself out of it. Leaning on the column by the door, he opens the envelope.

There's nothing in there but a photo. It makes his stomach turn, and for the first time since he's been free, he has to fight the rage of the Winter Soldier, expanding, threatening to explode and send him on a vengeance fuelled killing spree. "When? Do you know who delivered it?" His voice is darker than usual, and the woman steps back just from the sound.

"I'm sorry," she squeaks. "It's been here for a couple of days, I think. I wasn't here when it was delivered." She hurries back behind her counter, putting a safe distance between them.

Bucky adjusts his stance, and forces his voice to sound kinder. "Thank you. Is there somewhere I can make a phone call, undisturbed?"

She nods and points to a nook behind the oversized fern in the corner. There's a sliding glass door that will provide some privacy.

Turning the envelope over in his left hand, Bucky is careful to not leave any more fingerprints on it. It is unmarked, but he knows people who can read things that no one else can see.

Whipping out his phone, he dials the first number in the contact list. He doesn't realise it, but he's shaking. The four seconds it takes for Sam to pick up are an excruciating eternity, and Bucky grips the door handle to keep himself from running off without a plan.

Before he can even say hello, Bucky wheezes: "They've got her, Sam!"

"Who?"

"Y/N! They've taken her!" He closes his eyes. The photo has burned into his mind.

"I'm on my way."

Bucky relaxes his grip on the door. There's a dent in the metal, and that makes him even angrier. They've made him lose control. He curses as he exits the tiny room, pacing over the floor, waiting for the voice of reason to arrive.

Being Sam, being Captain America, opens a lot of doors, so when he shows up at the hotel, requesting to look through the surveillance tapes – though it really is a demand; he's got a way with words, Bucky muses, thinking back to when he realised that what he first took as being soft, really isn't soft at all. Anyway, they all fawn over each other, fighting to be the one to give Cap access. Bucky can hardly watch.

"Give us a few minutes," Sam says with a smile, settling in front of the computer.

"Of course." The manager bows and closes the door.

Then Sam turns to Bucky. "Okay. When did you see her last?"

"Four days ago, right before we left on that goddamn mission." He wants to beat himself that he exposed you to danger, and he resists the urge to take out his irritation by slapping Sam over the head. Instead he settles on a flat, emotionless that he hopes conveys all his frustration.

"Right, so somewhere after last Thursday, then." Sam pushes a button, selects the right floor and presses play. Nothing happens for a while, and he pushes a new button, making the footage speed up.

"There!" Bucky shouts, pointing at the screen. There you are. Leaving your room with a large bag over your shoulder. Bucky smiles in spite of his fear. A soft expression on your face and your trusty art supplies at your side. Everything looks normal.

Fast forwarding through the footage, nothing out of the ordinary happens. You return around seven, looking a little bit tired, but happy enough. Food is brought to your room an hour later, and you don't go out again that night.

"Sensible girl," Sam comments, drawing Bucky out of his thoughts.

"Yeah. But she didn't know how much danger she was in."

The night passes in a blur. A drunk couple stumbles through the hallway around two in the morning, but other than that it's quiet, until you leave again around 10am, again with your bag over your shoulder. You look tired, yawning and dragging your feet. The bounce in your step is gone, Bucky notices, and he wonders if it has anything to do with your abduction.

They keep fast forwarding, but when the time stamp shows 11.30pm, Bucky's chest plummets. He knows you're not coming back.

Sam looks at him. “Calm down, man. You look like you’re about to explode!” he hisses, putting his hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky shakes him off and glares. “Because I’m this close.”

“But that won’t do her any good, will it? We gotta keep our cool, don’t do anything rash.” Sam's voice is still calm. Bucky doesn't know how he does it.

"Fine." Bucky takes a deep breath, just how his therapist taught him. "Show me what direction she went."

Sam clicks and drags the front camera onto the screen. You stop outside for a few minutes, then head down the street towards the city centre. They follow you on the screen until you disappear from view.

There's a shoe shop on the corner where you turned, so after thanking the hotel manager for the help, they follow your moves through the city. The shoe shop doesn't have a quality video, but it's enough to recognise you. Tracking you through the streets feels like an endurance hunt, Bucky thinks, impatient to find out who took you and where you are. That's all he can focus on: to get you back. And god have mercy on your kidnappers if you're not okay. Eventually Sam and Bucky stop at a small restaurant, but they don't have surveillance at all.

"Okay. Let's head to that Starbucks," Bucky says, nodding across the road. "They're bound to have surveillance, right?"

Sam rolls his shoulders. "Let's go."

The video shows three large figures, lurking in the shadows in one of the side streets. They're watching as you enter the café, and when you exit with a large coffee in hand, the gang is ready. The footage jumps a bit, but it captures the terror in your face, and Bucky feels like throwing up. You're hauled into a waiting van, it's an unmarked, normal van, but as it speeds away, luck strikes. The camera got a clear shot of the number plate.

Bucky lets Sam handle the rest. He can't shake the guilt, the pit in his stomach that grows larger and larger. And his anger grows too. Why didn't anybody react, nobody can convince him that nobody heard or saw anything. He watches as Sam talks on the phone, already mentally punching your kidnappers to a pulp. The metal arm flexes involuntarily.

Sam puts down the phone and turns to Bucky. "Okay, so here's what they told me: The van isn't connected to anything, they didn't even have a name for me. It's probably a fake number plate. But they said it's been spotted driving to and from a warehouse not too far from here. Let's go suit up while we're waiting for the address."

Bucky exhales. They better hurry up with the address. You've been in captivity for far too long already.

_______________________________________________________________________

It's quiet in the building now. You don't know what time it is; they've taken all your stuff, but you know it's late. Your eyes sting, both from exhaustion and from wanting to cry, not to mention your contacts are getting dry, but you refuse to remove them – not being able to see would terrify you. But neither sleep nor tears come. Sitting on the cot, wrapped in the blanket they thankfully provided, you are too wound up to relax enough to sleep. What if someone comes in while you're out? There's not much chance to defend yourself, but at least if you're awake  you can try to put up a fight.

How long have you been here? It's hard to tell. After the first shock they've pretty much left you alone. Except for the interrogation a few hours later. They kept asking you about where Bucky is, what he's doing, details on his mission, but you told them, truthfully, that you don't know anything. And they seem to believe you. But they still won't let you go. You sigh and pull the blanket tighter around your shoulders. Even if you knew everything you wouldn't have told them anything, but you didn't say that out loud.

Suddenly there's a loud bang reverberating through the walls. Instinctively you flinch, trying to make yourself smaller. Your blood roar in your ears, and it feels like your heart is trying to beat its way through your rib cage. There's a pause – the silence is deafening, then someone yells. You hear gunshots. Heavy boots rush past your door. It's torture just listening to the fight, not knowing what will happen. What if there's a fire? Or what if you're abandoned here? Is this how you're gonna die?

The fight is getting closer. You drag the blanket over your head, locking your arms around your neck. Unfortunately it doesn't mute the sounds, and you have to remind yourself to keep breathing. Slowly the fight dies down, and for a moment everything is calm. You feel woozy, grateful that you're already sitting down, and you steel yourself for what comes next.

The door opens. Heavy boots slaps against the hard floor. Someone blocks out the light, and you feel a gentle hand on your shoulder, making you flinch and whimper.

A soft voice whispers in your ear. "Y/N?"

You forget to breathe again.

"Y/N," the voice repeats, coaxing you out of your makeshift cocoon.

You look up, and into the eyes of the man you never thought you'd see again. His face is blood-spattered, and his expression is a murderous rage, but the moment your eyes meet, he softens. "Bucky," you breathe, folding yourself out, and reaching for him like a toddler.

He scoops you up, holding you close as you begin to sob into his neck, and he rocks you back and forth until you calm a bit. "Are you hurt?"

Shaking your head, you climb down from his lap and looks over at Sam, hovering by the door. There's a look in his eyes that you can't quite decipher.

"You're bleeding," Bucky says, touching your lip gingerly.

"Oh." You don't know what else to say, as he helps you up on your feet. His arm stays around your shoulders all the way out into open air, and you lean into his embrace. The building is littered with bodies, some are definitely dead, others are being detained by soldiers dressed in black. Your knees buckle from the sight.

"Hey, I've got you," Bucky murmurs into your hair.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For coming to get me."

"Of course," Sam says, offering you a reassuring smile. "Why shouldn't we?"

You exhale shakily through your nose. "I thought you were busy saving the world and all."

Bucky pulls you closer.

"Don't you know?" Sam asks quietly, so no one else can hear. "You are his world."

_______________________________________________________________________

@schwarzwaelder-kirschtorte

[justanotherfoolhere]

I managed to write something for the KakaIru Valentine’s Week 2021!

Me: I want to write something. Maybe a double drable or a ficlet. Shouldn’t take more than an hour.

Also me: spends the whole day writing a 3k words one-shot. Ooops.

Anyway:

Title: Soulmates (I know, very original)

Rating: T (could be gen)

Pairing: Kakashi/Iruka

Wordcount: 3283

Tags: Kakairu Valentines Week 2021, Fluff, Light Angst, Soulmates, First Dates, Friends to Lovers

You can read on ao3 too!

            Soulmarks appeared around six or seven years old.  But it was not as exciting as one could imagine: as much as the tropes of 'first words they say to you', 'a cool mark where they first touch you' or even 'matching marks' or 'their favorite thing tattooed on your skin' were popular in books and films, the reality was far less thrilling.

               Words appeared on your forearm, but not the first ones they would say to you. No. The words that appeared were the ones they would say the moment they realized they loved you. It didn't even have to be words they say to you. You could very well never get to hear the words yourself, if whoever your soulmate is realized it when by themselves.

               All in all, soulmarks weren't that important. They were not reliable and, even if they were, they just made sense when your soulmate already loved you. Not that helping at all. Sure, children loved seeing the words and tracing their little fingers over them, and teachers took advantage of that to teach them proper spelling, reading, writing and calligraphy. Nothing made a kid work harder at writing something right than copying the words on their forearms over and over again.

               Adults, on the other hand, mostly ignored them. Sure, some helpless romantics (cough, cough, Gai, cough) still clung to them like a lifeline, but most people just kept going about their lives and never seeking them out.  Let life that its course and everything.

               Kakashi avoided his like the plague.

               It hadn't always been like this. As a child, he liked to daydream about his soulmate as much as his peers. Things got different when his father died though. Grief settling in, chilling his bones and washing away his childlike hopes. Things only got worse when his team died, when he saw Obito be crushed and failed on his only promise, failed to keep Rin safe. Then their sensei died too and he was alone.

               He didn't deserve love. He didn't deserve a soulmate.

               And a bitter and irrational part of him reminded him that everyone who loved him died. He'd be doing his soulmate a favor if he never met them.

              *

               People thought Kakashi was being stubborn or proud when he refused to go to the hospital after a dire mission. He wasn't. Well, not totally.

               When he was a kid, the words on his forearm sounded odd yet funny.

               Of course he'd try to shrug off a stab wound, the idiot.

               Like, him? Getting stabbed then just walking away? Sure, little Kakashi knew first hand how a ninja's life could be rough, but the idea was so foreign and ridiculous. He'd never ignore something so drastic!

               Also, it sounded like a funny thing to say when you love someone. Didn't sound affectionate at all.

               He was glad for it when he grew up. Maybe his soulmate wouldn't be burdened with loving him (sure they would like Kakashi a bit, but maybe not love him). And maybe Kakashi wouldn't even be present to hear it, since the sentence wasn't adressing him.

               Still, he didn't want to take any chances. So, since Kakashi can remember, he stitches up his own stab wounds. Avoiding getting stabbed also helped, but it was near impossible in fights with shurikens, kunais and the ocasional sword.

               He figured whoever his soulmate was, they must work at a hospital or be a medical nin. So he avoided both. Seemed like the best course of action.

              *

               It was just another day. A common, boring day. Kakashi was waiting in line to hand in his mission form (he was still scribbling some things on it as he waited) and could barely wait to be done with it, so he could drop dead on bed. The last mission was a nasty one and he had barely washed the blood off his face before coming here.

               Sure, he could procrastinate it, as he ever did, but now he had five old mission reports still blank and an increasingly annoyed Iruka who chewed him out for it. So he decided to drop the habit and actually hand in this one as soon as possible.

               His whole tired body complained about this choice, though.

               "I can't accept it," Iruka said with a thinly-concealed scowl.

               "Why not?!"

               "Well, for starters, you're still writing it," Iruka gestured to Kakashi still scribbling on the form, using the desk for support, "go home and rest a bit, Kakashi. You can give me the report tomorrow," wow, Kakashi thought, he should look really deplorable if Iruka missed the opportunity to reprimand him.

               He didn't recall when Iruka went from calling him "jounin-san" to "Kakashi", maybe sometime between their quarrels about what an acceptable form was, but it always made his heart skip a beat. A silly little crush, but Kakashi allowed his heart this treat. It's not like he'd ever act on it anyway.

               "Yeah, maybe I should," Kakashi concedes, too worn out to complain. A shame really, he wanted to see Iruka smiling at him for handing in a report in time for once.

               He manages to walk away two steps before Iruka calls him again, scowl deepening and something too akin to concern on his voice.

               "Kakashi, you're bleeding."

               "Oh, that?" He look at the growing blood stain on his vest. It didn't seem too serious in the fight, and he could barely feel it over his generaly aching body, "yeah, I just came from the mission, I'll take a look at it at home," he smiled, trying to look reassuring despite the mask covering most of his face.

               "Fine," there was a finality to his tone. Kakashi thought it'd be the end of the conversation.

               Than Iruka called someone to cover for him and, in less than a minute, he was up and grabbing Kakashi by the hand.

               Kakashi made a mental note that Iruka was fast and could move pretty silently when he wanted to. The blush on his face hidden by the mask.

               "Uh, you don't have to—"

               "I do," Iruka cut him with his best non-nonsense voice, "since you clearly can't be trusted to prioritize you own well-being, and I'm sick of watching it after every mission of yours."

               He let Iruka half-guide half-drag him, not even bothering to keep track of where they were going until he sees himself being pulled inside Iruka's apartment.

              *

               "I know it's a mess," Iruka didn't sound apologetic in the slightest, "but it'll have to make do," he gestured for Kakashi to sit on the sofa, throwing some things on the floor to make space, and went to fetch a first-aid kit in the bathroom.

               Kakashi took a moment to took everything in. The papers and books thrown everywhere, a few take-out packages littering the floor, the clothes scattered around. It was not dirty, just messy, which made sense with how much work Iruka had between teaching kids and scolding jounins. He probably didn't spend that much time here. Enough to make a mess, but not enough to tidy it properly.

               Still, it felt homey. Warm and safe.

               "Shirt off," Iruka came back, a serious expression, and motioned to his blood-soaked vest.

               "Maa, sensei, at least pay me a dinner first," Kakashi joked, attempting to both lighten the mood and conceal his own nervousness. Iruka didn't seem impressed.

               "Fine, fine," he took his shirt off, it landed with a wet thump on the floor.

               Iruka's eyes widened for a sec before he recomposed himself.

               "I can't believe you decided to wait on a line to hand me a half-written form after you got stabbed," Iruka sighed, pouring antiseptic on the wound without a warning, "whoever let you graduate in Academia is a moron. You have no sense of self-preservation. Or common sense," he admonished.

               Kakashi winced at the sudden sting of antiseptic, but accepted the scolding. It was fair enough. Despite the harsh words, Iruka's hands were gentle when he started stitching him up.

               "It was not really stabbing, just a tiny hit. With a kunai," He said nonchalant. Maybe Iruka would give it less importance if he did too, "I've had worse."

               "I don't doubt it," Iruka didn't look at him, his eyes on the task, "And most people call 'a hit with a kunai' stabbing," he said wryly.

               Ouch.

               When Iruka was finished with the stitches, he put some ointment over the wound and dressed it. Kakashi insisted it was more fuss than it was worth.

               "Just lie down and get some rest," Iruka sighed, "I'll fetch you some pillows and a blanket. Don't you dare getting up,"

               "Really, you don't have to. I'm fine, I can go and sleep in my own house."

               "I want to," and there it was, the finality to his voice that made clear not even the Hokage could get Kakashi out of that couch, "now stop being stubborn for a second and sleep."

               Kakashi complied (what other choice did he have, really?) and Iruka made sure to get him comfortable, a pillow under his head, another one supporting his sore legs and a fluffy, warm blanked tucked snugly over him.

               Kakashi was drifting off to sleep when he heard Iruka muttering to himself.

               "Of course he'd try to shrug off a stab wound, the idiot."

               Kakashi heart raced a bit, the too familiar words sounded weird now that he actually heard it. He'd have fled if he wasn't so comfortable and on the brink of sleep.

               His last thought was that he was wrong about his soulmate not liking him that much. He'd never imagined someone could say "idiot" in such a fond, loving tone.

               *

               Kakashi's half-baked plan of avoiding Iruka didn't even have a chance to be properly formed. It'd be a nigh impossible task when he woke up on Iruka's sofa, covered in Iruka's blankets, inside Iruka's house and with a very nonchalant Iruka sat on the floor near him with a new take-out bag on his lap.

               "Oh, good, you're awake," he said, putting his food down, "Hungry? I bought some ramen."

               "I— Ah," he said eloquently, "no, you shouldn't have bothered. I'll— I should head home now. Finish all that late reports and everything," he all but stumbled while trying to get up.

               There was a faint, amused smile on Iruka's lips.

               "That's okay, Kakashi, calm down," he handed him a bowl of ramen, "you can run away and never look at me again after you eat," his voice was even. It didn't sound like a joke nor a reprimand.

