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sopeyb23-blog · 4 years ago

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The Three Rules

Rule #1

Summary: Spencer and F!bau!reader learn to trust each other during a difficult case.

warnings: swearing(mild), injury, angst, criminal minds style issues

Pairing: Spencer Reid x F!Reader Words: 4.2K

A/N: I took forever to get to the point on this one! the beginning is supper fluffy and the end has mostly angst with a little fluff. Part 2 will be up tomorrow! *I do not own any CM characters

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Rule #1: Trust in each other

A familiar buzzing enters my dream and wakes me. Both Spencer and I’s phones are buzzing loudly on the bedside table and I see him groggily move his hair from his eyes and pick his phone up.

“Hello?” His voice is low and scratchy but his eyes open a little more when he hears whoever is on the other end. Must be Hotch. I groan loudly and turn over to grab my own phone which has ceased its relentless buzzing. Three texts, all from JJ. we have a case, get to BAU ASAP. Well, there goes my weekend.

“Yeah she's here with me, might be a little late, have to drop by her apartment- yeah, yeah we’ll get there as soon as we can- no, don't wait up, we’ll meet you at the tarmac.”

He hung up his phone and placed it back on the table before rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“I got the same text. How long have we got?” He reached a hand for mine and pulled me into him like we always do in the morning.

“Not long enough i’m afraid.” He placed a quick kiss on my forehead and then released me from his grip. We both rose from the bed and gathered our things. He quickly put on his work clothes while I just threw on a sweater of his and a pair of running shorts that I had brought with me. I would be sleeping on the jet anyways, It would be a long flight.

After a few minutes I stood in Spencer's kitchen grabbing his keys along with mine.

“Spence? Babe, we gotta go, where are you?” I walked around his small apartment to find him standing in front of his bathroom mirror struggling with his tie.

“I can't. It's always so crooked!” I chuckled and he turned from the mirror with a pout on his face.

“Alright, come here.” I continued laughing as he smiled at me and walked to where I stood in the doorway. As I fixed up his tie he snuck his hands around my waist and pulled me into a kiss.

“You know Y/N, we've been dating for six months and it would definitely save us both a lot of time if-”

He started to blush and I brought my arms up underneath his own, around his back so they rested on his shoulders.

“Are you asking me to move in with you?” the creeping blush on his face increased ten fold.

“Well, I mean- yes- well, not if you don't want to- I mean it would definitely be easier for the both of us- but I mean if you think it's too fast- I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or- you can just say no-”

He stuttered during his rambles and stopped for long enough that I could kiss him with a big grin on my face.

“So, is that a yes?”

“Yes. Yes, that's a yes. I would love to move in with you Spencer Reid. But, we’re running late, so let's go”

With a big grin on his face I rushed him out the door with his go bag and satchel before driving the both of us over to my apartment. I dashed up the stairs to grab my own go bag and my work clothes before going right back down to the car.

Spencer~

I swear the smile that she manages to put on my face is something no one else can do. Even as she drove to the tarmac where the team was waiting, the car quiet with only her playlist going on in the background, she managed to light up my whole world. She was still wearing my sweater and a pair of her black running shorts. Her hair was in a messy bun on the very top of her head and she wore a pair of faded high tops on her feet. It didn't matter that we had been awake for a total of 20 minutes or that she had less than a minute to get ready, she was always the most beautiful girl in the world to me.

She parked in the lot next to JJ’s car and we both rushed out to where we saw the rest of the team loading up into the jet.

“About time lovebirds.” Morgan snickered when he saw us and ruffled my hair as I plopped into the seat beside him.

“Good morning to you too Morgan” I smiled and grabbed a case file from JJ’s outstretched hand.

I saw Y/N sit beside Emily on the other side of the jet and pretend to look into her case file while she said something to Emily. Emily quickly turned her head to look at me and then back to Y/N. A big smile spread across her face and she motioned JJ over to them who did just about the same thing.

“What do you think they talk about back there?” I looked up from my file and back to Morgan and Hotch.

“I think I have a pretty good idea” I smiled to myself and ignored Morgan's pleas to tell him. JJ will tell him as soon as we’ve been briefed I'm sure. But for now, I couldn't resist holding something over his head.

Y/N~

JJ briefed Spencer and I just as the jet began to take off. She took little glances at Spence while she briefed us, smiling broadly and not even bothering to try and hide it. Spence put a hand on my thigh mindlessly as we reviewed the case file. The comfort of having him so close to me made me tired all over again.

“Well, that's pretty much everything. I guess I’ll leave you two alone” JJ kept on smiling and walked across the jet over to Morgan and Hotch with Emily close behind her. I noticed Em pulled out her phone and Face Timed Garcia to tell her the news.

Spencer's hand was still resting on my thigh as he looked over his file. I took my hair out from its constraints and took my glasses off, placing a single earbud in, and leaned my head onto Spencer's shoulder. He smiled and put his file down on his lap taking his now free arm and wrapping it around me. I started to drift off just as I felt him take one hand around my back and the other under my knees. He lifted me up from my seat, being careful not to yank the earbud from my ear and placed me lying horizontally onto the jet's couch. He walked away for a moment after he set me down and I groaned at the loss of contract. Then, almost as fast as he had left, he was back, grabbing the king size blanket from my go bag and settling himself behind me on the couch, pulling me into his side, and putting the blanket around the both of us.

Spencer~

JJ shook my shoulder to wake me as the plane started to land. Y/N had already awoken and changed into her work clothes. She wore a pair of blue jeans with a tight red t-shirt and an FBI windbreaker, though still wearing her faded hightops as she always does. Hotch decided to send all of us to the precinct right away instead of splitting us up like we usually do. The case was personal for everyone at the precinct. Mainly because this killer was targeting law enforcement as their main victims. He tortured them and their family members and sent parts of them back to the precinct for all of their colleagues to find.

“Reid, Y/L/N, can I talk to you for a moment?” As soon as we walked in and set our things down I heard Hotch call our names.

“Oooh, someones in trouble” I swatted at Morgan and gave him a glare before waiting for Y/N and walking into an empty conference room with Hotch.

“Something wrong?” Y/N talked immediately while I opted to stay silent. Hotch almost never calls people out like this.

“No, not at all. I just wanted to warn you, two is all.”

“Warn us? About what?” Y/N continued to talk with him as I stood awkwardly beside her.

“Well, as I’m sure you both figured out the team told me that you are moving in together. I am happy for you both, I am. I just need to warn you not to let that excitement and emotion come through in the field.”

“Hotch, you know us, we’ve never let that happen before” I spoke this time letting Y/N take a break from this little tough love talk I'm sure we were about to receive.

“Of course. I know that, but this case is different. Our lives are at stake here as well. Even more so now that we are the highest authority here. I need you to be able to know that and still work this without any issues. So, be honest with me. Do you both think that you can do that?”

Without a second of hesitation we both responded.

“Yes.”

I would say that's one of the reasons our relationship works so well. We aren't just on the same page about each other, we also both know that we love our jobs, they are our whole lives, and we would give anything to do them together.

“Good. that's all, let's get to work”

Y/N~

Hotch left the room right away, giving Spencer and I one moment alone.

“We can do this right?” I looked at him, suddenly questioning what a moment ago I had said without hesitation.

“Hey, look at me.” I brought my head up to look him in his hazel eyes.

“We got this.”

I took a deep breath and squeezed his arm before walking from the room and continuing our work. If only I had known what was to come.

For the next week our entire team worked tirelessly to find the killer. While we worked five more people were killed. Two of them were children, three of them were parents, all of them were connected in some way to the same precinct where every day my team sat and worked. Every single death took an ever bigger toll than the ones before it. Day by day I could see everyone's spirits starting to break. I decided that was enough. I made a vow to myself that not one more person would be hurt by this man while I was here. And I kept my promise. Unbeknownst to Spencer or the rest of the team I devised my own plan to bring this man out into the open. It was risky, it was dangerous, and it was really, really, stupid. But it worked.

Spencer~

Three days after our arrival, the killer began to send notes to us. He knew us all by name. He knew our relationships, and our past, and things about us that we thought no one else knew. It was my job to decode the messages, respond, and draw whatever conclusions I could from the way he wrote. In the last message before everything went down I noticed something strange. Something that he didn't do in any of the other messages. He directed it only to Y/N, and not to anyone else. In every single other note that he sent to us he wrote all of our names on it. Making sure to put at least one personal detail about each of us in the note to show us that he was the one in control. He wanted us to feel like we were helpless. And in a way, we were.

“It just bothers me is all” Hotch had ordered all of us to go to the hotel for the night. Most of us hadn't slept in over thirty hours and we weren't going to be any good to anyone like that. I stood by the sink brushing my teeth and I tried to talk through my thoughts with Y/N.

“Spence, I know it's creepy, trust me. But i don’t think it's anything weird okay? I'm sure tomorrow he'll send a note that's only to you, or only to Hotch or something, I just happen to be the first in his pattern.”

“Well that's what bothers me! You know as well as I do that the first person in a pattern is always the most significant. No one starts a pattern without thinking about the first number in it more than the rest.”

I undid my tie and set it on the chair in the corner of our shared room. At that moment I knew something was wrong. There was no way she would brush off an idea of mine like that unless she definitely knew I was wrong. But she couldn't know I was wrong, could she?

Y/N~

It was time for me to act. Spencer was right, I wasn't the first in his new pattern for no reason. It was because I communicated with him. I gave him what he wanted. Me.