               Kakashi accepted the chopsticks offered to him and they ate in silence. there was still a bundle of warm blankets on Kakashi's feet and the sofa was more inviting than it had a right to be.

               Iruka didn't look bothered at all for the silence. His face was unreadable, as if he already expected it.

               Wait—

               "You knew!" Kakashi accused, pointing a finger at him.

               "I knew what?" Iruka feigned inocence, then, when Kakashi grunted, added more serious, "yeah, I figured it out some time ago."

               Kakashi was stunned by how lightly he said it.

               "How long ago? Exactly?" He narrowed his eyes. Iruka put a hand on his neck, a nervous habit.

               "Well... I kind of knew since we became sort-of-friends? But I just confirmed it some months ago," he tried to laugh it off, then extended his forearm to Kakashi's field of sight.

               There, in neat letters, was written Maa, Iruka, I already said I'll finish the reports! No need for violence.

               Kakashi kind of remembered this talk. It was so similar to all the others they had that it was hard to place exactly when this one took place. Iruka had rolled up a magazine and smacked Kakashi's nape with it, saying he would 'beat some sense of responsibility into him if he had to'.

               "There are not a lot of people who never hand in their reports and are on a first-name basis with me," he explains, "the 'maa' narrowed it down a lot too."

               "...I see," Kakashi was at a loss of words. So his soulmate wasn't a medical-nin like he thought, but a sensei with years of practice in patching up kids and adults alike.

               "Yes. Well, I, uh," this was getting more awkward by the minute, "I'll go back to work now. you can take you time before you leave. Eat, take a shower... You can hand all your late reports to someone else later."

               Iruka was already getting up to leave when Kakashi hastily grabbed his wrist.

               "Wait! Are you leaving just like that? After telling me you knew I was your soulmate for months?"

               "Well, I figured you didn't want a soulmate," He smiled, and there was no judgement there, "I wouldn't have told you, either. But, since, you know now, I guess it's okay if you want to put some distance between us," he motioned vaguely to the pillows Kakashi had knocked on the ground in his hurried attempt to leave.

               Kakashi couldn't find a good enough answer, so he watched mutely as Iruka made his way to the door and closed it after him.

               *

               Days passed.

               Kakashi thought it'd be fine. Iruka have handled everything so well. They hadn't sought each other out and, when they bumped into each other, Iruka was polite but distant. 'Kakashi' went back to 'jounin-san' or even 'Hatake-san'. He didn't act weird or sad either.

               So why did it hurt so much?

               Kakashi felt like he was missing something. Which made no sense whatsoever, because he and Iruka never were a thing to start with.

               Iruka was right, he didn't want a soulmate. Never wanted one. The lingering thought that he would hurt whoever it was or that he didn't deserve any happiness present on his mind since he was a kid.

               Yet there he was, hurting and wanting to go after him.

               He's better off without me, Kakashi reminded himself once again.

               *

               It took Kakashi almost a month to put his finger in what exactly bothered him so much. He came to two conclusions.

               One: Iruka was a good liar.

               The scene of him leaving with a smile played again and again in Kakashi's mind, haunting his dreams and following him through the day. It hurt, like being rejected on repeat, nonstop. A cruel thing, really, like his mind enjoyed torturing itself.

               But then he payed attention to details, like he should have done since the beginning. Like any good jounin would have done. Iruka left with a smile, and it looked real, but he wouldn't meet Kakashi's eyes. And his tone was too cheerful, as if he was trying to compensate for something.

               Every time he bumped into Iruka (accidentally at first, deliberately later), he saw it. The hesitance, the too-happy smile, the eyes wandering around but never quite meeting his eyes. The lingering touches and the sad look on Iruka's face when he thought Kakashi wasn't looking.

               Iruka lied to him when he said he was okay with parting ways. Lied when he said he understood Kakashi's wish, when he made it so easy to ignore everything and leave.

               Two: Kakashi had grown up.

               This one should be pretty obvious, yet it took him weeks of introspection to realize it. He had just... Grown up. Made peace with everything that happened. It still hurt, and he still caught himself sobbing after nightmares or feeling guilty, but he knew, deep down, that it was not his fault. And no one would die just for loving him. It was a childish idea.

               He spent years pushing away the idea of a soulmate, but he couldn't picture Iruka dying because of him. He knew Iruka could stand his ground just fine and, even if he couldn't, Iruka was far better than him at reaching out for help.

               And Kakashi deserved some love too. He blushed at the thought, but he knew he had to tell it more to himself. He deserved it. Iruka deserved it too, if he still wanted Kakashi after the shitty way he dealed with the situation.

               Well, just one way to find out.

               *

               "Oh, hello, Kaka— Hatake-san," Iruka smiled at him, like he always did, that fake yet convincing one.

               "Kakashi is fine, Iruka," Kakashi felt bold. Or at least maybe he would if he faked well enough, "I, uh, wanted to talk to you. In private. Mind if I pick you up after you're done working?"

               "I—," was Kakashi delusional or was it a faint rosy blush on Iruka's cheeks? "Fine, you can pick me up here in two hours. Sound good?"

               "Sounds perfect!" He grinned and with the last of his bravery added, "it's a date then."

               Iruka made a choking sound and Kakashi left with the goofiest smile.

               *

               Kakashi's place was different from Iruka's. Tidier, nothing out of place, but with a thin layer of dust on the less used things and too much free space. It wasn't as homey. Kakashi found himself missing the messy couch and thrown around clothes and books.

               "So, let me set it straight," Iruka gave him a pointed look, "you decided you want a soulmate after trying to run away and pretending nothing happened for a month. And you want to take me on a date," He briefed.

               Kakashi nodded, it seemed like an accurate description. He could unwrap all the insecurities and emotional baggage later.

               "Fine," Iruka pressed the bridge of his nose, "took you long enough. I don't even know why I try to make sense of it."

               "That easy?" Kakashi was a bit surprised, "I had prepared a speech and everything. Scribbled a half-decent poem," he threw some crumpled papers on the table. Iruka chuckled a bit.

               Good. He wanted to see his genuine smile.

               "If I wasn't willing to, I wouldn't have bothered to patch you up in the first place," He explained, "idiot," he said as an afterthough, but in the same fond tone he used before.

               Kakashi found himself smiling too.

               "Well, what about dinner tomorrow then? Anywhere you want."

               "Oh, I have a better idea," the smile on Iruka's face was a bit devilish now, "just meet me at my place tomorrow. Let's say... At seven?"

               "Deal," Kakashi really shouldn't have ignored the chill on his spine at the evil grin.

               *

               "That's your idea of a nice first date?" He whined, his wrist hurting from writing too much.

               "That's your idea of good penmanship?" Iruka retorted, giving him yet another blank report to fill, "We are almost there! Just two more," he said a bit more encouragingly.

               "We? What exactly are you doing?" He handed another complete and pristine form to Iruka.

               "Moral support," he didn't miss the slight jest on Iruka's voice.

               Accepting his fate, Kakashi sighed and prepared himself for a night of writing down mission details he just vaguely recalled whilst Iruka criticizes his calligraphy.

               "Don't sulk like that. I have some ice cream in the fridge. We can have it after you're done," he used his slightly-less-stern teacher voice. The one he used to bribe the pests to finish their homework so they could play.

               "My hand is killing me," Kakashi said with a dramatic flair, "you'll have to feed me, sweetheart," he mocked, making Iruka laugh at both the exaggerate whining and the sappy nickname.

               "You're impossible," Iruka rolled his eyes, which, Kakashi noticed, was not a 'no', "Does it mean you'll go to the hospital now after being stabbed at least?"

              "Never," he replied with a grin, "that's what I have you for now, right?"

              The glare he received wasn't enough to spoil his sudden good mood.

*

*

*

It was fun to write! And can fit in three prompts! (soulmates, first date, friends to lovers). That bit was mostly accidental I swear! It just happened.

I don’t think i’ll try my hand on other prompts, but it was fun! That’s my first time in a writing challenge. Thanks for @kakairu-rocks for the funny prompts and for answering my questions!

Also, you can thank @kakairuincorrectquotes for single-handedly giving me the headcanon Kakashi will never, ever go to the hospital after being stabbed. You’ll have to pry it from my hands now!

Bye. ♥

[tailorvizsla]

“Just let me see (her/him/them) one last time. Please.” with Paz 🥺

Title: Home Is In Your Arms Pairing: Paz x F Reader Word Count: ~4k Rating: R Warnings: Canon-typical violence, Reader is an ex-Storm Trooper and was not treated well, some attempts at medical jargon, Paz is injured, a hint of angst, and vanilla sex. Author’s Notes: A request from the lovely, wonderful @huliabitch that was supposed to be a one-shot but evolved into this entire-ass fic because I sort of like this concept? There’s a lot of buildup and not a lot of angst, but just a hint. I really hope you don’t mind! [Holy crap, I copied the wrong list of tags for this. I took those extra names off as soon as I realized it. I’m not sure if I got it quickly enough, though. If you got a note, I am really sorry. Forgive me, please.]

📚 My Master List 📚 If you want to send in a prompt (or just talk to me lol), feel free to peruse the list here!

The gunshot wound to his side is like a singular point of white-hot fire, a blinding supernova of agony as he stumbles against the crumbling remains of the blown-out grocery store. Blood burbles up through his lips and sprays against the inside screen of his visor, streaking crimson as it drips out through the bottom of his helmet. Paz sinks down between two of the shelves, fingers trembling as he tries to staunch the blood rapidly seeping into his kute. Paz gasps as his backside touches the ground, jarring the agonizing pain shooting up his side. His head swims nauseatingly as he struggles to get each gasp of air into his aching lungs.

Fuck, he thinks to himself. Really got in over my head today.

He had a bounty to pick up – a simple bounty for someone skipping on bail – and he had almost gotten them. Then the troopers had shown up with two AT-STs and a TIE-fighter. His head suddenly feels both heavy and empty, and he thinks about his family. His home. Paz lets his head fall back against a stone pillar, blackness starting to seep in at the edges of his eyesight.

Just let me see them one last time. Please.

The last thing he sees as his head bobs down toward his chest are a pair of white boots approaching him.

-

-

-

The EMP blast triggers a minor explosion that knocks you off your feet. Collapsing into the remains of the store, you try to regain your bearings. It takes you several minutes to realize that your collar is no longer buzzing. You toss your weapon down and yank your helmet off, pulling at the band digging into your neck. It does not budge. You swear quietly to yourself.

You remove your breast plate and abdominal armor and drop it on the ground. They will not protect you much from Mandalorian weapons. You’d rather die in your undersuit than in the Empire’s armor. The vambraces follow, falling to the dusty, cracked concrete with a clatter. Glancing around the shop, you find that you are in some sort of supply store. Hopefully, there will be a knife here you can borrow.

As you pass by a display, you pick up a bag and loop it over your chest. Then you go to ransack the shelve for food and medical supplies. There isn’t much here, but it will be enough to tide you over until you can find someplace safe.

When you round the corner, you see a massive pile of blue armor in the corner. You freeze. This is the Mandalorian who had taken out half the buckets on your squad by himself. Many of them had been collared like you. Others were blind followers of the Empire. Despite this, you hold no bitterness against him.

Rather, you find yourself in terrified awe of him.

You get as close to him as you dare and crouch, poking his pauldron. He doesn’t budge. Glancing down at his side, you notice the wound on his side. Shit, he has lost a lot of blood. Chewing on your lower lip, you begin digging through your bag of pilfered supplies. You have some basic first aid training, so you get to work on getting him back onto his feet. When you’ve packed the wound and sealed it with a mass of tape, you start to rifle through his pockets to see what medical supplies he might be carrying. He has a single dose of the really good bacta, the stuff that’ll get a corpse back onto its feet for a few minutes. The stuff that cannon fodder like you would never be given.

For a moment, you stare down at the tiny bottle in your hand, watching as the dose of medicine swishes around inside. You want to take it, but you decide against it. This warrior deserves better than to bleed out in a damn grocery store.

You stab him in the patch of skin you can see. Then you grab his vibroblade and start sawing at the band around your throat, cursing violently as the blade just barely begins to chew through it. You are so engrossed in the task at hand that you do not hear the soft inhalation from behind you. Or the near-silent growl. A rough hand grabs you by the shirt and pulls up. The other hand wraps itself around your neck and you go very still, teetering on your tiptoes to avoid being choked to death.

“Who the fuck are you?” comes a low, deadly voice in your ear.

“The idiot who decided to help you?” you choke out.

“Why the hell would an Imp help a Mandalorian?”

“F-figured would be the right thing to do,” you gasp out. “Borrowed you-your knife – “

“Did you want me on my feet to try and kill me?” he hisses at you. “Did you think I’d be an easy target?”

Your heart rate spikes as his hand tightens around your throat. You cough in response, pulling at his forearm to try and breathe. He doesn’t budge.

“Collar – cut it off – let me – let me die free, please – “

The arm around your neck loosens slightly. Blood rushes back into your head and your knees wobble. His other hand comes up and you inhale, closing your eyes, expecting him to snap your neck. Instead, he examines your collar.

“Interesting,” he says.

Then he yanks his blade from your hand and puts it back where you had borrowed it.

“If I let you go, will you attack me?”

“Not suicidal,” you gasp out.

“Smart girl,” he rumbles out.

He lets go. You stagger a bit, wheezing as you suck down some air to your oxygen-starved lungs. You turn to look at him. Upright, he’s even bigger than you thought. He towers over you by no small amount, nearly twice your size. You swallow tightly, feeling quite exposed without your armor.

Not that it would have protected you much if he decided to take a swing at you. Tripping and falling would crack that cheap plasteel shit. He stumbles and you just barely catch him around the middle. A grunt escapes you at just how damn heavy he is.

“If I help you out of here, will you take this damn thing off me?” you ask him.

“Sure, why not?” he slurs.

“Where to?” you ask.

“East,” he says.

“Are we waiting for anybody?”

“No,” he manages to say. “Just me.”

You stare at him incredulously.

“You are responsible for all this?” you hiss, gesturing at the mayhem outside.

He throws his head back and laughs. It takes nearly two hours to walk the half-mile back to his ship. At some point, you debate on asking him if he’d be willing to ditch the armor, but you decide against it. That amount of beskar is probably worth a small fortune. It takes you a minute to spot his ship, cleverly hidden under a rocky overhang and a large camouflage tarp.

The ramp opens and you carry him up the ramp. There, you drag him as far as you can before he collapses. You grab the tarp and drag it inside to keep it from getting sucked into the intake vents. You shut the door before you start looking for a med kit. You find it in the galley, just above the sink. Then you hurtle back to the Mandalorian and inject him with another dose of the good stuff. Then you check his wound. Miraculously, the bleeding seems to have stopped.

From there, there is little you can do but wait, so you cover his chest with a blanket and climb into the cockpit. It only takes a few minutes to get the ship into the air and away from the battlefield.

-

-

-

You aren’t quite sure when you fell asleep, but when a hand clamps down on your shoulder, your neck is sore, and you have drooled on yourself. You look up. Big Blue is looming over you.

“The fuck are you doing?” he growls.

You blink the sleep out of your eyes. Then it all comes back in a rush. Shit.

“I didn’t know where you wanted to go,” you stutter out. “So I put her in a random hyperspace lane. I think.”

“Move,” he snarls.

You quickly get out of his way and he sits down. You retreat into the copilot’s chair, where you sit in silence for several minutes. He makes several course adjustments before you dare to speak up.

“Can I use your refresher, please?” you ask.

Be polite and he may not just toss you out the back. He growls. You take that as a yes. You head down the ladder and into the refresher you had seen. You relieve yourself. Then you eye the tiny washing machine stuffed in the corner. You stare down at your stained undersuit.

It’s filthy.

You’re filthy.

Gnawing on your lower lip, you peer over at the ladder. You asked for the refresher, not the toilet. And the washing machine is in the refresher. So it’s fair game?

Swiftly, before you can porg out like a coward, you shuck the suit and your underthings off, stuffing it all into the washing machine. Then you jump into the shower and begin cleaning up quickly. You untie your hair and work the worst of the knots in your braid out with your fingers. Then you steal some soap and start scrubbing the layers of blood, dirt, and grime off your body.

The water is cold, but it is glorious to be able to shower for more than two minutes at a time. When you are finished, you hop out and grab a towel. You can just barely wrap it around yourself, and it does little to cover your curves. You are just moving your things into the dryer when you hear your Mandalorian’s footsteps stomping toward the door.

“It’s been twenty minutes,” he snarls.

You open the door, putting your hands up.

“I asked to borrow your refresher,” you say. “I borrowed it. Nothing more.”

He freezes, his dark visor tilted down at you.

“Uh,” he stutters out. “Uhm – “

“It looks like it’ll be a little bit before everything is finished drying,” you tell him. “Then I’ll find a corner to sit in. I promise I won’t do anything stupid.”

“Uh, yeah,” he stammers. “Get dressed. I will be in the cockpit.”

He turns on his heel and goes back to the ladder in a hurry. You frown after him. What a weirdo. It takes another thirty minutes for the dryer to finish extracting the moisture from your clothing. You put it all back on and head up to the cockpit. He turns to look at you.

“You stay on that cushion,” he says, pointing at a chair. “Are we clear?”

“Aye, captain,” you say, sitting down in the copilot’s chair.

He disappears down the narrow corridor. You peer after him, snooping shamelessly. You catch a glimpse of a big bed and a gun case before the door swishes shut after him. You turn your attention back to the dizzying array of blue lights passing by in the windows. Boredom sets in quickly. You glance at the door. Then at the cushion under you.