“Spence, I’m going to head to the precinct with JJ and Em okay?” He was laying face down in the bed still asleep. He had been awake and working even more than the rest of us so i decided to leave with some of the others and let him sleep in.

“Huh?” He groggily turned his head to the side to look at me and I pushed a curl out of his face.

“I'm leaving baby, you go back to sleep, it's all good” I gave him a final kiss on the back of his head and without a single word of protest he fell back asleep.

I felt horrible lying to him, but I couldn't put him in danger. I might be able to end this thing without putting anyone else in danger. I holster my gun and grab the keys for one of the SUV’s. I drove to the meeting spot. It was a house on the very outskirts of the town, pretty much in the desert. The house was decrepit and in major need of repair. I'm meeting a goddamn serial killer though so I guess that's to be expected. I stepped out of the car with my weapon in my hand. I called out but didn't really expect a response back, nor did I receive one. I tried the handle of the door to find that it was unlocked and swung it open with my foot so as to keep my weapon up. I heard a creak from the upper floor and immediately dashed up the rickety stairs to find him.

The way he looked into my eyes will haunt me forever. I looked into his dark eyes and saw nothing. Like there was no soul behind them. Rossi always says that that's the only similarity he has found in all of the serial killers he has interviewed. They are of different genders and races and from different parts of the world but the one thing they all have in common is the look in their eyes. You could stare at them for days and you would never see any glimmer of emotion in them.

In the short second that I was stunned by his presence he started to come toward me. I screamed to him,

“One more step and I shoot!” not that I really believed it. He obviously didn't either because he kept on walking in a straight line for me.

“Ha! Tsk, tsk, tsk. No you won't. Not when you don't know who I have”

I paused again. What could have been my final mistake. Who he had? He didn't have anyone. But that wasn't exactly a risk I was comfortable taking. He lunged for me and my gun flew from my hands in the struggle. He hit me more times than I could count. He held a knife in one hand but had yet to use it. I scrambled back towards the stairs and he followed. With still no soul in his eyes and a knife in one hand he slashed at me. I landed on the floor just before the stairs and he kicked me down them. The only thought before panic was pain. My mind was foggy but I managed to crawl a few feet and I took out my phone calling 911 as he walked calmly down the stairs behind me.

“Y/F/N Y/L/N, FBI badge number 2075778924 i need an ambulance, swat, and police, call SSA Aaron Hotchner.”

There was blood and a kick, and then I was out.

Spencer~

I woke to a knock on my hotel room door. I was still half asleep but I dragged myself from the bed and opened the door to find Emily and JJ waiting with worried looks.

“Hey guys, sorry i slept late, i thought you went to the-”

“Reid listen to me, Y/N's hurt and she’s with the unsub, Derek, Rossi, and Hotch are there now but-” I dashed back inside the room threw on my converse and grabbed my gun before running back to the door and out to the car with them just behind me.

“How bad was she hurt JJ?” I sat in the front with Emily driving as JJ was in the back trying still to talk to someone on the phone.

“I don't know, none of them are picking up” my eyes were wide and my heart was beating out of my chest as they started to explain to me what had happened while I had slept. As I slept she was being reckless. As I slept she lied to me. As I slept she was in danger.

Y/N~

I awoke with Derek standing over me and a very persistent pounding in my head.

“Did it work?”

“Yeah girl genius, it worked” Derek shook his head with a smirk and helped the EMT’s sit me up before walking outside. Hotch and Rossi walked over to where the EMT’s had taken me on the gurney and attempted to give me angry looks, but I could still tell that underneath them were just looks of relief. I shooed off someone trying to lift me into a gurney and instead hopped off one and walked over to an ambulance where I sat on the metal step.

“Y/L/N, that was reckless.”

“I know, Hotch, I’m sorry”

“I'm glad you're okay. Get cleaned up and we’ll talk about punishment later.” I nodded and thanked him before he walked off to help Morgan get the unsub into custody. Rossi, however, insisted on staying by my side until Spencer got here.

“I'm glad you're okay kid. But what you did was stupid. And trust me, I know stupid.”

I laughed and nodded to him.

“I know, I know. I just couldn't let anyone else get hurt.”

“Kid, we're a team. The point of a team is to tell us what you're thinking so we can help.” I stayed quiet as the EMT’s came over to examine me and start to stitch me up. Just as someone placed a bandage over a large gash on my forehead I heard a car pull up and several doors open and close. Spencer jumped out of the front seat and began to half jog with a crazy expression on his face over to me. Emily and JJ ran to him and just in front of him trying to stop him from whatever they thought he was about to do.

“What the hell were you thinking!” His pained angry scream took me by surprise. Spencer never raised his voice. Never.

“You put yourself in needless danger! For what? For glory? For pride?” He was closer to me now but he continued to scream. Emily and JJ were still alongside him, Em was almost in front of him trying to talk him down and obviously not succeeding. Every word he said was like a stab. As he finally reached where I was sitting in the ambulance Emily and JJ stopped trying to move in front of him and instead came to my side.

“Needless? This is what you call needless? Five people were killed, Spencer! You saw as well as I did how everyone was coping! I needed to do something! And It worked! I caught the bastard and I’m fine!”

When I first started speaking it was quiet and sad. But after a minute of seeing the anger in his eyes I began to raise my voice as well. All of the emotion from the past treacherous week came flooding out to him and by the last sentence I was screaming too.

He looked me dead in the eyes and Emily placed a hand on my back to comfort me as I was now crying unabashedly.

“I need you to trust me with things like this. None of this works if you don't trust me. We don't work if you don't trust me”

His voice broke and the look in his eyes turned from anger to a deep sense of pain and sadness. He turned around sharply and began to walk off.

“Spence! Spencer!”

I was crying as Emily looked over at me. I tried to stand up to follow him but was met by three sets of hands pushing back into a seated position.

“No, Y/N. I've got this one.”

JJ stood from her spot beside me and jumped down from the ambulance to walk towards Spencer. Em and Rossi stayed with me as I cried into my hands and after a few minutes Emily ushered the EMT’s back to me so that they could continue their work.

I looked over to where JJ had followed Spencer, by a big oak tree just within sight of me. They stood facing each other and I could see Spencer gesticulating wildly with his hands as JJ talked calmly and every once in a while motioned over to where I was sitting. She put a hand on his arm and I watched as his whole body tensed before he pulled back from her. She looked back at me for a second and said something to him before walking over to where Hotch and Morgan were waiting.

“He’ll come around, he's just hurt” Emily looked at me with sad eyes and I nodded. I kept my eyes trained on where Spencer was standing. Even though he was crying and so, so, very mad at me, he couldn't help but keep looking back at me every few seconds. Still trying to make sure that I was there.

“Agent Y/L/N, I’m sorry but your shoulder is going to have to be put back into place before we send you to the hospital.”

The voice tore me away from Spencer, and Emily took my hand and smiled at me.

“Um, okay. Do I need to do anything or…”

The pain radiating from all over my body made me unfocused and I trailed my sentence off.

“No but, it's going to hurt. A lot.”

“Great. Well, let's get this over with then” Em took my good hand to brace me and the EMT took the other one.

“Okay ready? One… two...and” just before “three” he rotated my arm and a loud pop told me it was back in place. That, and my scream of bloody murder.

Spencer~

I stood with my back to her but every few seconds I would look back. Just to be sure I guess. I wasn't even mad anymore. Other than at myself for yelling at her. I was just scared. Out of what seemed like nowhere I heard her scream out in pain. Not a sound that you like to hear when your girlfriend’s in an ambulance and you aren't even standing close to her. Without a second though I sprinted over to her in a panic to find her hyperventilating and her eyes wide in panic.

“S-spence- Im sorry- im so-so sorry” She was crying and all of her words were broken apart into little pieces. I right away sat down and pulled her into my lap, being as careful as I could to not disturb her bad arm.

“Baby, I’m so sorry. I should have stayed with you and I do trust you, you know that” She sobbed into my chest and let out weak whimpers with each one. The pain in her voice broke my heart.

“Can you give her something? Anything?” I looked around but everyone shook their heads. So instead I just pulled her closer to me and tried my best to help her breathe.

“I-do-trust you-.”

“I know baby, I know you do, its okay”

I held her like that for an hour. The team all stayed with us and stood in a circle outside of the ambulance watching me hold her tight to me as she worked through the pain. Eventually the pain subsided, she was breathing normally again and could almost move without crying out.

“Hey Y/N, you know I’ll always love you right?”

“I know. I love you too”

And that was the real lesson of rule number one. It wasn't that we needed to trust each others skills, or jobs, or actions. We just needed to trust that we would always love each other. And that trust is the most important of all.

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jjba-hell · 3 years ago

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Repaid

Day 3 and its time for some spaghetti western shenanigans.

Listen... I don’t like Westerns but I did have way too much fun writing this so do with it what you may.

Reader stays gender neutral in this house, no real warnings save for some guns and violence. Enjoy.

The dull ache in your right eye socket is really starting to get you. You’d figured you could sleep it off if not for the scratchy material of the tavern sheets under your skin.

Wait.

How did you get to the tavern again? Last time you checked Miles was a few days behind you and he had the money. The plan was to camp.

Camp... camp... oh right camp! You sat up to look for anyone else awake- someone should be on watch but there’s no dying campfire beside you. There was nothing beside you, not even a horse to say you’d been left behind. All that stretched around you was an infinite amount of desert sand painted pale blue by the full moon above you.