A stupid thought seizes you. You’re hungry. He’s probably famished. Big Blue is your commanding officer now. So, he gets to eat first. Then, if he allows it, you get to eat your own ration. You push the thoughts away. This isn’t the Empire - he may not care if you eat at all.

But still. He’s your commanding officer now. And he’s been injured.

You give the cushion a tug and it pulls away from the seat, revealing the attachment points. You climb down the ladder, the cushion under one arm. Then you go dig around in the galley for something to snack on. Setting the cushion on the ground, you take your place on it, and start sifting through the packages of freeze-dried food.

“WOMAN - !” your Mandalorian bellows.

You nearly leap into the air. He drops down the ladder and lands with a jarring thud. He comes stomping into the galley, where you have put what appears to be a ration pack on the counter to heat. He glowers down at you.

“What. Did. I. Tell. You.”

“You said I couldn’t leave the cushion,” you say. “But you need to eat – “

“I can feed myself,” he hissed. “I gave you a direct order – “

You pat the cushion under your ass.

“You need to eat,” you repeat. “Your blood sugar is probably tanked by now. And concentrated bacta does weird things to your sodium levels. You need to eat, sir.”

He inhales sharply to yell, but he cuts himself off, pressing his face to his hand. You can almost see the steam curling from under his helmet.

“Do not call me sir. Get your ass to the cockpit. NOW. Before I snap your fucking neck and throw you out the airlock.”

You grab the bread roll and stuff it into your mouth. Then you grab the cushion and climb back up the ladder, hastily replacing it where it belongs. By the time he gets back to you, you’ve devoured the bread, and you are licking the crumbs off your fingertips.

“Don’t get smart with me,” he snaps.

You tilt your head up at him questioningly and decide to not argue.

“Let me see your collar,” he says grouchily.

You flip your hair forward. Big Blue grabs the collar. This time, he far gentler as he starts messing with it. You stay quiet, hoping that it will come off. Then you feel something cold slip between it and your neck. Then it pinches and the collar falls away. You stare down at it, turning it over and over.

“I’m free,” you whisper. You look up at him. “I’m free.”

“Looks like it,” he says. “Where are you from?”

You shake your head.

“I don’t know.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m at least twenty-four,” you say. “That’s all I know.”

He turns to look at you.

“Any fodders who survive to their twenty-fourth get the dubious pleasure of being shortlisted for officer training,” you say quietly, bitterly as you look out the window. “I think my training started last year at some point.”

“How do you not remember?” he asks impatiently.

“They don’t want to damage our nervous systems with repeated shocking,” you say, looking down at the collar in your hands. “They sometimes drugged us if they suspected we were thinking too much.”

He doesn’t respond. You exhale. Then you chortle.

“Are you looking to hire backup? I’m a fair shot,” you say wryly. “I ask for two meals a day and a corner to sleep in.”

“You think I’d pay you that much?” he retorts. “You Imps are all terrible shots.”

“By the time someone gets put on frontline duty, their fine motor controls are fried,” you say nonchalantly, swinging your foot back and forth. You hold up your hand, watching as your fingers tremble minutely.

“A lieutenant made a pass at me and I turned him down. He didn’t like that,” you say nonchalantly. “He refused to take no for an answer, so I broke his nose.”

“You were tortured for defending yourself?” he asks, his voice suddenly quiet.

You tilt your head up at him questioningly.

“Oh, no. Gideon had him killed for making a pass at me. Mingling between officers and fodders is forbidden,” you say, shaking your head. “I got my date with the electrical socket because I missed cleaning up his blood. Some of it got on Gideon’s boot."

You wrap your arms around your knee and stare out at the lights flashing by. He doesn’t respond for a long time.

“Two meals and a corner?” he asks.

“That’s my best offer,” you respond. “If you let me have a blanket, I can negotiate down to one meal a day.”

“Bread?” he counters.

“Warm,” you return easily. “With butter. And I still want a blanket.”

“You look at me wrong and I will toss you straight out through the airlock. You understand?”

You nod, relief filling you.

-

-

-

Two Years Later

You nudge Paz with your elbow and tilt your head toward the gorgeous redhead at the bar.

“How about her?” you ask. “Go ask her for her comm number.”

“No,” Paz says for the twelfth time that night. “I told you, I have a different type.”

“I can’t help you find a nice lady if you won’t tell me what your type is,” you say to Paz. “You have turned down literally every person I have suggested. You do still like ladies, right?”

He sighs in exasperation.

“I don’t do the temporary thing,” he says at long last.

“So you want the whole nine parsecs, yes?” you ask. “A nice courtship, marriage, and a herd of little blue brats? Maybe a loth-cat?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Or as close as I can get to it. I’m not going to find that person in a bar.”

You sigh dejectedly.

“Why do you care?” he asks, tilting his helmet down at you.

“Well, I certainly am not going to get laid,” you say. “Might as well play the role of backup and keep helping you out.”

He huffs in amusement.

“I have my eyes on someone closer to me,” he says quietly.

“Oh?” you ask, perking up. “Is it – oh, who was that – sauce girl? The one who dumped a pot of sauce all over – “

“No,” Paz says, his head turning to yours sharply. “No, you di’kut. That was my kriffing cousin.”

“Well, fuck,” you say. “She’s the only woman I’ve seen you spend any amount of time with.”

“Much closer,” he continues in an odd tone.

“…are you hiding your lady friends from me?” you ask, narrowing your eyes up at him. “What, are you afraid I’ll tell them about your stupid ideas when you get wasted? How dare you.”

He harrumphs grumpily.

“Take mercy on the poor man,” a drunken voice slurs. “He means you, daft girl.”

A sharp jolt of surprise fills you as you look up at Paz. He grimaces and refuses to look at you as he sips his drink down. The drunk person laughs and sloshes their way to an empty booth, where they collapse onto the cushion and start snoring. You give Paz an appraising look.

“So, do you wanna fuck me, or do you want the whole nine parsecs?” you ask, tilting your head up at him.

“Uh…both?” he says.

Without hesitating, you slam a handful of credits on the bar to pay for your drink. Then you finish the last sip.

“Let’s go,” you tell him.

“Where?” he asks.

“Ship,” you say. “I haven’t been fucked in years.”

“Well, maybe we should discuss – “

“Blue,” you say patiently. “There is nothing to discuss. My answer is yes.”

You hear his sharp inhalation from here.

“Now. If you don’t start moving, I’ll just borrow the bartender’s can opener,” you say saucily to him. “I’ll get that codpiece off, one way or another.”

Paz puts his drink down and adds his own money to the pile. It takes far too long to get back to the ship. Once the ramp is closed behind him, you start shucking your clothes off. When you’re completely naked, you start helping Paz remove his armor, dropping it onto the table. Then he removes his padding and undersuit, revealing a thick, muscular frame to you. Then the lights turn off and you hear another thunk. A thrill runs through you when you realize his helmet is off.

“Bed?” you ask, hoping he’ll say yes to a tumble on that decadent bed of his.

“Bed,” he confirms.

You make it up the ladder in record time, opening the bedroom door. Paz follows after you, not bothering to shut the door, as he hurtles onto the bed after you. He throws you down onto your back, mouth crashing onto yours, one hand groping at your hip and the other supporting the majority of his weight. You pull at Paz’s hair, digging your nails into his scalp as you kiss him back, wrapping your legs snugly around his waist. It’s sloppy and a bit rushed, but you do not care.

He tastes like the cheap fruit alcohol he had been drinking and like himself, vaguely sweet and metallic. You nip at his lower lip, a little rougher than you intended, earning a growl from him. He grinds his length against you and you gasp sharply. You’re already soaking wet and ready for Paz as he slides his hand between your bodies. His fingers press inward. You tear your mouth away from his and moan, lifting your hips against his hand.

“Yes,” you hiss at him. “Paz, more!”

He nibbles his way along your neck and down to your shoulder, the wet sounds of his fingers working inside of you barely audible over your moans. Frustrated, you hook one leg behind his, the other on the bed for leverage. You kiss Paz back, forcing your tongue into his mouth, relishing in his noise of surprise. You push against his shoulder at the same time and you just barely get him onto his back.

“Not sure what you think you’re doin’,” he manages to say as you settle on his hips.

“Shut up,” you tell him, as you position his generously sized cock under you.

Your eyes roll back as you start to take him in slow, short thrusts. He’s a lot bigger than you had expected, but you are no coward – you have never shied away from a challenge. Just when you think you can’t take any more of his hard, thick length, your clit presses down against his pubic bone, and a victorious thrill runs through you.

You can feel him throbbing deep inside of you just shy of discomfort. As you catch your breath, Paz shifts impatiently, a groan escaping him.

“Move, move – “ he urges around his pants. “Baby, please.”

Resting your weight on his lower belly, you start a slow pace, grinding slow circles, relishing in each rich moan you can get from your lover. One hand finds your hip, the other your breast. He pinches down on your nipple and you mewl at the sharp burst of pleasure.

“Fuck,” he stutters out. “Feel so-so fuckin’ good, baby.”

You change your pace, swiveling your hips in tight circles, arching your back so he can get in nice and deep with each thrust. Paz gasps, a tremor running through his body as you take him that extra half-inch.

“Shit,” he says, his voice catching just a hair, “Oh fuck, don’t – don’t know what I did to deserve you. Don’t fuckin’ deserve you, baby – “

Your breath stutters at his words, but your pace doesn’t break.

“ – so good to me,” he babbles, “Too good to me – too good for me – “

Tears spring to your eyes at his self-deprecation. You dig your nails into his belly to stop him, grinding down against his pubic bone.

“You’re mine,” you whisper in response. “Mine, Paz Vizsla, you’re mine and you’re perfect.”

Both hands fall to your hips and Paz starts to thrust up into you, taking over and setting the pace he wants. Paz grunts in frustration and pulls you down against his chest, rolling your bodies back over before you can protest. He presses a kiss to your lips before resuming his punishing pace once more, each thrust sending you spiraling higher and higher toward completion. You dig your nails into his back when he starts hitting that spot, the one that makes you sob.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you chant into his ear. “Gods, yes, Paz – I’m c-coming – “

You tighten around him and cry out on more time, digging your heels into his backside as you come around him, walls shuddering around his cock. The pleasure sweeps through you in deep, devastating waves, leaving you breathless and shaking. Paz goes stiff, harsh groans escaping him with each pulse of his cock inside you. After several long seconds, he falls forward onto his elbows, trapping you under him. As you run your fingers along his spine and massage his shoulders, Paz sighs with pleasure, his cock occasionally twitching.

“Need me to move?” he asks.

“I can take it,” you say sleepily. “Kinda like it. You’re like a weighted blanket. A really warm one.”

He huffs in amusement.

“Your feet are like ice,” he says.

He pulls his hips back. A torrent of his spend follows as you stretch out for a few seconds. Then you crawl under the blanket and curl up, inhaling the soft scent of his pillows. Paz joins you a moment later, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“You’re a walking furnace,” you mumble to him. “Holy fuck.”

He chuckles and presses a kiss to your temple. Just as your breath is starting to slow, Paz speaks softly. So softly you nearly miss it.

“Always wanted to go home,” he whispers. “Never knew it was right here the whole time.”

Warmth fills your chest at those sweet words.

“Sleep, cyar’ika.”

For the first time in your life, you find rest easily. You dream of pleasant things, and your future no longer seems terrifying and lonely.

-

-

-

Tags: I guess this qualifies as a fic in some places? lmao

@hdlynn @princessbatears @oloreaa @phoenixhalliwell @reader-without-a-story @nelba @aeryntheofficial @trippedmetaldetector @jedi-mando @marthastewart89

[ditch-witches]

Mirror Mirror (Dean-Charles Chapman Smut)

requested: yes/no (ask and you shall receive)

pairing: Dean-Charles Chapman x reader

warnings: smut, aggression, swearing, etc. (i DoNt kNoW wHaT iM dOiNg aNyMoRe)

word count: 2,230 (WHY IS THIS SO LONG IM SORRYIDKWHATHAPPENED)

a/n: If you prefer soft!Dean, please exit stage left because I did him so dirty... - Love, Grayce.

You stuffed your hands in your jacket pockets, pulling your phone from its hiding place as you attempted to find out exactly where you were going. The bustle of the set brought a smile to your face as you mixed into the crowd of people moving towards the large battlefield seeming to grow out of the green hills. You had planned on coming to pick Dean up for the day, a surprise which was welcomed due to your connections with the historians working on the film when you had pitched the idea. You were greeted by a few of Dean’s co-stars---friends that you had met at parties and other events for the movie---deciding to stand on the grass beside a vaguely familiar face. She explained the scene to you briefly but it came out in a jumbled mess. She seemed to know about as much as you did about the movie except you knew she had a rather large role in it.

Someone backed into you, the both of you turning quickly to apologize to the other, but you bit back your words as you realized the person was Timothée Chalamet. You blinked, slightly bewildered at the lanky boy in front of you. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t spill anything on you, right?” He quickly spoke, looking you over slightly.

“Honestly, if you had I probably would have thanked you,” you quirked, letting out a nervous laugh.

He furrowed his brows slightly with a smile. “Okay, then I take back my apology.” He eyed your outfit. “Do you work here or…” He trailed off, chewing on his bottom lip as he attempted to place you.

“Oh! No, I’m just visiting,” you gestured over towards the scene and something clicked in his head.

“That’s where I’ve seen you! You’re Dean’s girlfriend,” he replied with a sense of relief in his voice. He tucked the script under his arm he was holding and wiped a hand on his jeans, holding it out for you. “I’m that one asshole from Lady Bird.”

You chuckled, taking his hand. “I know. My sister’s a huge fan.”

He laughed. “Oh? How old is she?”

“Sixteen,” you quipped with a small smirk. He acted as if he had been shot. “I’m joking.” Someone else---someone also rather good looking---crashed into your shoulder, knocking you forward and into Timothée’s cup of coffee. You winced in anticipation of the burning sensation from the liquid, but it never came, instead, it had splashed all over him. “God, I’m a babe magnet,” you murmured, digging in your purse for a napkin. Timothée laughed loudly at your comment. Your mouth gaped slightly. “Oh, my god. That was inappropriate. I have no idea why I said that,” you stated with no inflection in your voice, causing him to giggle a little harder.

“It’s not a big deal. It was the medieval gods coming after me for not being in character. I’m not sure if you knew this but denim wasn’t popular with the clergy.” He took the sorry excuse for a napkin with a smile.

You smirked at him. “Really? I always thought Thomas Aquinas was a boyfriend cut type of guy?” You both giggled. You spotted Dean out of the corner of your eye heading towards the two of you, a rather confused look on his face. Your eyebrows perked up at his attire. His flowing hair and armor were a stark difference than what you were used to seeing. Mainly it was so surprising to you because Dean’s unofficial uniform had become sweatpants and a hoodie. “You look amazing,” you jeered, a smile on your face as he joined you.

Timothée sent him a weak smile as Dean noticed the stain on his pants. “I see you two have met,” he jested, nodding to the stain. There was something off about him but you couldn’t put your finger on it. Timothée began to explain the situation to a derisive expression of Dean’s. The director calling it quits pulled your attentions away from the conversation and a few people came to shuffle Timothée away. He sent you an apologetic smile as you waved him off. When he was finally out of sight, his eyebrow raised at you and you tilted your head.

“Are you alright?”

He sighed. “I’m fine. Don’t go anywhere.” You stiffened slightly as he left for the costume trailer. You felt almost guilty like you had done something to piss Dean off, but you weren’t even sure if he was mad.

You walked in silence beside Dean, your hand in his and his other absent-mindedly jingled his keys. The parking lot was beginning to empty as you finally reached his car. “Hey, babe magnet!” You turned to see Timothée’s car pulling up next to you. He smiled at you. “It was great running into you today.”

“Yeah! Uh, send me the bill for dry cleaning, okay?” You stated, sending him yet another shamed expression. He brushed it off.

“Don’t worry about it. See you Monday, Chapman,” he waved, pulling away after Dean sent him a smile. You noticed his face tense again. The car ride was also in silence, the tension in the air thick enough to slice with a knife. You were worried about talking to him. He had never hurt you and you knew he wouldn’t, but if this was just him being grumpy and tired, it’d be better to confront him at home.

“D, are you okay?” You asked, finally getting inside your house.

He turned to you, his deadpan expression ticking you off slightly. “I’m fine.” You crossed your arms protectively over your chest, narrowing your eyes at him.

“No, you aren’t.”

“You and Timothée seemed to really kick-off,” he quipped, an eyebrow slightly raising in your direction. His muscles tensed and he clenched his jaw slightly. The sharpening of his features sent a shiver down your spine. He looked at you almost darkly.

You shook yourself out of checking him out to send him a scoff. “So…” He took a step forward, his expression twisting slightly into an almost jokingly dark smirk. You fought not to pull him against you. “Are you jealous?”

It was his turn to scoff. “Why would I be jealous? You came home with me.” He stood in front of you, his eyes almost glaring into yours. You hated to admit it, but such a display from him turned you on more than you would have expected. He reached forward to run a strand of your hair through his fingers. “You’re fucking me.” You remained silent, your excitement building under his tinkering gaze. He took more of your hair in his fist and pulled you against him, crashing your lips together in an almost breathless task. His other fingers dug into your hip, bringing you flush against him. You wrapped your arms around his midsection as he tugged your bottom lip between his teeth. His tongue slipped into your mouth roughly and you moaned against his lips, your body feeling like jelly in his arms. His hands moved beneath your shirt and then down to your ass, gripping you harshly and grinding into you. At this point, you were already ready for him to have his way with you, and he seemed to get the point.

He broke away from you, leaving you almost whimpering. “Get upstairs,” he gruffly commanded before almost chasing you up the staircase, his child-like humor returning for only a moment until kicking your bedroom door shut and pulling his shirt over his head. You slipped your dress off as well, kneeling on the bed as he walked over to you, his lips finding yours again in a searing kiss. He pushed you back on the bed before dragging you towards him with a tight grip on one of your thighs. “Jealous… Me?” He mocked. He settled above you pressing his lips against your neck and biting at the skin, eliciting a moan to fall from your lips. His hand snaked down your body at an excruciating pace to slip between your body and your underwear. He began to rub circles against your heat, leaning off of you to see your expression. You rested your hands on his neck, pulling him down to kiss you briefly so you could hide a moan threatening to burst through your body. He slipped a finger into you and you groaned, wrapping a leg around him as he began to pump his finger in and out of you. He added another as your hips began to move with his rhythm. You dug your fingernails into his back and his dark expression flashed to pride.

A knot began to build deep within you as he alternated his speeds. You felt yourself tightening around his fingers; at this rate, you’d be done for within seconds. “Dean…” you whined, ready to make him quicken his fingers inside of you, but instead he retracted himself, sitting back on his knees and pulling you up to sit across from him. His fingers slipped into his mouth as his other hand reached up to rub a thumb against your swollen bottom lip, agitated from his tugging and biting. He wrapped his hand around the back of your neck, pulling you into another agonizingly short kiss before getting off the bed and dragging you into the bathroom with him. He pinned you against the counter roughly, his lips capturing yours as his tongue once again danced with yours. You held onto his shoulders to steady yourself as he unclasped your bra, his lips once again leaving yours to suck on your neck, his hand squeezing your breast while the other settled on the counter behind you. You slid your hands down to the waistband of his sweatpants, unlacing the tie but he grabbed your wrist, halting your progress.

“Don’t,” he barked. He roughly turned you to look into the mirror. Your hair was disheveled, lips plump from his previous actions, bruises littering your neck and chest. Dean looked glorious and in complete control behind you as he slipped his pants off, taking his boxers with them. He practically ripped your underpants down your legs before pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “I love you,” he said, moving your hair off your neck and looking into your eyes through the reflection of the mirror. You found yourself breathing rather deeply, overcome with pure passion for him. “Remember that.” Your eyes locked to his as a sardonic smirk spread across his face and you bit back a grin of your own.

God, you were in for it.

He spat in one of his hands before wrapping it around his cock, pumping his hand a few times before bending you at the waist and slamming into you. You groaned at the aggressive nature of his action: something so different from his usual manner in the bedroom. You gripped the edge of the counter as he pulled out of you only to fill you back up once again, snapping his hips into yours. As he pounded into you, letting a string of curses fall from his lips in a deeper octave you hadn’t reached before, your eyes shut in pleasure, attempting to keep yourself together.

Dean drove a fist into your hair yanking your head back up and tsking at you in disappointment. “Watch, sweetheart.” His lust blown eyes burned into you through the mirror as he leaned over you slightly, pressing his lips to your back before standing up straighter and pulling your hips against him, driving himself deeper into you. You knew his fingers would leave bruises and, in a way, you wanted them too. Dean moaned, biting his lip at your slack-jawed expression, his thrusts sloppy. You were thankful for his tight grip on you because your knees were weakening by the second, with each of his movements.

You couldn’t take the wait anymore. “I’m close…” you moaned, looking up at him through the mirror.

He shook his head. His pace picked up even more and your eyes threatened to roll as goosebumps began to spread over your body. “Beg,” he grunted.

“Please, Dean.” It became harder and harder to hold yourself together as you felt each of his jerks and movements. He leaned over you once more, his face next to yours in the mirror. Both of you were covered in a sheer layer of sweat with the look of pure lust for one another mixing with the colors of your irises.

“Cum.” It took milliseconds to reach your climax with his permission and he rode out his own orgasm against you, leaving the two of you panting and barely able to stand. He pulled out of you and you dropped to your knees slightly, a lazy expression covering your face. He helped you up and he leaned against the counter. You took this opportunity to fully examine his work. He watched you with bliss still playing in his eyes.

“Shit, if I had known it took spilling coffee on Timothée Chalamet to bring that out in you, I would have done it sooner,” you jeered, smirking at him.

Dean stood up, crossing his arms and sending you a cocky grin. “Joke all you want. I’m not the one that was bent over the sink, my love,” he quipped, cheekily slapping your ass as he exited the bathroom.

[dastardlydandelion]

e is for escape

 ao3 link 

content warnings: implied abuse, mild blood

Susan doesn’t remember leaving the house.

She doesn’t even realize she’s been walking along the road until she’s caught in blinding headlights. She gasps and she needs to run, she needs to pitch herself out of its path, but instead she freezes like a doe. Tires screech as the driver slams the brakes and the car makes an abrupt stop. Susan releases a rush of breath, gaping down at the hood close enough to rest her hand upon, the hood that her entire body perhaps, would’ve expired upon.

“Are you alright!?”

The driver practically flings herself out of the seat and Susan recognizes her as Joyce from the general store. She doesn’t close the door behind her and hurries to Susan’s side, dragonfly eyes wide. Susan blinks rapidly, wetting her lips with her tongue and crinkling her nose at the unpleasant flavor she finds. She swallows instead of spits, lest she appear rude.

“Oh my, I must’ve interrupted date night,” Susan realizes as she studies the smaller woman’s appearance, dressed in a deep emerald cocktail dress, dark hair crimped. “I apologize…you, um, you look lovely.”

Joyce steps back from Susan, mouth agape as she too, studies her. Susan shuffles awkwardly and hugs her arms around her middle. When she glances down and takes stock of herself, she supposes she can’t blame the other woman for staring.

“Goodness, you must think I’m a mad woman,” she mutters critically.

What was she thinking leaving the house?

She isn’t even dressed. She’s clad in her bedclothes, pink bunny slippers on her feet, cotton nightgown under her somewhat ratty blue terrycloth bathrobe.

“Are you hurt?” Joyce asks and the severe set to her gaze makes Susan suddenly, incredibly uncomfortable.

“Uh.” Susan takes stock of herself. Her throat is sore. Not like the prickly itch when a cold’s coming on, but the dull throb that lingers when Neil squeezes so tight sometimes she fears she’ll die. She feels inclined to rub it, but she can’t, of course, not in front of Joyce.

“Are you bleeding?”

“Bleeding,” Susan repeats, unfolding her arms. She warily touches one of many tacky splotches drying in the terrycloth and quickly draws back, shaking her hand like she can rid her fingertip of the eerie feeling it gave her. “No, I…I was cooking. This must be s-sauce. I didn’t quite realize what a mess I made.”

Joyce takes another step back and swallows, exhaling slowly. She seems mildly disturbed and Susan twinges with embarrassment. Of course the poor woman is disturbed. She almost ran over a bedraggled bunny slippers stranger sautéed in marinara splashes. Well, near stranger, anyway.

“You know me,” Susan hums, hoping the reminder might soothe her nerves. “Well, n-not— you know my daughter better. Max is friends with Will? The kids always play at your place. She’s— you’ve had her over for dinner.”

“That I have. Mrs. Hargrove, where is Max now?”

“Please call me Susan.” She gives a short little wave with her hand, notices a thin cut across her palm. That’s odd. It makes her even more uncomfortable with this whole nebulous situation. “Uh, Max is at the m-movies. There was something she wanted to see— one of those, um, slash ‘em ups, I don’t understand her taste. But I knew she wanted to see it, so um, I told my stepson to take her. He’s old enough to chaperone her to the R-rated ones and…”

Susan trails off, blinking rapidly. It’s the strangest thing. But early evening feels so far away now, as if it’d been another lifetime rather than a few hours ago.

“I thought if they were going to go out, they might as well make the most of it. So I gave them enough money for a double feature…and he listened to me. It’s funny, really, Billy hardly ever listens to me. But tonight he did.”

“I have a teenager too, I understand.” Joyce cracks a smile but it’s a nervous thing, quivering uncertainly on her lips. “Everything goes in one ear and out the other.”

“Mm.” Susan bobs her head although she suspects it isn’t exactly the same. It’s probably different. Tonight she feels very different.

“Why don’t we get in the car? I can give you a ride.”

Susan’s first instinct is to refuse. Joyce rests a subtly shivering hand upon her sauce stained wrist and something in Susan stills. She rests her eyes upon the other woman’s gnawed fingernails and slowly bobs her head.

She follows her to the Ford. Opens the passenger’s door and swallows at the sight of her own fingernails. They’re also chewed. Except for the pinky nail. The pinky nail isn’t there at all. Only raw, wet grapefruit flesh weeping up at Susan where a nail is supposed to be. It hurts. Susan’s only just noticed how much it hurts, stinging something awful against the assault of cool air against unprotected meat.

She isn’t sure how it’s possible only to notice now that she’s hurt. Only to feel herself hurt as she sinks into the seat. Pain isn’t the only thing Susan feels. She feels an object poking into her thigh. She buckles her seatbelt and feels something thin and hard in her bathrobe pocket.

Joyce starts the engine. Susan can feel the other woman looking at her and schools her face into a mask of calmness. Plasters a smile over the confusion cresting in her chest and anxiety swirling in her stomach as she slides her hand into the pocket.

“So your kids are out,” Joyce prompts, circling back to the children. She seems very concerned about the children.

Susan traces the shape of knife in her pocket, heart hammering as her own concern grows. They’re fine. She knows they’re fine because Billy listened to her. She doesn’t understand why Billy listened to her. Why Billy listened to her tonight of all nights.

“They are. I don’t think they would’ve went home yet. Billy stays out all the time and I gave them enough for a double feature.”

“That’s nice,” Joyce says as she drives onward, trees blurring beyond the windows. “Do you mind if I ask what you were doing out here? On the road?”

Susan doesn’t recall, exactly. She doesn’t remember what happened. How she got from Cherry Lane to the part of the main road where there are no street lights. Why she’d leave home in her sauce-sullied pajamas, her admittedly childish but nonetheless comfortable bunny slippers. Her stomach clenches like a fist as she simultaneously clenches her hand around the knife handle.

“I don’t think you like me very much,” she breathes.

“Pardon?” Joyce raises a brow and she doesn’t look offended like Susan expects— she looks alarmed.

Susan shakes her head, harboring no ill will. “Don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t expect you to. I’m sure you’ve heard what our neighbors say. Hawkins is a fishbowl and Neil is a friendly fellow, you know, helping the neighbors fix their cars, or move furniture, chatting away about sports games. T-Telling everyone what a useless heifer I am, I’m sure…”

“…to be perfectly honest with you, Susan, I’ve never liked your husband.” Joyce meets her eye, mouth twisting into a rictus as Susan licks an unpleasant metallic taste from her own lips for the second time tonight. “Neil is always friendly at the store. He smiles and greets me, occasionally even compliments me without ever being inappropriate. Sometimes he helps elderly shoppers with their bags. Max never speaks badly of him when she comes over with the other kids, but there’s just something about him that rubs me the wrong way.”

Susan throws her head back and she means to laugh but the sound that escapes her throat is far closer to a sob.

“I don’t remember running from my house in my pajamas,” she admits, and although she doesn’t remember doing it, she knows she did indeed run. She did not walk, she did not slink, she ran. “But I've just remembered why I left.”

“Yes?”

Susan looks over Joyce again, positively exquisite in her fine dress, soft crimped hair Susan sort of wants to run her fingers through. Such a contrast to her own disheveled appearance, hair in tangles, cut on her hand, torn away pinky nail, sweaty, wrinkly bedclothes stained with—

“I left to get rid of this,” she announces, pulling the knife out of her bathrobe pocket and holding it out in front of her, sharp tip pointing upward, smears baleful and accusatory. “Please don’t tell.”

[the-headbop-wraith]

1_10 Share Words

Two agonizing days.

Vivi didn’t mind, but waiting made her anxious when she knew they had hours of driving ahead and a destination at the end of a long road.  It couldn’t be helped that Arthur had to take the time out to repair the damage to his arm – or take the time to work many long hours, and then finally decide the arm on its own was worthless, and the surviving parts were better off cannibalized for a newish prosthetic.  Arthur rarely worked from scratch on his replacements, as he took what he got in regards to putting something functional together.  Vivi didn’t bother him a whole lot during the process, opting to knit away the time with other priorities such as making the necessary preparations for the long drive between here and eventual.

Each time Vivi stopped by to deliver some food and remind Arthur eating was essential, she saw the progress of his new arm.  At first it was one model and it hardly looked anything near to human anatomy, it resembled more of an insect limb with colorful wires and rods still steaming with solder.  Then there came to be two, and one was taking the shape of an arm through the section plates Arthur was attaching over the wires and motor parts.

“It’s looking good,” Vivi said, as they shared a lunch.  They sat at a cluttered beat up coffee table, two couches facing each other on either side of it.  It was in the break room of the car garage of Kingsman Mechanics, owned by Arthur’s uncle and employer.  One wall was fixed up for a quick meal preparation zone, complete with particle cabinets and a counter top with a sink set.  Beside the short counter was a small fridge, and atop the fridge was a microwave.  The walls were soundproofed, but still the distant howl of work and hydraulic squeal crept in.  “Are you trying some of the new connectors, to get more sensation?”

Arthur glanced up from the fries he was picking at.  He raised one to his head where Galahad sat, tangled in his unruly hair.  “Naw,” he said.  Galahad tilted on his wheels as he took the fry and began munching, no mind to the fact the hamster was getting ketchup in Arthur’s hair.  Arthur then returned his lone arm to the large, triple meat burger Vivi had brought.  “This time I’m focused on strengthening the elbow, but going for more range of movement.”  He took a bite and worked on that for a moment, barely swallowing before he went on.  “I’m not sure how much tension to allot the joint, to keep it from cracking.”

Vivi wiped Mystery’s mouth off, before allowing the dog to return to his burger.  Vivi poked through the magazines left on the coffee table amongst plastic bags and Styrofoam containers.  Most the magazines were the norm – mechanics digest, some body builders.  She found one for medical, and the issue for prosthetics with the edges of the pages worn to tatters.  She noted the date on the front page before looking up to meet Arthur’s eyes as he watched her.

Since the conversation was diverted in the van, they had tiptoed around matters concerning Lewis.  Arthur hadn’t asked about him in all the times Vivi came by, and Vivi wasn’t sure what to make of that.  If Arthur knew simply by her appearance, or where the nature of the conversation would delve if Uncle Lance stumbled in on them while they discussed their ‘late’ friend.  Thinking back on all the times she could recall, Vivi never once had heard Lance mention Lewis.  But who would bring up a topic of a loss on the spot?  But there are a many that would avoid or refuse to acknowledge such issues, forget and move on was sometimes easiest.

“Take your time,” Vivi said.  She began offering Mystery her fries one at a time, and Mystery snapped them up in turn.  “I’m still doing some research before I make a route.”

Arthur nodded.  “Uh, Lance also has a few jobs for me,” he said.  “So it’s taken longer than I estimated in the first place.  Is that all right?”

“Of course,” Vivi huffed.  “I’m not jeopardizing your only stable job.”

Arthur blinked.  He pinned his burger down with his knuckles and deftly tore off a piece of meat, which he offered to Galahad.  “I don’t think he’d fire me, unless I blew up the shop….” His voice trailed off, and Arthur managed a grim sneer.  “Again.”

Vivi gave a dry laugh.  No, that wasn’t funny.

Professionally, Arthur could duck out of his main income by taking service up with Vivi’s Mystery Skulls, as the onboard mechanic.  By ‘contract’ Arthur received a percentage of pay for their assignments, plus a little extra whenever the van crapped out.  A simple handshake would have sufficed for Arthur, but Vivi insisted they make it official.  The contract consisted of a napkin shoved into the glove compartment, and maybe to this day it is still there.

Through the glassed side of the break room, Vivi spied Uncle Lance sneaking out.  She decided he was sneaking, or up to something.  Vivi stood and collected her trash, and told Arthur to finish all of his food before he returned to work.  Arthur was prone to forgetting halfway through a meal when an idea struck him, and leave his food to grow cold and moldy while he worked away.  If Vivi gave a stern reminder, he was more than likely to consume nearly all his food before he took off.

“And don’t make Galahad finish it for you,” where Vivi’s last words.  She excused herself and Mystery, ignoring Arthur’s exasperated expression, and Galahad’s dismay.  Vivi dumped her trash in the garbage bin beside the door and stepped out through the garages main work zone.

Since they had returned to Kingsman Mechanics, Uncle Lance had been pushing to do some maintenance work on the van before they took off again.  Each time Vivi denied with the excuse that she had work to do, and, Arthur could probably fit in a quick check up when he had the chance.  That was ill planned, and Lance had called her on it.  Still, she kept on that she did have errands to run and wanted to get that out of the way before the van was looked over, in case she forgot something.

Such as locking the doors.

Vivi saw Lance duck out of the driver’s side, and move to the front of the van to pop the hood.  Mystery took off before her, and she called for Lance as she raced over.  “Hey!  What are you doing?”  Vivi tried to hide the note of alarm in her voice.

Lance wore his dark coat, come rain or summer, and the tool belt around his waist worn that was stained from years of use.  He didn’t pay Vivi much mind as he leaned over the engine and scanned over the tubes and wires at his fingers.  “Just a quick look,” he said.  “Put my mind to ease, huh?”

“I told you to wait!”  Vivi snapped.  She wasn’t tall, but she straightened herself up as much as she could and crossed her arms.  Mystery barked beside her in his, have you no respect, tone.