“Shit.” You hiss out between your teeth as you push yourself up on your feet. Not even so much as a sleeping mat was underneath you and god this stupid eye of yours was foggy. Must be some sand caught in your eye- wouldn’t it scratch though?

You didn’t have much time to consider pondering as a shadow- that’s the best you could describe it- pushed its shoulder through you and continued a sluggish walk ahead of you to fuck knows where.

“Where are you going?” You found yourself asking with a voice much too hoarse to be your own. Not only was it hoarse but it brought awareness to just how dry and cracked your mouth and throat were. If you’d been out here since sundown or ever before that your throat was probably bleeding. Might explain the taste.

Without feeling like you had much choice you started walking after the shadow. The longer you walked the worse every annoying itch turned into an ache- the scratchiness in your throat only seemed to get worse the more you huffed a breath to continue walking. If you were following death, honestly you’d just laugh.

After what felt like hours you were no longer alone- a few other figures much like the one you were following seemed to join you in blindly walking after the leader. You couldn’t see much of them either, not that they were close enough to look at anyway. The town’s dull yellow lights seemed to brighten every step you took but it wasn’t enough to convince your body to cooperate. The closer you got, the heavier your limbs, the harder the steps until your knees gave out under you and your face acquainted itself with the dirt.

All you could remember after that was the feeling of hands clasping themselves under your arms and your feet dragging behind you.

“That’s the only memory I have of that night. I had no idea I even spoke to you.” You admitted to the man whose saddle you were slung over. “So unless you plan on selling yourselves out for a little bounty money I don’t see why this is fucking necessary.”

When you’d woken up from that night you found yourself more coddled than you’d ever been in your life- swaddled in soft sheets and even softer pajamas, wrapped up in bandages like you were a porcelain doll.

Didn’t last long and now you owed this gang money for your stay and a doctors visit. You promised you’d pay them back but you didn’t have a fucking penny on you. Their solution? Tying your hands in front of you and slinging you over the saddle of the one with the weird eyes.

“You admitted to being from the McRoys gang- that’s loyalty bonded by blood.” The gruff voice above you commented, not doing anything to qualm the painful pounding your stomach was getting from the horse’s steps.

“My sister married a McRoy for fuck’s sake, those fucks don’t mean shit to me!”

“Swear that on ya daddy’s grave?” Came the question after some audible hooves clambering to get closer to your head.

“I’ll do ya one better- I’ll put ‘em in his grave and THEN swear they ain’t mean shit to me.”

Their boss slowed down to a stop and you’ve never wanted to slide headfirst into the sand more than you did in that moment. “This the place?”

You were hauled off of the horse and onto shakey legs. True as hell you stood at the sign for the McRoy ranch and to even a bigger surprise your goddamn horse stood at the troth drinking water with your saddle on and all.

“Why you fucking- untie me right now.” You held your bound wrists at the giant man that had lifted you off.

He only gave an amused huff of air from his nose as he cut you free so you could stomp through the hot sand on bare feet.

“And you leave me? After hauling you out of your fucking mother all those years ago, I topple off you once and you fucking high-tail it?” You angrily grab the knapsack from its back to rummage through for some clothes- wasting no time to slip over your head and over your ass to replace the pajamas.

“Are you sure you were riding alone?” The brunette with the ponytails asked.

“Yeah. I don’t even remember why I toppled, let alone where or how..” You peered at the team once more. “My boots?”

They all seemed to share a laugh as the blonde coughed it up and you humiliatingly stepped straight in them.

“Right. So now that we’re all on equal footing... what do you really want from me?”

Being an outcast in any group was difficult, LaSquadra was no different. You’d have to risk your skin more than once to finally be able to earn even a bit of trust from their boss specifically and what you’d deem your cut was quickly snatched up by Formaggio for drinks until one day Risotto handed you your cut of coin and instead of quietly handing over the money, pulled a gun at Formaggio’s head- the first right move you’d pulled in weeks.

You’d soon learn each of them held a bounty over their heads- deciding to stick together instead of trying to haul each other’s asses to the nearest sheriff. And with your handiwork all over the McRoy ranch heist (clean as you’d tried to keep it), you’d find yourself with a bounty almost comparable to Risotto’s.

It was only when your place among them was solidified that you found yourself suggesting more and more outlandish schemes for a bigger cash grab.

“But we gotta start thinking logically about this- if we burn down every sheriff’s office there’d be no evidence to incriminate us.” You had jabbed at Illuso as you two ducked under an overturned table. One moment you were offering a stand off in the town square, the next thing you knew the bar was being blown sky high by some awfully desperate lawmen.

Risotto’s bullwhip slid across the shattered glass from the neighboring table and that what all signal you needed. “And all of this because ONE wanted poster showed you having a mole on your upper lip.”

“Did you not see the size of that thing??”