“I’m not confining you to the shop,” Lance assured.  He chewed on the toothpick between his teeth as he turned his eyes back to the engine.  “Hmm, need an oil change, some sparkplugs could do with replacing.  Lemme get a new belt, this one���s looking shabby.”  He leaned over, nearly into the carriage as he tapped around.  “It’s about time we rotated those tires, isn’t it?  You drive to the moon and back every day.”

“You didn’t mess with anything in the van?” Vivi asked.  She followed Mystery when he hoped up through the open driver side door.  The white dog flashed out of sight when he leapt up into the back.

“Naw,” Lance said.  “That’s yer kids department.  It’s your office, and I have no business going back there.”

The front of the van was warm and stuffy from sitting in the noontime sun.  Vivi peered over the seat into the back interior and saw that the black box was gone.  Frail wisps of the frigid air hung in the shadows, and Vivi wanted to reach out and catch it but there was no way of grasping what cannot be seen.  Like chasing radical dreams.  She leaned over the back seat to watch Mystery go around the perimeter of the walls, head down and ears twisting but it was apparent he was finding nothing.  Mystery stopped when he reached the space where the box had sat, and turned to look at her.

“Uncle Lance,” Vivi began.  She rested her head on the warm seat for a moment, before slipping back out of the driver’s side.  “Did you know Lewis well?”  There was a span of silence, before the hood of the van cracked as it slammed down.  Vivi whipped to where Lance stood, his hands still gripping the top of the hood and staring at her hard.  “Hmm?”

Lance uncoiled, slipping from his stance and dragged his gloved hands from the vans front.  “I knew him,” he said.  “But not like you and Art did.  It was tragic, what happen to him.  What’s Art been telling you?”

Vivi couldn’t discern if Lance was aware of her amnesia, or if he was trying to dodge the subject.  “We’ve just been talking,” she said. Mystery appeared from over the driver seat, skidding down to sit beside Vivi.  “Kind of going back.”  She stared up at Lance as he moved along the side van until he stood before her.  She didn’t flinch, even when he quickly clasped a hand to her shoulder.

“Don’t totter over that piece of history too much, love.”  When Lance spoke, there was a tone of pain in his voice that was as audible, as if he was ready to cry.  Vivi couldn’t remember ever seeing Uncle Lance, a sturdy figure in their life, breaking down and crying.  But she felt it.  And she felt the knot of confusion and agony, as if she had missed something important and it angered her how lost she was to the company of the subject.  She wanted to know, but they avoided it.  They kept her away.  “It is a pain no one should burden,” he ended.  Lance took his arm from Vivi’s shoulder, and walked away. 

The paradox of Lance setting an oil stained hand upon any person or object never ceased to boggle Vivi’s mind.  Nor the factor that whenever he removed the hand, no stain or evidence remained that he had ever been present.  Vivi watched through the passenger side, as Lance staggered across the parking lot back to the side doors that entered into the garage shops main work zone.

“Hey.”

Vivi jolted in place to the hollow voice that echoed out of nowhere, and to the shape now leaning over the front seat just above Mystery’s head.  She grabbed her chest as her heart lurched in her ribs.  “Shit,” Vivi hissed.  “Don’t do that!”  She swiped out her hand, trying to connect with the skull but Lewis merely let his head rise out of range and her hand passed through where his neck would have been.

“Sorry.”  There was smugness in his voice.  “You okay?”  All smugness dried up when Vivi climbed up onto the driver’s seat and wrapped her arms around Lewis’ shoulders. Mystery gave a yelp and ducked over into the passenger seat.  “Vi, wait!”  Lewis lunged forward as Vivi tumbled backwards, arms looped around the stunned skull.  Vivi groaned when she fell back onto the warm asphalt behind her, the skull still clutched to her chest.  Lewis’ decapitated body hung out of the driver seat, arms draped over the footstep of the van.  “Tried to warn you,” his voice muttered, from somewhere.  He gestured to Vivi on the ground.

“I should have known better,” Vivi retorted.  She forced herself to sit up and looked down at the skull in her arms.  Bright eye sockets gazed back up at her, and everything about the visage from the poof of magenta hair to the teeth seemed much more solid.  “Incubator.”

“Come again?”  The voice seemed to come from the skull, but at the same time it came from the suit, and just as well it came from nowhere exactly.  It seemed to reverberate in Vivi’s mind, warm and pleasant.

“Incubator,” Vivi repeated, as if that would clarify.  “Arthur called you an incubator.”

“That’s all good and well,” Lewis said.  The skull narrowed its brow and the eyes brightened in the hollow sockets.  “Care to explain?  Mystery!  Get off me!  C’mon now.”

The body jerked its shoulders, forcing the Mystery dog perched on the torsos backside to bounce off with a yap.

Vivi climbed to her feet and somehow managed to scoot Lewis’ body over in the vans seat without the use of her arms, and shut the door after her.  She explained the coffin that had taken temporary residence in the back of the van, and the collective unease it had given she and Arthur.  Not because the coffin disturbed them, not at all, but they were worried for his wellbeing.  The nearest they had concluded of the coffin’s significance was sleeping but… why a coffin?  And was it actual sleeping, in whatever sense it took?

They sat in silence for the next few minutes.  Vivi still held the skull tightly in her arms, and the body sat next to her with Mystery slumped over his lap.

“This is the first time in a long time that I could wrap my arms around you,” Vivi said.  “Not since we were kids.”  The skull said nothing, just stared over at Vivi’s shoulder as if in deep concentration.  Vivi gave him a few more minutes, before asking if he wanted his head back?

“I’m good,” Lewis hummed.  “I was just— You saw the coffin?”  The flames in his eye sockets perked up to her face, as if he’d never heard of a coffin before.

“Yeah,” Vivi said.  “I’m not going to ask this time.”

“Thanks.”  Then Lewis was back to inner debate.  Viv noted the hand of his body was rubbing absentmindedly at one of Mystery’s ears, and Mystery didn’t perk or seem to care.  In fact, Mystery’s eyes slowly closed, evidently content.  “I didn’t mean for you to see the coffin,” Lewis said.  “I knew you probably wouldn’t get around to doing the laundry, you were really tired.  But I didn’t mean to, hmm….”  His voice trailed off.

“You were scared?” Vivi said, in an accusing note.

“No,” Lewis hissed.  He refused to look at her.

“Lonely?”  Vivi chimed.  She hugged the skull more to her chest and rested her head atop the soft poof of – what she had decided were flames at some point – but it was soft and not like fire, and didn’t have the texture of hair.

“Maybe,” Lewis said.  “No.  It’s different, I don’t know how to explain it.”

“I think I get it,” Vivi reasoned.  “But I don’t readily understand either.  Hmm.”

“Hmm,” Lewis hummed along.

Vivi watched the brick wall of the Kingsman Mechanic’s building in front of them.  She heard the once every – other minute car coast by on the road that sat before the garage shop.  It was a little before five o’clock rush hour she estimated, a few more minutes and customers would start to arrive in flocks to pick up vehicles, their days work concluded.  “You miss your mansion?” Vivi asked.  The pause that followed was not encouraging.

“Yeah,” Lewis says.  “But not because I raised the place.  It was all I had.”  He became quiet, and Vivi pressed no more questions.  “Did you see what happen to my deadbeats?”

“Deadbeats?” Vivi said, looking down to the skulls blazing eye sockets.  “The spirits that chased us?”  Lewis made a sound that sputtered, and seemed to reverberate in the silent radio of the van.  She took the pitch as a confirmation.  “Faded.  Crossed over.  I’m not sure.  I’m no master of reading ambiguous visage of spirits, but they seemed fine with it.”  Lewis was silent for another span of time.

Outside the windshield, the sun began to fade behind the surrounding buildings as dusk approached and the air began to chill.  Vivi watched the shadows grow longer and sweep over the front of the van, until a soft tinge of pink brushed over her sweater and the window glass beside her shoulder.  It was then that Vivi realized Lewis hadn’t been staring at her shoulder, he was keeping a lookout should someone approach outside the window.  Or maybe he was just staring off into the distance.

“To be fair,” Lewis began, “I didn’t tell then to chase you or Mystery.”  Mystery opened an eye a crack at the mention of his name.  “I told them to chase Arthur.  You just happen to be in the wrong place, wrong time.”

Vivi glared down at the gleaming eyes inside the skull.  “That was cruel,” she scolded.  Lewis made a gruff sound that echoed in the cold radio, and may have said something Vivi’s sharp ears, attuned to the paranormal, was able to catch.  Lewis eyes flashed over to the window and the vibrant fire inside the eye sockets dimmed.

“Cars, cars,” Lewis chattered.  “People!  I need my head.”

Vivi sighed.  “Of course.”  And tossed his skull into the back of the van.

Lewis’ body sputtered and jerked up, upsetting the dog snoozing over his lap.  “Vi!  What— Why?”  The torso scooted over in evident panic, as Vivi opened the driver side door and slipped out.

“I’m still mad at you!” she snapped, before slamming the door shut on Lewis.

“What?  What!” Lewis screamed, reaching for the door, before remembering he was in no state to go anywhere.  A car pulled up in the parking space one over from the van, and Lewis flung his body over the bench seat into the vans darkened back.  “This is unfair!”

Mystery popped his head over the backseat, a bit dazed from the commotion but recovering.  He assessed the cause of alarm and hopped over the bench seat and joined Lewis fumbling in the back.

“She acts like I was the one that MURDERED!” Lewis shrieked.  The sound was hellish and caused the van to ignite with momentary life, lamp lights pulsing and blazing yellow on the brick wall before them, engine roaring, windshield wipers sweeping and stopping in half motion. 

Mystery moved over and sat down beside Lewis’ torso.  The dog slanted his brows over the amber glasses he wore, and flattened his ears.  This was all not necessary, but he supposed Lewis couldn’t help it.

Lewis’ body turned to the dog, hunched over in the back of the van and barely able to keep from sinking through the floor.  Even without his head Lewis was still tall, and hunched over beneath the low ceiling.  Though he was in no danger of being spied on by curious newcomers, another outburst from Lewis caused the radio of the van to crackle with soft rock from the radio station Vivi had elected earlier that day.

“Don’t look at me like that!” Lewis screeched.  “It’s complicated.  I guaranteed Arthur would have survived!  That was the extent of my restraint!”

Mystery rolled his eyes.  Shoving off his rear legs, the dog leapt up and snared the purple tie at Lewis’ collar.  Lewis buckled forward to the unexpected weight of Mystery leading, hauling him down.

“Mystery!  Bad!  Leggo!  Mystery!”  Lewis pressed his palms to the floor of the van and pushed, but Mystery dug his claws into the short plush and jerked back, snarling in his throat.  “Why?  Why!”  Lewis reached out to snag him, but the dog released the tie and kicked away, then retreated a few steps out of the spirits reach.  As Mystery hung back watching, Lewis spun around and leaned over.  When he spun back the skull had resumed post above his collar, eye sockets gleaming and magenta flames bristling down his shoulders and back until the van was filled with a harsh fuchsia glow.  “I’d stop if I were you.”

Mystery inched back, quiet, contemplative.  His shoulders twitch when he gives a small yip and leaps over the bench seat, into the front of the van.  Mystery nosed at the door on the passenger side, before bouncing over the seat at the driver side door.  Both were locked and Mystery pawed at the door latch, trying to loop his paw through the pull handle.  His claws scratching over the latch without traction, and there was little space between the handle and the door to hook his paw in easily.

The fire along Lewis’ shoulders flutters as it diminishes, the back of the van becoming dark as it was before.  He watched Mystery struggle with the door, and felt his own fists clench tightly.  “What is wrong with me?  Damn it.”

After several failed attempts, the dog surrenders to simplicity and leans over to bite at the door handle.  Mystery jerks back when Lewis reaches over, and grips the door handle before Mystery can get his teeth on it.  Lewis is careful only to reach over the seat and kept his shape out of sight in the driver side window, while more cars roll up to fill the parking lot.

“I’m sorry,” Lewis says.  “I don’t know what gets into me.”  He pulls the handle, unlatching the door before he pushes the door open all the way.  Mystery doesn’t waste his time in jumping out.  “Vivi could be right.  I might be scared.  But,” Lewis detects Mystery’s still there, though timid.  “I’ve never been afraid before.  No.”

It was difficult for Lewis to admit that he, while investigating with his friends, had ever been fearful of what a case could offer in terms of danger. While running around investigating disappearances, cult activities, hostile spirits, his personal wellbeing was a moot concern.  But… he had been afraid for his friends.  The idea of them coming to harm did give him many restless nights.  Still, Lewis felt that he had control over the situation.  He would make sure no one was hurt or scared, and that they were never left behind.  In those days, he had been there for them.  He had always made sure he would be there, through thin or thick, dark or dreary, bleak or miserable.  It didn’t matter what it took, and he’d always felt confident in his abilities.  Looking back, it had been reckless.

Lewis settles down on the floor behind the driver side seat, passively letting his flames fade into his coat and collar as he watched the stars appear as only he could envision stars.  He envisioned galaxies and suns, planets and worlds beyond his grasp.  All swirling endlessly into the infinite pace that moved time, coasting through dark matter and scraping by the cusp of existence.  He felt molten seas sizzle and roar, gases burbling and erupting in geysers of red and gray.  Then ice.  Fields of ice, sheets of endless glaciers chattering as the surface shifts, the only sounds echoing in a landscape void of wind.  The endless blue shimmers with white slates like mirrors, opening into a chasm of the vacant abyss gazing and judging into the void of the universe.

Suddenly there is so much blue.  Cold blue sea.  It takes a moment for Lewis to return to himself, eye sockets brightening with pink flame.  “Ah….”

Vivi frowns down at him.  “You weren’t sleeping, were you?” she asks, a little concerned.  They were all so concerned about each other lately, each of them fitted with dull ice skates dancing on china plates.

“No.”  Lewis sits up and turns to Vivi.  “I was just… thinking.”

Vivi hummed.  “Careful.  Great thoughts require great responsibility,” she says, with a smile.

“If I remember correctly—” Lewis is cut off when Vivi slaps a hand to the front of his teeth.  It didn’t hinder his speech in anyway, but the gesture was recognized.

“Don’t ruin that for me,” Vivi mutters.  “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Lewis pushed her hand away and leaned a little over, raising himself to inspect the lack of sound and activity in the parking lot.  “I wasn’t happy, let me put it that way,” he said.  Lewis saw no one, and the parking lot was very dark but for the street lamps along the sidewalk soaking the edges of the black asphalt with canary yellow.

“I’m not sorry,” Vivi said, crossing her arms.  “However, I am sorry to ask:  It was getting late, and I wanted to get back into Kingsman, but Lance locked the door.  Is there a way you can get in?”

Perched behind Vivi’s feet was Mystery, just staring up at Lewis.  Lewis adjusted his shoulders and began to fiddle with his tie, fitting it back into his suit.  “I could manage something,” Lewis said.  “Can you give me one moment, though?”

Vivi scowled.  “Sure.  But why?”  She stepped back as Lewis took the door’s edge, and without an answer swung the door shut.  He slapped the pin down and ducked out of sight.  Vivi looked along the amber side of the dusty vehicle, as if she could see through walls and would learn what it was the ghost had bought time for.  She turned and looked down at Mystery, but Mystery merely gave her his own dubious glance and raised his shoulders.

After too many minutes had passed, Vivi began to lose patience and was about to start banging on the vans side.  The back door opened, and out glides Lewis.  He set his feet to the asphalt and checked to make certain he had his heels down, then turned to inspect his palms and frowned.

“Oh,” Vivi said, upon seeing the face cloaking bone.  “You should have said something.”

“And ruin the surprise?” Lewis asked, as he swung the door shut.  He paused as his chest expanded, and he let out a crackly sound.  “How was that?”

Vivi smirked as she approached him, and squint her eyes to one side.  “Pretty good,” she says.  “But it sounds weird.  I like it, but it’ll confuse people I think.”

“I’ll work on it.”  Lewis glanced down at Mystery still keeping behind Vivi.  “Where’s this door then?”  He waited for Vivi to walk pass him, before letting his outer visage echo his inner pang.

The Kingsman Mechanics shop ended, but the brick wall that made up its side continued and connected with the building behind it.  There was a metal gate in the wall about halfway between the two buildings, which led into a large back alley for scrap parts and was fitted with barbed wire on both the gates top and bottom, and more barbed wire was curled along the top of the high brick wall.  A chain and padlock was wrapped around the adjoining bars of the gate, but the lock was not secured.  Vivi pulled the padlock off and undid the chain and slid one gate aside, allowing Mystery through.  She looked at Lewis when he stepped up, as she began to close the gate.

“Sorry,” Vivi said, and stepped aside as Lewis stepped through to join them.  “When you project your alive appearance, does it prevent you from phasing through walls?”

Lewis glanced back as Vivi secures the chain, and fixed the padlock in place.  “No,” he said.  “Not at all, I don’t think,” and he sounded dubious, as if he never thought over it.  “But I don’t want to get into the habit of it and forget.”  He looked across the alley, and the collection of rusted and forgotten parts of engines and old tanks abandoned beside the wall.  “What if Arthur’s already asleep?”

“He’s not,” Vivi assures, as she walks past Lewis.  “That’s why we’re here.”

Lewis turned to give Mystery a look when the dog lingered at the gate.  Mystery perked up his ears at the gaze and darted off to rejoin Vivi, as she weaves around the machine parts and the stains on the sidewalk.  With a crackle like static Lewis followed them, silent and displeased.