Risotto kicked the overturned table to slide into the crowd- leaving you enough of a gap to between the bullets to crack the whip into a couple hands- those viper venom soaked bone shards woven into the end was doing enough damage to the holder’s hand to knock ‘em out of the game for the count.

You got enough of them down to give Ghiaccio the chance to fire a few shots and Melone to bust open the window where Pesci awaited with your way out.

Risotto slid in behind your table and handed the loaded pistol for your round of shots. Not that you missed half as much as the men your travelled with.

Your right eye never did stop being foggy- Melone suspected cataracts but you saw targets much too easy with your foggy eye to cover it up completely. Maybe you were taking “deadeye” too literally though.

After 5 out of 6 rounds now lodged firmly in some lawmen’s thighs you hopped out the window last and took off after the rest of your team.

“If we have to pay for one more bar’s repairs I swear to god I’ll turn myself in for a hanging.” Formaggio huffed as he dropped onto the dusty floor beside you- fingers outstretched for the bottle of moonshine you were only passing around- that shit was vile.

“They’ve been hot on our trail for a while now- you think the townspeople are sick of us?”

“Somehow I doubt they’re willing to take their chances with Ciocolatta’s cronies, must be something else.�� Prosciutto lowered himself to your other side, offering a cigarette which you did accept. “You don’t think it’s the new governor?”

“That little blonde pipsqueak? No, there’s no way- he probably got that job from his daddy and doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing, let alone getting lawmen to run us down this consistently. Illuso, you’re the one making people squeal when we stay in town, no rumors that could have sparked this?”

“Carne’s allegedly dead but he’s not big enough for the people to let their guards down now.”

“Well we might be finding out soon.” All your heads spun to Risotto as he walked back into camp from the first watch. “There’s someone coming this way.”

“I’m guessing you think we can take them?”

“Sick of running. Anyone who’d come this far after us at least deserves an audience.”

You’d packed everything up except the fire in the camp- if it was going to be a shootout, at least you’d be ready to leave. You were about to mount your horse when Risotto stopped you. “I’m gonna let you stand up front-“ he handed you his bullwhip and two more casings of ammo. “If anything goes south, you’re our best shot.”

So you nodded and led your horse to the front, the others waiting behind you as the group- matching your own in numbers- came to a stop.

“You calling the shots?” The one with long white hair cascading under the brim of his hat asked.

“Nah- just the front line. What you come out all this way for? The moonshine’s shit unfortunately.”

“Precaution. We’re not here for any arrests, though.” Mr Black Bob came to his partner’s defense- the rest only seemed to wait.

“No arrests? You say that with a lawman right next to you?” You gave a nod to Mr Moonhair.

The click of a pistol had the hairs on the back of your head stand up. You didn’t know from which side it came from but it was like a cascade of 13 other pistols pulling back their hammers.

“Perhaps we should talk before we jump to conclusions. Name’s Bucciarati.”

“Well Bucciarati it sounded like that pistol cock came from your side first. I don’t know if I can trust a bunch of snakes that lie to my face.”

It was surprisingly not Mr Moonhair that removed his revolver from its holster. It was the one with the bandana over his head.

Another cascade of metal slipping from leather as they all pointed at one another, save for you and Bucciarati. “Got some trigger-happy subordinates there, Bucci. Who do you work for?”

“The governor.” All charm had left his voice and now you were left to the stiff formalities of a man serving.

“Ah. So you ARE lawmen.”

“We have no idea what sinister grip you have over the townspeople but it will not continue like this. We’re here for an ultimatum. Disappear from your business and all bounties will drop- no lawman will arrest you and the warrant for your hangings will be dropped.”

“Mhm and if we’re caught doing our usual business?”

“Then all charges are doubled.”

You couldn’t help but give an earnest laugh as you broke the stare off between you and Bucciarati. You leisurely turned around and mounted your horse. Risotto gave you a knowing look as you did, stealing yourself to look into Bucciarati’s ocean blue eyes.

“Do yourselves a favor- go visit Reaverbrooke. Ask some questions... shit if anyone is still there... and get a feel for the service we provide. Make sure you report all of that to the little blonde boy’s boot you’re lickin’ and maybe then we can talk on ultimatums.”

The barrels lowered as you spoke, watching Bucciarati keep up his attempt at a death stare.

“But since you’re lucky, you’re dealing with the bleeding heart of this gang- we’ll lay low until you come back to us. Same time next week?”

Bucciarati wasn’t given much time to answer as you led your squad out of the camp. Once enough distance was put between you, Risotto came up beside you.

“You’re leading us to their base? What are you mad?”

“Someone’s gotta put that pipsqueak back into his place. Who better than us?”

#jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo no kimyou na bouken #la squadra #jojo part 5 #risotto nero #formaggio #prosciutto #illuso #Ghiaccio #pesci #lasquadraweek2021

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adhdeancas · 4 years ago

Text

Sunset Sound: Stairway to Heaven

Special thanks to James @friedchickenangelwings for helping me out with this story. I can’t wait to write this. Read on AO3 here

Summary: Everything is the same up to the end of 15x20. Chuck has been “defeated,” but it was all a farce. When Jack absorbed Chuck, Chuck easily took over the 3 year old’s body and acted as if he were defeated. Chuck!Jack then had the Rusty Nail placed in the barn where Dean died, and with Cas gone, Dean didn’t fight it. Chuck did reimagine Heaven, but he’s fed the same lie to them all: that everything is perfect, they are free, they are in real paradise. Except it’s all an illusion insulated by blue skies and endless horizons. Because, just like the Good Place, people make Heaven into Hell for each other. And there’s nothing Chuck loves more than the natural order of tragedy. He “let it slip” to Bobby that he brought Cas back, when he really left him to rot in the Empty. Dean has to find his best friend before it’s too late, and he has to keep a happy face for everyone else, because Chuck is watching. Always watching.

Chapter One: Runnin’ on Empty

“Well, Cas helped.”

Dean’s heart flutters at that and he looks at Bobby. The damn old man raises his eyebrows; he knows he just buried the lead and he did it on purpose. A soft breath escapes him and he smiles. Maybe this is gonna be alright after all. Hell, maybe he can find that angel and…

“It’s a big new world out there. You’ll see.”

Dean’s stomach twists at the idea. I don’t wanna see. His stupid brain insists. He takes a swig of the beer in his hand to try to quiet the voice. “Oh, wow.” He recoils a bit and looks at it. “This tastes like the first drink I ever shared with my dad.” He shares a wry smile with Bobby. Drinks with Dad weren’t exactly top-tier, and they both knew it.

“Quality stuff?”

Dean’s smiling because he feels like he should be. “Nah, it’s crap.” He tries to shift that memory into a good thing, because his memory of his first beer is the crushing doubt and fear that swirled around his head. Finally, he’d done something right enough to earn a beer like a Man, but he still felt… broken.

He feels the same now.

Maybe it’s because he’d really just wanted a hug.

But Bobby is waiting for him to say something. Dean focuses instead on the surface-level joy of that old mid-evening beer, the pride in his dad’s eyes, trying to drum up the feeling. “But it was fantastic.”

“Just like this.”

“It’s almost perfect.” Dean manages. He wants Bobby to agree. He wants Bobby to say ‘Yeah, I know, something just ain’t right, can’t put my finger on it,’ but he doesn’t. He lets the silence drag on for a second longer before he fills it.

“He’ll be along.” Dean’s heart jumps, but then he realizes he’s talking about Sam. Not Cas. But he doesn’t want Sam up here anytime soon; he wants Sam to live a nice life with Eileen, like he promised. “Time up here, it’s different. You got everything you could ever want, or need, or dream. So I guess the question is, what are you gonna do now, Dean?”

It kinda feels like when Jack was born and Cas was dead and Sam wanted to go to strip clubs and listen to Zeppelin and eat at the greasiest holes-in-the-wall. Like he had everything he was supposed to want laid right out in front of him, but… none of it made Dean feel anything. He looks around, searching for inspiration, and his eyes land on home. Things always look clearer when he's looking out at ‘em through Baby’s windshield. “I think I’ll go for a drive.”

“Have fun.”

He leaves the acrid beer with Bobby and climbs into his car. Maybe he’s insane, but she feels.. different. He is insane. He is in heaven. “Get it together, Dean.” he mutters to himself as he pulls away. Bobby mentioned that his parents are nearby but… Dean doesn't want to face that yet. Nothing to fix your existential crisis about Heaven like a neat talk with your disappointed parents.

He keeps to the main road instead. He drives for an hour, maybe two, at least that’s what it feels like. From what Bobby said, time isn’t so straightforward here. That only scares him a little bit. Eventually, his brain seems to calm down enough to think clearly. He’d chosen this. He’d accepted this. And he’d meant what he’d said in that barn; he was okay with dying. Of course, he didn’t realize that meant… He didn’t realize that meant more.

A little voice inside him whispers something evil. He’d just wanted to see Cas again. Even in memories. Like it was before…

He takes a deep breath. “I’m not gonna fuck it up. It’s heaven. I can’t fuck it up in heaven, right?” He laughs out loud to himself, but it’s cut off by Baby groaning underneath him. She starts to slow. “Baby? What the hell?”

She’s out of gas.

Dean grumbles as he pulls over. “Sonuvvabitch, what the-” He almost said what the hell. He’s in heaven. Nothing in hell. Heh. She rolls to a stop and he kills the engine, letting the new silence and stillness wash over him. He sighs. Heaven, huh?