The back alley is heavy with thick fumes of congealed grease, oil, and diesel fumes.  Vivi leads the way around the discarded scrap, a few tarps covering engines and replacement equipment, until they come to a steel door set in the buildings backside.  Vivi waits as Lewis gives the reinforced door a brief inspection.  Lewis raises his hands and looks at his palms, before turning his hands to the doors surface and seems to forcibly shove himself through as if attempting to barrel the doors itself down.  He fades through the steel surface with a purple-pink outline trailing around his shapes, as he soaks through the door.  Vivi knelt down to give Mystery a few comforting strokes, before she hears the latch of the door echo.

“Open sez’me,” Lewis quipped.  He opened the door more as Vivi stepped through, followed by Mystery.

The interior of the shop was darker than viscous ink, and the black seemed to thicken when Lewis shut the door behind them.  “Hold on, don’t move,” Lewis voice echoed around Vivi’s ears.  There was such force to the tone she obeyed without a sound, though standing within the suffocating murk was disconcerting.  She briefly saw Lewis dart by, a line of pink fire trailing after his eyes and his gold-bluish locket thudding on his chest.  He moved somewhere, but Vivi couldn’t see exactly where he had vanished.

“Can you see?” Vivi asked, when nothing happens.  And no answer comes.  “Lew?”

“Sort of,” his voice, from somewhere.  The nature of his voice and the method it traveled by made it impossible to identify its origin point.  “I found a switch,” Lewis said.

Vivi flinched when the light came on, not far from where she and Mystery stood.  She blinked the remainder of the shade from her eyes as Lewis glides back to them.  It was one of the phosphorus lamps above a work bench, a truck parked beside it.  The garage had numerous vehicles parked inside for the evening, the large shutter doors drawn down and the endless black visible through the pristine clear glass window in each door.  Everything was eerily quiet, as if the world beyond had just stopped.

Except for the low peeping sound that tapered up and down the white washed walls.  Lewis stood beside Vivi taking in their surroundings, judging what was changed and what had remained the same since his last visit to Kingsman Mechanics.  He liked the new white walls, they seemed to brighten the place up and made the light travel to the furthest corners of the interior garage.  Did Lance remodel the place? A lot of everything looked newer or brighter, or maybe he wasn’t focused enough.

The strange resonance faded and swelled at odd intervals, yet altogether seemed to be coming from every corner of the open floorplan of the garage.  Lewis edged forward, aware that the sound was coming closer to them.  His eyes brightened like stars as he scanned for the possible threat.  Whatever it was, it didn’t sound human.  He glared down and felt the energy of his form pucker with anticipation, as the source of the sound began to pinpoint not far from them.  Lewis winced when a small orange ball on wheels scuttled into view.  His eyes dimmed on the thing.  The ball of fluff gazed back with large glossy eyes and blinked.

“Galahad!” Vivi said.  She brushed past Lewis to where the small creature was squatted, still staring up at the tall specter.

“Gala— what?” Lewis stammered.  He drew back when Vivi had picked up the little orange puff and presented it to his face.  “A hamster?”  Indeed, a hamster that sported a familiar hairstyle on the area between its dark ears, and a set of wheels where its back legs should be.

“Galahad.  Like from the Arthurian legends,” Vivi explained, as she gave the hamster a gentle cuddle under her chin.  “He was one of the Knights of the Round Table.”

“The hamster?” Lewis asked.

“No, the knight,” Vivi snapped.  She smirked as Lewis smiled back.  “What’s up Galaham?  Did Arthur make it to bed?”  To the mentioned of Arthur’s name, the hamster’s head perked and he began peeping.  Mystery padded over to Vivi and stared up at the hamster as the small orange puff rotated his wheels, all the while turning his head to one direction of the garage.  “Okay-okay,” Vivi cooed, and set Galahad down.  “Where is he?”

Mystery snapped his ears up as Galahad took off.  Mystery gave Vivi a quick glimpse before he sprang after the wheelie hamster.

“He’s probably in his work room,” Vivi said, as she followed the two racing off.  “That’s on the other side of the garage, upstairs.”  Lewis followed Vivi, and Mystery followed the swift orange blur as Galahad zipped under shelves and a few carts topped with heavy equipment.  It was near impossible to keep up with the squeal of Galahad’s tires as he zipped through shadows, the sound of his wheels on the hard walls came from all sides of the room.  But Vivi already knew Galahad’a destination.  Or so she thought.

Vivi hurried to the far side of the garage, into a smaller section segregated by a wall with a large shutter door.  Meanwhile, Lewis exerted no effort in keeping up with Vivi’s hurried steps, but he did pause occasionally to flip on a light and keep the hamster’s direction lit.  The light barely traveled through the shutter door, but Vivi could make out the bottom of the cement steps just around the doorframe.  She hastened up the steps to the dim light of the floor above, and Lewis glides ahead to the top, both leaving Galahad to begin working up the numerous large steps from below.

Also left behind, Mystery trotted up to the hamster and only paused to lean down and grip one wheel between his teeth before he sprang up the steps four and five at a time.  When Mystery reached the top he set Galahad down and raised his head high to bark, pacing back and forth at the top step and waiting for Vivi and Lewis to catch his signal.

Vivi skid to a halt, and Lewis plopped down to skid through the floor by his heels.   “Not in his work room?” Vivi murmured.  She dashed back to the two, Lewis right on her heel.

This time they followed Galahad, even so it was a struggle to keep pace.  Though it was only the corridor they were headed down, across to the other end of the garage.  “Galahad’s usually this excitable, right?” Lewis asked.  “It’s just a hamster thing?”  Vivi said nothing, and Lewis internally cursed.

Galahad took an abrupt turn, squeezing through a door left ajar and parked himself right beside the doorframe as his companions spilled through.  He gave a small chirp and directed an arm to the room before them.  Mystery wriggled between Vivi and Lewis and took a position on the opposite wall, he scanned over the shelves and the disaster set before them.  A soft whine escaped the dog as his ears tucked back along his head.

“Oh geez,” Lewis hissed. 

The room had a few metal shelves, each filled with boxes, some machinery, and an assortment of colorful and curly tubes.  Before the center line of shelves was a workbench marred by every burn, scrape, dent, and cut imaginable. Cords were attached to socket plugs fixed above in the low ceiling, extending down to the work bench and the racks fixed to the metal shelves behind the worktable.  Solder tools, buzz saws, and sets of pliers from miniscule tweezers to massive monkey wrenches had been littered over the surface of the cluttered worktable, but most seemed to have found suitable stations across the floor.  Tools and pieces of equipment were scattered around the metal arm left clamped, and somehow still intact, upon the worktables marred top.  Half the room was cast in long disfigured shadows, due to one work light that was knocked from one of its tether which left it to dangle sideways, still and amenable.

Stuffed into one of the lowest cuvees of the metal shelves, amongst clutter and beside a pool of oil marinating on the floor, was a pair of red stained pants.

Lewis rattled something and swooped away from Vivi in a sudden gust.  He perched beside the shelf, careful of the oil, and with another hissing sound Lewis reached up under the shelf and carefully tugged Arthur out by his good arm.  Vivi skipped over, avoiding the pieces and parts that had been thrown across the floor.  Lewis maneuvered away from the glossy oil mess before he settled down and shook Arthur by his torso, his blazing eyes occasionally cast over the blackened and red sleeve.

“Damn it Art, wake up,” Lewis hissed.  He let Arthur’s body sag over his thigh and shook harder, but never enough to jostle and break what few joints remained.  “Speak to me.  C’mon, answer!”  Lewis supported Arthur’s back with one hand and set his other hand over Arthur’s face and felt for a breath.  Faint but not encouraging.  He gripped Arthur’s chin and shook his head, in an effort to restrain himself from slapping the hell out of the comatose figure.  “Arthur!  ARTHUR.  I need a sign, a response!  Or so help me—” Lewis twitched when Vivi set a hand on his shoulder.  He was about to snap something at her, when a low moan came from the sorry sack of human remains.  Lewis glared down.  He didn’t once allow himself the thought that he may appear terrifying, eyes black with rosy fire burning in their sockets.  In fact, Lewis didn’t give a flying fuck.  He needed to make sure Arthur was still there, in some sense or another.

Arthur’s eyes scrunch tighter before opening a crack.  His vest was removed, and numerous small blotches of grease or some other odd colors stained his once white shirt, and a yellow-black ring was in his empty shoulder sleeve where his arm should be.  But Arthur’s eyes opened, struggled to take in light and sights while he picked up on muffled sound.  Above his face he saw the sharp stabs of white light and a dark face, eyes blazing and unforgiving.  There were other shapes and shades bobbing around, but not as clear, not as focused as the visage staring.

One of Arthur’s eyes snapped open and fixed on the face.  “L-Lewis?” he burbled, reaching out his only arm.  “It’s you, isn’t it?  Lewis?  You came back.”

Lewis hesitates.  Arthur was… Arthur was someplace else.  His expression was calm, collecting slowly, but his aura was in five different directions, twisting and wriggling to find a suitable station in which to settle.  It unnerved Lewis.  “Hey,” Lewis hummed, almost melodic, gentle and sturdy.  “A little more, Arty.”

Arthur’s other eye pried open slowly, and recognition swung heavily through his broken expression.  The eyes became hollow as his mind drifted, Lewis felt Arthur’s mind dive into somewhere distant.  A dark place, cold— No.  Icy and dank.  The air tinged with decay, rolls of sharp vapor nested among rocks and dirt, noxious gas seeping through damp stone.

“Careful,” Lewis said.

Arthur snapped his arm out and took hold of Lewis sharp collar, gripping the wispy fabric for dear life.  There was anger and focus in Arthur’s eyes, and he tightened his fist into Lewis collar and would never, ever let go.  Through clenched teeth Arthur muttered, “Gotcha.”

Lewis let his eyes trail away.  He nearly turned to check Vivi, when Arthur let out a gurgled sob.  Lewis returned his focus to Arthur, as the other hauled himself up by his arm and pressed his head into Lewis’ chest.  “I’m sorry,” Arthur whimpered.  “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.”  That’s all he said, over and over.  Arthur pressed his face harder into Lewis’ chest taking in short breaths, only to refuel his mantra.  “I tried to grab you.  I meant to grab you, but… stupid.  I saw you fall.  I watched you FALL.  I watched.”  Arthur couldn’t do much but curl down over his good arm.  “I… used the wrong arm.  I did it wrong, I fucked up.  I fucked it all up.  I can’t— couldn’t fix it.  Couldn’t fix….”

Vivi looked around at all the parts and pieces scattered, and looked back to Galahad and Mystery by the doorway.  Lewis followed her eyes over the floor, where a few wires were scattered, a bent pair of pliers and the spilled oil, among the superficial evidence of unrestrained fury with no target, no outlet.  Just direction.

It was all so familiar.  Like a distant dream, in a different world.  Galaxies away.  A lifetime ago.

Lewis wrapped his arms around Arthur and pulled him up, but Arthur tensed and bawled harder.  “Don’t kill me,” he yelped, trying to push away from Lewis.  “Don’t kill…. sorry.  I’m sorry.”

“Quiet Arty,” Lewis hissed.  He squeezed Arthur a little more and glared across the room at nothing in particular, except perhaps the few bits of metal as if they had any responsibility over Arthur’s current state.  “Just shh,” Lewis continued, a little softer.  “No one’s going to kill you.”  Arthur was a complete mess, arm limp and face pressed into Lewis’ collar.  “Art.  Would you listen to me?”  Arthur said nothing, but he slumped into Lewis’ a little more and his sharp breaths had lessened, accompanied by the timid hiccup.  “I don’t want you to fall.  I don’t want you to follow me.”  Lewis glanced back over his shoulder a bit, when he picked up on Vivi slipping down to sit beside them.

Arthur mumbled something and seemed to hide in Lewis’ arms a little more, if that was possible.

“Do you see that?” Lewis said.  He glared at the floor, the shimmering puddle of oil where his reflection wavered.  Lewis pondered with no solution, and no way to say the words Arthur may need to hear.  I can’t.  I won’t.  He coiled around Arthur more.  “There’s a pit.”  He winced when Arthur trembled and sobbed harder.  “But listen, Arthur.  We should head back,” he said, trying to recall his last words as a living, breathing person.  “We’ll regroup.”

“Lewis, no,” Arthur choked.  “No-no.”

“I’m not falling,” Lewis hummed.  “We’re not falling.  It’s okay, open your eyes.”  Lewis refused to loosen his hold on Arthur, until the broken figure had raised his head an inch and opened his eyes to meet Lewis’ steady gaze.  “Hey.”

“Lew,” Arthur said.  His arm fumbled around trying to find a hold but eventually gave up.  Arthur stares at Lewis as if not seeing, but remembering.  “You’re here.”

Lewis ducked his head into a nod.  Arthur found a place for his arm, encircling Lewis’ side as far as it could and clutching at one of the ribs.  “Stay with us, Art.”

Arthur dropped his forehead to the dark suit and focused on the texture, the blues and purples that refracted light all wrong.  “I pushed you,” Arthur mumbled.

“It’s not a contest.  You couldn’t stop,” Lewis said.  He focused on the scattered bits of surviving cogs and metal, and mulled over the differences in shape and function  Lewis thought about the van, and thought about the things that once gave him restless nights.  “I could,” he began, “but I didn’t.  That’s the decisive edge.  Now drop it.”

“Fine.”  And Arthur said nothing more after that.  There was a short pause before Lewis leaned back to find that Arthur had lost his battle with exhaustion. 

Lewis frowned.  “This dork.”  He looked over as Vivi moved to her feet and tugged at his shoulder.

“It looks like he cut himself,” Vivi says.  She leaned on Lewis’ shoulder as she touched Arthur’s brow and sighed.  Arthur was fine, maybe.  He would be all right.  “There’s a couch in his work station, and I’ll get a kit.”  Vivi left through the door, and headed down the corridor.

Lewis lifts Arthur up with him and trudges into the corridor and moves into the opposite direction Vivi had gone.  The low squeak of the hamsters wheels followed, Galahad keeping watch of his companion; besides the soft piping was the pad and click of Mystery’s claws on the floor.

The thought now hovered in Lewis’ mind that his presence was more damning to Arthur than his absence, but that shouldn’t come as a surprise.  It hadn’t, and he didn’t allow himself the guilt or concern he might, should have felt.  Another tether, another unsurpassable wall. 

The fall. 

When he awoke, as he so often did at the conclusion of a nightmare, it was not safe and in a warm bed surrounded by friends.  Later.  Later and later, and much later, he accepted that he would have no more restless nights.  The recollection wounded him somewhere deep, and somewhere none tangible.

“I could’ve just haunted you,” Lewis muttered.  Arthur’s aura was pooling, the erratic tendrils slowed into a cohesion that was preferred and agreeable.  .  “But where’s the sport in that?”

A low growl came from Lewis’ back.  The spirit glanced over his shoulder, stunned to find it was Galahad that was making the hostile sound; while Mystery glanced between him and the small fluff ball with uncertainty.

“Just a joke, little hermano,” Lewis assured.  “He’s having a hard struggle in him, and there’s nothing I can do to amend that.”

The work room Arthur utilized as his own was cluttered with tables, all decorated with every piece or part and cog Arthur had carefully ‘adopted’ from the garage.  Lewis set Arthur on the beaten up couch near the door, and gave the room a brief scan.  Walls had hooks and pegs screwed into the cinderblock surface to cradle additional tools and motors, or cords.  A blanket was left draped over the coffee tables beside the couch, and Lewis took it up and folded it as he further examined the room while Mystery and Galahad remained near the couch.

Lewis was setting the blanket down on the back of the couch when Vivi arrived, the white first aid kit in hand.  The spirit drifts away to admire the random worktables shoved at odd angles around the small room.  Lewis never liked to see the scars Arthur had acquired throughout his misadventures with the Mystery Skulls, and Lewis most certainly did not want to pick out the new ones Arthur had claimed in his most recent travels.

[salemsoul]

The Gentleman Bastard’s sequence Fanfic. (Spoilers)

Overview: Locke and Jean find Sabetha 5 years after the events in Karthain only to find out she has a child.

It had been five years since Locke and Jean had last seen Sabetha. That fateful night in Karthain played repeatedly on Locke's mind, and despite his pain, he stayed true to his word and did not seek her out. Jean often thought they were being too true, and that just finding her would certainly save him how many more years of headaches until she resurfaced again. His friend Locke was as stubborn as a debt collector but complained like a toddler, and with 10 years total, not including their short time with the bondsmagi, of his bullshit whinging about Sabetha, he decided to take matters into his own hands.

They had heard rumours throughout the years about her. Whisperings about the rose of the marrows resurfacing and destroying lives, some even said she was dead. But that's all they were. Whisperings. When created, myths tend to grow and twist all of their own.

However, Jean followed the rumours as much as he could. If he mentioned any to Locke he would just reply with "Well, I hope she's having the time of her life, and absolutely fucking miserable," often accompanied by said friend guzzling down the nearest bottle of wine until he was in a hazy stupor.

Due to Locke's almost constant drunken, depressed state, Jean was in charge of where they travelled, and the few months they were there Locke would hyper-focus on a new scheme, seemingly cured from his ailments, until it was all over, and Locke the mess would return. During this time, they'd even found themselves in the middle of a war, taking advantage of people's needs for supplies and weapons to charm the coins out of their pockets, only to find themselves in bigger trouble. Thank goodness that was now behind them, and Jean hoped this next city would finally reunite them with Sabetha.

The previous places they had visited had all been due to rumours about Sabetha's whereabouts, not that Jean ever told Locke that, and their arrival at Halgaist, a mountain village, was for the same reasons.

If Locke noticed this wasn’t the best place for a scheme, he didn't say, but they had accumulated a nice amount of wealth recently that they weren't desperate for money.

About a week into their stay, Jean was just about to think that Halgaist was yet another dead end, when they met her.

Earlier that day, Jean had roused Locke enough to convince him that a walk around the markets might spark his mind for a scheme. Locke begrudgingly agreed, dressing himself at a leisurely pace, before following Jean out of the door into the late afternoon chill.

Halgaist was famous for its winter markets, where craftsmen who lived deeper into the mountains, came to the town to sell their wares for the winter period. The whole town centre was filled with stalls selling items from furniture to warmed wine and dried fruit.

Jean and Locke were just at one of these stalls, admiring the intricately carved wooden toys and music boxes when they locked eyes with Sabetha on the other side.

The three froze, not quite believing that who was in front of them was not a spectre before tears started to fall. Sabetha rushed around the table, dodging milling citizens and accidentally hitting a few with the paper bag she held in one hand before launching herself at the two men.

"I never thought I'd see you two again," she said between tears, pulling them into her arms and squeezing again. Locke seemed beyond words so Jean said,

"And us, you." Relief washed through Jean, the hunt was finally over, but a look to his right told him enough about what Locke was feeling. Locke was frozen, staring off into the distance with tears sliding down his face as if he was in a trance. Sabetha didn't seem to notice so ushered them out of the crowds and to the empty side of the large square.

"Would you two like to come to mine, we can talk about our time apart over some spiced wine and cakes." Sabetha looked mostly to Locke as she said this, chewing nervously on her lower lip, and when Locke didn't reply Jean simply said,

"We'd love to," before gesturing for her to lead the way. Sabetha looked at Locke, who was still staring off into the distance, before offering Jean a tight lipped smile and nodded.

Sabetha lead them to a small district just out of the town full of cosy wooden cabins and snow-capped mountain tops. Sabetha talked and talked about the history of the town and about her favourite places to visit while rarely turning around to check if the two men were following her. She led them up to one of these cabins, tucked slightly out of the way behind a few grand pine trees, before welcoming them inside.

Jean and Locke followed her into what served as the kitchen in this quaint two storey cabin, and sat down at the large oak table in the centre of the room while Sabetha fussed, rushing upstairs for a few moments and then added a few logs to the already burning fire in the hearth and grabbing the wine, her paper bag discarded on the table.

Sabetha sat perpendicular to Locke at the table, to Locke's left, while Jean sat to his right. Jean then began spinning the tale of the last few years, talking about their troubles in Emberlain and a few honourable mentions from their latest schemes. Locke would occasionally quip in, and as time passed Locke seemed to relax and become more himself, much to Jean's relief.

Sabetha was looking at Locke as if she had something to say, still nervously chewing on that lip, while nodding along to their tale, barely lifting her eyes to look at Jean. Jean tried not to feel the sting. Sabetha probably missed Locke as much as he missed her, but had yet to tell them the reason for her departure in Karthain in the first place, content to let them take the lead in this conversation.

They were just down to halfway on their second bottle of spiced wine when a small voice arose from behind Jean. "Mama, who are these people?" Jean turned to see a small girl, not more than three or four years too her, clutching a soft toy to her chest. She wore a long white nightgown, grazing her ankles, and had messy red hair. Her steely blue eyes bore into Jean's, leaving him blinking confusedly at Sabetha a question on his face. Locke's expression mirrored his own as his eyes set on the girl, except with an added bit at horror.

Sabetha rushed to the little girl, crouching down in front of her. "Did we wake you up from your nap?" Sabetha said, smoothing the girl's hair. The little girl shook her head. "Do you want to go back up to bed?" The little girl shook her head again. Sabetha let out a sigh, before picking up the girl, carrying her on her hip and setting her on her lap as she sat down back in the chair she had just left. Sabetha reached over and picked up a small slice of cake from the table and presented it to the girl, who greedily accepted it into her tiny hands, leaving her toy to fall on the floor.

Locke picked it up, placing it on the table between them before saying, "So, you have a child." Jean could tell pain laced every calm word. The thought that Sabetha might have moved on, had even started a family, had never crossed their minds. To Jean, it had always been Locke and Sabetha, even when the years drifted on without a sign from her, to think that it could now be Locke, and Sabetha and someone else, hit Jean in a way he couldn't describe. Jean did the maths in his head, if this girl was indeed about three or four years old as he suspected, it means she must have been conceived not long after they split ways in Karthain. Could Sabetha really have found someone and moved on that quickly?

The girl was staring at Jean again as she messily ate the cake. There was something about her eyes that felt off to him. They were wise and assessing beyond her years, and hauntingly familiar.

Sabetha drew her gaze from Locke, wiping a few crumbs from her daughters dress. "Uh yes I do. I was going to tell you two as soon as I saw you again, but it was too hard, I'm sorry. I really was going to tell you tonight though."

Locke took a swig from his wine, "well as long as you are happy, and as long as her father cherishes her, and you."

"About that,-" Sabetha was interrupted by her little girl, cake now demolished, reaching over and pulling Sabetha's glass towards herself with her sticky hands. "Ah ah ah, that's not for you." The girl let out a little whinge and started puffing out her lips. Sabetha let out a long sigh, "Fine, but just a sip." She helped her daughter take a swig, and when she pulled the glass away the little girl let out a little giggle from her wine soaked mouth directed at Locke. Locke seemed stunned at the little girl's sudden attention, but gave her a smile before lifting his own glass up in a salute and downing it to the dregs.

Sabetha then wiped the girls mouth on her dress, staining it a light pink, before tucking the girl into her arms in a cuddle and continued, "As I was saying," Sabetha took a long breath, steeling herself for what she was about to say, "her father has not had a chance to cherish her," a look to Locke, "because her father is you."

The words shot through Locke and Jean, and they couldn't quite believe what they were hearing. Locke seemed to have been transported to wherever the Eldren had gone at the words and they were going to have to scrap his jaw off of the table.

Deep understanding settled in Jean. Of course he knew those eyes. Those where Locke's eyes in the little girl that were now slowly drifting off to sleep in her mother's arms, and the maths made sense, she must have been conceived that night in Karthain, when Sabetha disappeared, making the little girl just past four years old.

Locke sputtered, shaking his head, "and you didn't think to tell me, to find some way to contact me." His eyes went dark, and that was the rawest emotion Jean had seen from his friend in a while.

Regret painted Sabetha's face, and she pulled her daughter a little closer to her chest. "I did try. Please believe me I did, but I was also very scared. You see, the night I left, Patience was her name right? Well, she told me that I, that we, were going to have a daughter, and no matter what I did, she was going to find herself into this world, and if I did not leave now, we would lose our daughter because of you, and I was so shocked and scared, and I wanted my own little piece of this world, that I left. I tried to write you a note, but I knew you wouldn't understand, so I just gathered a few things and left. And don't think for one minute that in these last five years I haven’t regretted that decision, because I have regretted every moment. Especially when I gave birth and you couldn't be there to share that with me."

One of Sabetha's tears dropped onto her daughters cheeks and the little girl sat up with a start, her sleepy state gone, and brushed away the tears on her mother's face. Sabetha looked to her daughter and gave her a sweet smile, "thank you, darling, Mama's ok, don't worry." The girl only narrowed her eyes suspiciously, before nuzzling back into Sabetha's chest.

"I need some time to think Sabetha." Locke said, staring at the table. Sabetha stood up, cradling her daughter in her arms.

"I am going to go upstairs and put our daughter to bed, you can stay down here all you like and think away while I'm gone." And she walked out in the direction of the stairs.

"Locke," Jean started but Locke just gave his friend a look that stopped him in his tracks so neither of them spoke for several minutes. "At least we know why she left. And it’s a pretty damn good reason too."

Locke nodded absently, "Fucking patience, I hope she rots in hell wherever she is."

"That I can agree with," Jean said, taking a sip from his wine.

"I have a daughter Jean. A daughter. And I didn't even know. I've been drinking like a lonely widow while Sabetha has been here raising our daughter for me."

"You can't blame yourself Locke, you didn't know." Jean took this time to refill his friend's glass, but Locke didn't touch it.

"I couldn't even be a good garrista Jean. I let the only initiate we had die in front of me. How am I going to be a good father? Bug would be twenty now, twenty. If only I could have looked after him like chains did for us."

"Hey now, none of that is your fault, you did your best, and Bug had a better life with us, no matter how short it was, than he would have had had he stayed Shade's Hill. The Grey King and the Falconer wanted us all dead, we are lucky we escaped that ourselves, and you are lucky to have even fathered that child with the woman you loved. Don't I wish I could have had that opportunity."

"Jean. You know I don't mean to be ungrateful."

"I know, but just think, upstairs you have a beautiful little baby girl. Yes, you may not have been in her life for the first bit, but now you have a chance to be in the rest of it. So prove to yourself that you are worth more than all this drinking and scheming, and be the man I know you can be. That girls got a wonderful mother, and she'll do just fine raised by her, but I'm sure she'd be mighty grateful to have you there too." Jean picked up his glass again and took another drink.

"Jean, I need to go upstairs." Locke said, shakily standing on his feet.

"Then go then," was all Jean said, as Locke disappeared in the direction Sabetha went.

Locke got to the top of the landing and paused at the multiple closed wooden doors. A faint sound of singing could be heard from one just down the corridor and Locke knocked lightly on the door before pushing it open.

Sabetha was sat on the edge of a small cot in a cosily decorated room that was no doubt a child's. A few toys were strewn across the floor and small paintings, painted by a child's hand, hug on the wall. She was gently stroking their daughter's head, while singing an old Camorri tune they often heard the sailors sing when they were growing up. Sabetha stopped at the end of a verse, and Locke continued the song, perching next to her on the cot. Soft snores could soon be heard from the little being on the bed.

Sabetha then stood up slowly, and Locke followed her out of the room, where she closed the door softly behind them. Neither of them made a move to step away from the door, and stood in silence for a few long moments.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here for the first few years of her life, but I would like to be in the future ones." Locke said softly, careful not to speak too loudly.

Sabetha didn't reply for another long while and turned away from him as she said, "Well, that depends. Are you going to insist on continuing your ridiculous schemes, because I told you once and I will tell you again Locke, but I can’t live with you as a garrista. And I don't want that life for our daughter either."

"If that is what it takes, though I don't know what I will do with myself I will admit."

Sabetha turned around slightly, "enjoy life, instead of living scheme to scheme and destroying people's lives. I admit it is fun, but there are other jobs that also require our particular skill set." She took a few steps towards him. "I've taken up acting. There's a small theatre troop here and I work with them. It's not a lot of money, but for once I don't have to worry about being caught. Join us, have a break and raise our daughter with me."

"What if I'm not any good and I mess her up somehow?" Locke said, taking Sabetha's hands in his own.

"You have to trust yourself. She can't be as messed up as we are. I've coped this long on my own, trust me, it's not easy, but it's a lot of fun." Sabetha reached up a hand and cupped Locke's cheek, he gave her palm a small kiss and covered her hand with his own.

"I'll do my best, you can be garrista for this," Locke smiled.

Sabetha gave a small chuckle, "Trust me, the only garrista here is snoring away in her bed."

"Is she really that much trouble?"

"Oh, just wait and see."

[writingismyhappytime]

Marry Me (Part 2)

Ricky x Reader 

Warnings: Language 

"So that's the plan? You're just... gonna do it?" You groan as you push yourself out from under the mini van, grease streaking your cheek. Ricky is squatting down beside you, nodding.

The shop is busy, it's a Monday so all the guys are there. It's loud with everyone working on vehicles, but Ricky is trying not to talk loud enough where anyone else can overhear.

"Yep."

"Ricky, that's not romantic at all," you complain, holding a wrench in your hand as you shift. You frown at him, pushing up onto your elbows. "You can't just shove a box in my face in front of everyone and ask. That's lame."

"But I bought the ---."

"I don't want to know!" You hiss, huffing as you finally sit up completely.

Ricky sighs; you're wearing that stained jumpsuit again, skin gleaming with sweat from the horrible heat. He's not sure how you're going to pull off the whole girly-shocked act when he does propose.

"When do you want to do this then?" He asks, sounding irritated as you finally crawl to your feet, setting your silver wrench to the side. You put your hands on your hips, frowning.

"Well, it's going to have to be soon, isn't it? Within the next month?"

"Yeah." He shifts uncomfortably. Can this even happen within a month?

"Huh. Well," you glance around, then gesture for him to follow you into the office, not wanting to be overheard. You still can't believe you agreed to such a thing, but why not? You'll get a pretty wedding you can remember forever, and Ricky gets his daughter; you can always divorce later when you have the money.

You hold the rickety door open for Ricky, then kick it shut, the glass rattling in its pane.

"Okay, so here's the plan," you lean your hip against the cluttered desk, dust collecting on the filing cabinets stuffed in the corners, the black phone held together with purple duct tape. There's ancient calender's on the walls, dating back at least ten years, and the photos on the walls show your grandfather and father opening the shop together, your family through the years. "Who's having that party tomorrow that's going to have everyone there?"

"Uh, Balz. It's a, um, grand opening party for his new store." Ricky shrugs his shoulders. Balz might not be in the band anymore, but that doesn't mean that he's still not one of them. He's  opening a new shop, and he's having a small party to celebrate.

"Okay, so we do it then." Sounds easy enough. Sure, you've never met any of the rest of his band. You've seen pictures of them, and you've met Ryan, because you've been to Ricky's house to help him change his oil, so you're sure this is going to be a shock for them. "Just don't go around telling everyone why we're getting married, alright? If a lot of people know, then they're going to blab, and that'll get us in a load of shit, okay?"

"I know better than that," Ricky grumbles, crossing his tattooed arms over his chest. He looks worried, and you know he's thinking about his daughter; he isn't going to do anything that would make him lose her. "So you want me to propose then?"

"Yep."

"Alright. Do you have a dress or something you can wear? Or... something nice? Balz told us all to dress up because he's going to be taking a lot of photos for his website."

"I own dresses, Ricky," you look at him, miffed. "And yes, I'll even make sure to wash the grease off first."

He flushes. "That's not... exactly what I meant."

Well, you can't really be mad at him for the comment. He's only ever seen you while you're working or getting off, and having black on your hands isn't something you can avoid. You sigh, hoping this isn't going to be a disaster.

"I'll pick you up around six," he says, chewing his lower lip, the buzzing light above glinting off his lip ring. "We'll go, we'll mingle a little bit, let Balz have his moment. Then, when it seems like shit is getting dull or something, I'll propose. Since Balz is taking photos anyway, I'm sure he'll capture the moment and blast Twitter with it."

"Ahuh. You know Claire will immediately start calling the instant she sees it."

"I know." He looks uncomfortable. "But I gotta do this for Chloe."

"Yeah." He doesn't have to make it sound like it's going to be a task. "But hey, you'll totally love being married to me. I make excellent pasta."

He chuckles; you really do. He takes a step to your side, leaning back against the desk, bumping your shoulder with his. You smell like an oil rag, but it doesn't bother him anymore. He's grateful you're doing this for him, putting on this grand charade. It's going to be a task, making everyone believe that you've been having a secret relationship from everyone, and then out of the blue he decides to propose without even warning his family or friends.

"So, when you propose, make sure you do the whole down on one knee thing," you say after a moment, tendrils of your hair framing your face as you lean back on your hands. "Complete with the whole, 'I love you' speel."

"Should I hire an orchestra and everything?"

"If you think it'll make the moment more believable."

He rolls his eyes. "I still don't see why we can't just elope."

"Eloping makes it look suspicious, doesn't it? If we do everything very publicly, it'll look like we have nothing to hide and nothing to dig for. You can move your stuff into the spare room upstairs, I'll get my name changed, and everything will be as official as fuck. After you get Chloe and a couple months down the road, we can get a divorce. Should just be a couple thousand, I guess."

Ricky grimaces. "Maybe more than a few months then."

"Well, alright." You figured he'd want to get a divorce as quickly as possible. "So you propose, I say yes. I'm already looking at venues, and I think I found one already. I don't want to call until you do the thing, though, just in case."

"That's fine. The sooner we get this done, the better."

"Cool. Also, I found a place online that we can order a tux from," you glance him over. "And I'll see about finding a dress. Did you think about your best man and all that? Chloe can be the flower girl if Claire doesn't kill us first."

"Uh, no, I haven't thought about it." Ricky hasn't given any of the wedding much thought, he's been trying to avoid it. He's been busy with worrying over Chloe, his finances, how the guys and his family is going to react to the sudden news of his impending wedding.

Talking about having to clear your schedule in a hurry.

"So you have the ring then? And don't be like, predictable. I need to be surprised."

"Predictable?"

"Yes. Don't go in, immediately be like, 'I need to say something', because then I'm going to know. Catch me off guard."

"I feel like you're making this more complicated then it should be."

"Welcome to marriage."

~~~~~~

You look at your reflection, wondering if you look okay. You have dresses, you just never have an opportunity to wear them! You've curled your hair in pretty ringlets around your shoulders, applied makeup you never get to wear, and in your opinion, you look damn good.

Your dress is cute, with a swirly skirt to your knees. You put on some flats, you don't want to be taller than Ricky, and it's basically sleeveless. You purse your lips, your hands resting on your hips as you gaze at your reflection.

Ricky should be impressed, right?

You're irritated with him over that comment, you do have nice things. You can't exactly wear them while you're beneath a greased down machine, now can you? No, you have to dress appropriately.

You've made sure to spray your perfume, checked there's not a speck of grease or black on your skin, and you even painted your nails! You look like someone going on a date, or to their impending future engagement party. You hope Ricky's friend isn't mad that he's going to steal the spotlight, but maybe he'll be understanding.

You bite your lip, glancing at the time on your phone. Ricky should be here any minute, and you hope he likes how you look. You're a bit self-conscious about the fact you look so guyish all the time, and his comment didn't make you feel any better about it. Some men are intimidated that you're a better mechanic than them.

Maybe he'll approve.

~~~~

Oh.

Damn.

Uh.

Ricky stares at you, his eyes wide as you step out of your garage. You're actually wearing a dress, and you have hips! Lovely hips, actually, and quite a nice figure now that he really looks.

You're pretty.

"You look nice," he says finally as you start across the paved parking lot, and you give him a bright smile at his words, cheeks heating.

"Do you like it?" you ask dryly, giving him an experimental twirl. "It's been in the back of my closet for months now. At least I finally get to wear it."

"I'm surprised you own dresses," he chuckles, stepping around the car to open your door for you. "I've never seen you out of that jumpsuit."

"Because you only ever see me when I'm at work or I'm balling my eyes out," you reply, pleased that he likes your dress. "You look nice too." You tug at the collar of his black shirt, getting a whiff of his cologne. "Almost fancy."

"I try." He shuts the door behind you, glancing around the vacant parking lot of the auto body shop. There are some streetlamps coming on, but otherwise it's pretty vacant. Sure, there are some extra cars, probably ready to be taken into the shop in the morning, but that's about it.

Admittedly, Ricky's nervous, and his palms are slick. He's not sure if he's going to be able to pull this off tonight, although with you on his arm it's going to be a little easier. You're always so confident like you have everything under control, he admires you for that. It'll go smoothly, at least he knows you're not going to reject him.

That's a... plus, right?

~~~~~~~

"Don't be so nervous," you whisper in Ricky's ear as you enter the decorated shop, your arm curled through his. You're all bright smiles and long legs, and Ricky almost cringes.

Everyone has noticed the two of you come inside. That, or he's incredibly paranoid and thinking everyone is staring him down.

You're so pretty tonight, he likes the way your dress clings in all the right places. He'd been incredibly nervous about the whole thing, he still is but... well, having you at his side really helps.

"I can't help it," he tugs anxiously at his collar, giving Josh a nod from across the room. It's not a huge party or anything, mostly just friends and family. This is the second shop to open, filled with odd amenities and definitely some creepy items.

"Hey, it's gonna be fine," you take his hand as the two of you step into a corner, lacing your fingers through his and squeezing. "Just don't bail on me, alright? I wore a dress for this."

Ricky snorts. "You're making it sound like that's some great accomplishment."

You frown at him. "I should have worn heels, I would have been towering over you."

He huffs. "Yeah yeah."

Your eyes flick around the room, hearing faint music playing in the background that you recognize; the guys are usually playing it in your shop, and Ricky listens to it a lot at his own house.

You smile at Ryan as you see him heading towards the two of you, his eyes curiously landing on your entwined fingers.

And so it begins.

"Hey guys." He says with a sigh as he steps over, running a hand through his hair. He looks relaxed, wearing a nice black shirt and casual jeans. He's not super dressy, no one really is, and that makes you feel better that you didn't go over the top with your outfit.

"Hey Ryan." You greet, feeling Ricky tense beside you. "Has it been pretty smooth so far?"

"Yeah. Balz hasn't had his grand speech yet, I think he was waiting for Rick to show up." He glances behind him. "You're late, dude."

"I had to pick her up, and traffic was more than what I thought it would be," Ricky grumbles in response. "But hey, I made it."

"Yeah. You guys had anything to drink yet?"

"No, is it spiked?"

"Don't think so."

"Then I'm fine," you sigh, shaking your head. Honestly you're a little nervous about the evening as well, although you're not going to let Ricky, who's a firework of panic ready to explode, know that. You figure he's not even going to surprise you, that you're going to have to goad him into action because he can be such a little bitch sometimes.

Ryan chuckles at your answer, relaxing. He's always really liked you, you're so chill and he likes hanging with you, you're another one of the guys. Plus, you're sort of more manly than Ricky is, mostly because you know everything about cars and half the time your mutual friend can't even get his key fob to work.

"Everyone!" Josh calls, the music fading in the background. All eyes turn to the former keyboardist where he stands on a little stage --- or pedestal for some statue you're sure. You recognize him from photos you've seen, although you've yet to personally meet him. He seems nice, even if he left the band, and he's still close with all the guys.

"I want to thank everyone for coming tonight," Josh continues, and his speech goes on for a moment. You sort of lose interest halfway through, absently picking at a string on Ricky's shirt sleeve; he really needs to cut it off. Your hand is still in his, although it's getting a little too warm in your opinion.

You're so relieved when he's done and there's the mandatory clapping and cheers --- at which someone shoves a champagne flute in your hand full of... something not alcoholic, unfortunately. You sip politely but not because you want too.

Ryan wanders off into the crowd, and you look at Ricky pointedly. His hands slip anxiously into his pockets as he takes a step from you. He can feel the ring box, and his fingers clench around it nervously.

Oh shit.

He's actually going to have to do this, isn't he? He doesn't mind the action itself, just the aftermath of everyone freaking the fuck out.

"Go mingle with your friends," you nudge him slightly. "And stop looking like you're going to be sick, you're actually turning green at this point."

"I'm not green."

"You're getting there." Your hands go to your very shapely hips. You quirk one brow at him, tapping your fingers impatiently before he sighs.

"Fine. Come on, I'll introduce you to everyone." He offers his hand with a grimace, and you actually scowl at him, a little hurt.

"You can stop acting like this is literally painful for you," you snap, starting to feel foolish. "You asked me to come, remember?"

"It's not painful," he defends himself instantly, glancing around as your harsh tone garners some attention he definitely doesn't want. "It's not like this is easy."

"Why not? You're just introducing me, Ricky, not ---."

"It's not that, Jesus. It's--- well its what happens after and having to make up some excuse, yknow? I don't want to lie."

Seriously!?

"Ricky, I swear to god. If you're going to be a baby and back out, tell me right now so I can go home." You order, put out. He's acting as if being around you is embarrassing, he hardly said two words to Ryan while he was standing with the two of you. If this is how he's going to act now, the rest is going to be a disaster!

"I'm not going to be a baby, I ---."

"I understand if you're nervous, this is kind of a big deal, but you're making me feel like crap. Do you want me here or not?" You demand, glaring openly at him. Maybe you've been around men too much, but it's made you incredibly blunt and you rarely put up with anyone's bullshit. He's pissing you off!

He flushes beneath your glare, but he knows you're right. He really needs to get it together, doesn't he?

"You're right," he mutters reluctantly after a moment, but he knows if he doesn't agree you'll just continue to make him feel stupid until he admits you are. "I just... I'm so worried about all of this."

"I know, I get it." You soften slightly, taking his hand and squeezing. You give it a moment, then brazenly lean forward to kiss his cheek, seeing him blink at the unexpected action. "But you have to stop acting like such a little bitch or this is going to blow up in our faces."

His expression sours. You literally had to say it that way, didn't you?

"Hey, Ricky."

Ricky straightens immediately, turning to look up at Chris as he and his girlfriend step over. Your eyes flick over them curiously, seeing they rather complement each other with their equally dark and foreboding looks; you've never been one much for hair styling or lots of makeup, but his girlfriend definitely makes you wish you'd put even more effort into your appearance.

"Hey. You guys this is (Y/N)," Ricky introduces you, and you smile, trying to seem a little more friendly than what you really are.

"The mechanic, right?" Chris looks down at you curiously; he's vaguely heard Ryan and Ricky talk about you in passing, so he'd had a muscled up woman eight feet tall with car tattoos sort of pictured in his head.

You look nothing like he'd pictured; you're pretty, wearing a dress and flats so you're not taller than the guitarist. Your hair is done, nails painted --- much girlier than he expected.

"Yes." You nod your head, a little surprised; does Ricky talk about you or something? How did he ---?

"You're a mechanic?" His girlfriend seems surprised.

"I own a shop in town." You say after a moment, shifting your weight. You kind of don't like how she's looking at you, as if getting ready to use those long black nails for dissection.

"Oh. So do you hire or ---?"

"I work on the cars as well." Why does everyone always think you just do office work? You literally look and smell like a grease rag most days, and you kind of can't afford not to work, either. You've got bills and it takes a lot of money to keep a car shop going; the tools, the labor, just trying to keep a long stream of customers --- sometimes you're up all night just trying to figure out a way to make sure you always have business!

"How interesting! I know Ricky doesn't even know how to change a tire," she chuckles, and even Chris looks slightly amused.

Ricky rolls his eyes. "Can we let that drop please? And it was on the bus, not like any of us could do much for it!"

The bus?

"What happened?" You ask curiously, feeling Ricky start to relax beside you as Chris and his girlfriend tell the story --- or mostly Chris with his girlfriend chiming in occasionally when he forgets a slight detail.

You laugh at the end with them, purposefully leaning casually into Ricky's side. After a moment you feel his hand rise to rest on your lower back, just like you'd been hoping it would; you're going to have to keep up an appearance right now after all.

You're way too good at this. Ricky keeps his touch light on your back, knowing exactly what you're doing. Usually you might just nudge his shoulder or flail at him, you're not actually this touchy of a person.

He's taking cues from you the best he can.

"So how long have the two of you been together?" Chris girlfriend asks after a moment, finally voicing the question bouncing around in his head; Ricky has been so focused on his daughter and getting her from his ex, he's not exactly had time for dating.

Or has he?

"A little while," Ricky shrugs nonchalantly. You're a little impressed that he doesn't immediately cringe and give his lie away. "We've been friends and just decided to take the next step."

Riiight.

More like huge fucking leap.

You don't disagree, just squeeze his hand and cut your eyes at him. He doesn't need to say too much; Chris, who you're pretty sure is the front man of the band they're all in, isn't quite buying the bullshit line.

"That's so sweet," his girlfriend says, but you can't tell her level of sincerity. You just shrug your shoulders, wondering why you didn't bring even a mini bottle of alcohol with you to get you through this night.

Just please don't be a disaster.

~~~~~~~

Ricky is frowning.

He's standing with Ghost and Balz, a black cup in his hand as he looks across the crowded room. Chris pestered him for a few minutes about his very sudden, unexpected relationship status, but eventually let it go.

None of the other guys seem to care that much, although annoyingly Ryan hadn't seemed very surprised; honestly he figured you guys had been fucking for a while. You're just too good of friends to not have been.

Still.

Doesn't mean Ryan has to be making you laugh and giggle and stand so close to you. What the hell does he think he's doing, anyway?

Ricky sips his drink, scowling.

Now since the focus has been on Balz, the party is starting to dwindle. Some people are already leaving, it's getting late --- maybe now is the perfect time to do the thing?

Operation grow-some-balls and propose?

Your name for it, not his.

"So, when did you ask her out and why did none of us know about it?" Ghost huffs, miffed at being out of the loop. He usually prides himself on knowing the relationships of his friends, and he finds it very irksome he was left in the dark in this particular situation. He's seen pictures of you before, but you seem pretty normal, no tattoos he can see. You got some nice legs, admittedly, but you're not his type.

"It was pretty sudden." Ricky mumbles, wishing he would let the subject go. He's not really one for public spectacles, he'd rather just shove a ring on your hand and tell the guys about it later, but this is something you want.

It still bothers him you think a guy isn't going to do this for you one day. You want a pretty wedding and the romantic proposal, but he's pretty sure that when you find someone who really loves you, you'll have that.

It's why it makes him feel bad and he doesn't want anything fancy. He feels as if he's ruining it for you in the future.

Still, though, this is what you want and he kind of owes you.

"Sudden?" Balz looks amused. "Most definitely. Dude, I've never even heard her name before."

"Well we were always just friends before, we ---."

"So what changed? When did you start fucking her?" If anything, eloquent Ghost is not. Ricky sighs at the bluntness of the question, but he's not very surprised.

"Devin."

"I just don't see why you didn't mention anything before, alright? Not to any of us."

Yeah, Balz has to agree it is a bit strange. Sure, Ricky has always been the most private out of all of them, he never really posts about his life on social media or puts a lot of gossip out there, especially since he had his daughter.

Speaking of which.

"Uh, Ricky." Balz blinks, and nods his head forward.

This is going to get ugly.

Ricky turns after a moment, his hand suddenly clenching around his black cup and causing the contents to immediately cover his fingers.

Oh no.

Oh holy fuck.

It's over.

Everything is ruined.

His eyes widen in horror as he sees his ex girlfriend standing by the door, fake blonde hair trailing down her shoulders and makeup a bit too much for her.

"Satan has arrived," Ghost breathes, crossing himself. "Did you bring the holy water and sage?"

"Fuck, what's she doing here?" Ricky gasps, panicked. Where the hell can he go!? Is there a table or a trap door he can disappear through!?

What did the woman want!?

"Uh. I did not invite her," Balz wants to make that clear. He never liked her, honestly, but he's always tried to be friendly. He's not sure how she even found out about the party, he kept the guest list pretty short.

"I didn't figure you did," Ricky's shoulders hunch, but he knows his ex isn't going away until she finds him. She's persistent and stubborn and brings out the worst in Ricky, and he doesn't need that right now.

He just wants to propose to you!

Why is that so hard!?

"Uh oh." Ghost says.

"What!?" Ricky turns anxiously, tossing his cup into the nearest bag he can find. His heart stutters a little. "Oh no."

You saw Claire.

Now, one thing Ricky has always admired about you is your brazen attitude and how very unafraid you are of confrontation. You'll bitch out one of your mechanics in front of God and his disciples, you don't give a shit.

Suddenly that's unfortunate and Ricky doesn't need you beating up his ex, that's not going to look good in court!

Because you will, beat her up that is. You don't fight with silly slaps and hair pulling, you go full force with a punch to the face and he doesn't have the money to bail you out right now.

"Rick, don't worry. Claire isn't going to scare her off," Balz offers after a moment, internally sighing; he really doesn't want drama at his opening!

"That's not what I'm worried about," Ricky says anxiously, every alarm bell in his brain ringing loudly. "I'm worried Claire is going to piss her off and (Y/N) is going to beat the shit out of her. Oh fuck!" He groans, seeing you part from Ryan and stride in Claires direction.

What the hell are you doing?

Ghost and Balz look at each other, blinking. How rough are you exactly?

~~~~~~

"Claire. What are you doing here?" You ask sharply as you walk to Ricky's ex, the mother of his child and complete pain in the ass.you hope Ricky hasn't noticed her yet, he'll be having a heart attack.

Claire twists, and she looks at you for several seconds before it clicks who you are. Her nose curls almost instantly, her manicured hands going to her hips.

"I can ask you the same thing." She mutters, and you don't miss the black circles beneath her eyes or how tired she looks. She's dressed normal, jeans and a t shirt supporting some coffee shop --- you'd figured maybe she's here for an early child support check or something.

"Ricky invited me to come," you say after a moment, relaxing slightly; Claire doesn't look like she's spoiling for a fight at all. She looks tired more than anything, whereas you're used to seeing her dressed to the nines and ready to impress.

Claire snorts, brushing her dyed hair behind her ears at your response. "Boring, isn't it? I always hated having to come to these and pretend I gave a shit."

Riiight.

You forgot she's as blunt as you; maybe Ricky has a type and he doesn't even know it.

"Is there something you want?" You cross your arms as you lean back on your heels. You're not really sure what she wants, she doesn't seem aggressive at the moment, but that doesn't mean her mood can't flip like a penny in the air. You don't want Ricky to have to deal with her, but ---.

"I need Ricky to watch Chloe this weekend," she says flatly, her eyes zeroing in over your shoulder, has she spotted her prey? "I'm going out of town and I can't take her with me."

"Where are you going?"

"That's none of your business."

Ahuh.

You frown at her, but before you can say another word Ricky is stepping between you, blue eyes flicking back and forth warily; yeesh it's not like you were going to start a fight with her in public, he can stop worrying! How volatile does he think you are?

"Claire ---."

"I need you to take Chloe this weekend." Claire says before Ricky can say anything else, sounding impatient. "Take her to school Monday morning and I'll pick her up afterwards."

"Uh---."

"She's waiting in the car, I already have her bag packed." Claire continues in that irritating way, as if Ricky never spoke. "She's already excited."

What a bitch.

Did she basically tell Chloe she'd be spending the weekend with Ricky before she even asked him? Now Ricky can't say no, he hates making his daughter feel disappointed!

Fuck!

Claire subconsciously ruined your proposal weekend!

It's like she knew.

"Fine," Ricky says wearily, he's not even going to bother arguing. Really, any time he can spend with his kid he's going to take. "Bring her in and I'll take her."

Claire brightens noticeably. "Good! Thanks. She already won't shut up about it."

You can't stop the roll of your eyes.

Claire pretends she doesn't notice as she turns away, disappearing out into the dark street. You scowl after her, turning to look at your future husband accusingly.

"What?" He asks defensively. "It's Chloe!"

"You could try standing up to her and telling her no for once. She's probably shoving Chloe off on you so she can go party!"

"It doesn't matter if she is, at least I get Chloe and I know she's safe. I'd rather she drop her off with me than take her with her."

You suppose it is a good thing, but still.

"Daddy!"

"Hey, Chloe!" Ricky kneels immediately as his daughter comes barreling into him with out stretched arms. She curls them around his neck with a giggle, a bear clutched in one hand. Her father hugs her tightly, sighing.

"She's all yours until Monday." Claire sighs, holding a Barbie backpack in her hand. You give it a moment before you offer to take it, reluctantly slipping the strap over your shoulder.

Really, it's good Ricky gets to see Chloe this weekend, it's been a bit since he has. You're not upset that he is, you're just irritated with Claire in general.

He can't exactly propose now, which means all your scheduling is going to have to be set back. So no public proposal after all.

Bummer.

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