He scrubs a hand across his back and looks over to his right, to an onion field. Yellow and pokey and-

Cas is standing in the middle of it.

Dean just about has a heart attack. He scrambles out of the car, honks Baby’s horn in the process, is all the way around the car by the time he really sees him.

Cas looks terrible. He’s standing stock-still in the middle of the field, arms down at his sides, crumpled trench coat speckled with the black sludge that haunts Dean’s nightmares. His hair is matted, his face gaunt, eyes sunken in with bags dark as bruises. But what scares Dean the most is the look in his eyes. His eyelids droop and hang and he stares straight ahead, straight at Dean, without seeing him, without any light in them at all.

It doesn’t look like Cas.

“Cas?” Dean approaches slowly, hands held out like he would to a wild animal. Cas shows no sign of moving, just stands there. “Cas, look at me, man,” There’s pleading in his voice, but he doesn’t care. He needs Cas to be okay.

Castiel is not okay.

As Dean gets closer, he starts to hear screams and crashes. He twists around to look for the source, but it just seemed to come from… around Cas. He looks closer, and Cas’s hands move to fend something off he can’t see. He’s still just staring ahead, but, looking closer at Cas’s face, he sees something he hadn’t noticed before.

Cas is talking. Well, muttering really. Dean can barely hear him through the pauses in far-off yells. “d-Dea-Dean. Dean- de-Dean.” Dean stomach drops off a cliff. “Dean, just think of… D-du-Dean.”

“I’m here, Cas.” Fuck the rasp in his voice. Fuck the tears in his eyes. Cas can’t hear him. He can tell by the look in his eyes. “FUCK!”

He rubs his eyes with his fists furiously. This is so frustrating, this is so-

There is no one there. No sound. Cas is gone.

Dean strides ahead, but it’s no use. The field is empty, and he is alone. Again.

It takes Dean a few minutes before he can get himself under control. Cas isn’t there; he has to assume he never had been, not really. So, unless Dean has finally gone off the deep end, it was… what, a vision? A- god, it felt familiar. It felt like - it felt like after purgatory. The same haunted face, the same unseeing eyes. Gone in a blink.

Why am I seeing you again, man?

But, as sure as he is that there is grass on the ground, he knows Cas can’t hear him.

Dean sits up against his fender and sighs. On the one hand, he is sitting on warm clear asphalt, feeling the afternoon sun bake his face, and on the other, he is miserable and seeing his dead-alive-again best friend. Except if Cas was around, he would come see him. Right? I mean, Dean died. So young. And Cas just told him-

And Dean is praying to him. And he’s not here. It’s not right. None of it is. That he is sure about. If this was heaven, he didn’t want it.

Dean gets up. Will he ever get some motherfucking peace? He gets in his car, tries the ignition. She starts up again and - miracle of miracles - has gas. He thanks her with a pat and they're off, riding into the eerily-perfect sunset, back the way they came.

Night’s fallen by the time he pulls into the dirt pathway. He parks on the lawn and shivers a little bit in the chill of the night. Funny, he wouldn’t think Heaven got cold. But then again, he wouldn’t have thought Heaven would be shitty either. The roadhouse is inviting and homey, lights on inside. Dean snags a beer from the cooler left out front and kicks the door open softly. “Hello?” He doesn’t know who he’s expecting, but it definitely wasn’t who he gets.

“Dean!” Charlie wraps him in a hug before he can say anything, and Dean gladly melts into it. God, it’s good to see her. He pulls away and pats her cheek, checking her out. She looks good, normal. Less… dead and bloody than he last saw her? Jesus his mind is a dark place.

“Hey kid! How the hell are you?”

Charlie rolls her eyes at the greeting, but she can’t stop grinning. “All things considering, y’know, being dead and all, I’m good!”

Dean laughs. She’s already rambling, and he missed her. “Sorry about that one,” he winces, remembering his part in the circumstances around her death.

Charlie chooses to take it as a condolences. “Yeah, you too, dude. But at least we died young and hot, right?” She tugs him over to the bar and leans around to yell at the scuffed doorway. “Ash! We got company?”

Dean’s eyes widen. “Ash? You guys know each other?”

“Can’t keep geniuses like us apart, compadre,” Dr. BadAss comes out of his backroom, arms spread out in greeting. Dean can’t stop himself from greeting him with a hug. He hadn’t known who to expect here, but Ash and Charlie are just about best case scenario. “What’re you doing here?”

Dean knows he means how he died, but he looks around anyway. The rest of the bar is quiet and still, and Dean can hear nothing outside the heavy doors either. “I think we gotta problem, Ash.”

Ash’s face folds into a frown. “What kinda problem?” Dean feels Charlie press in and he glances at her suddenly-serious face.

“A big one. A heaven sized one.” They all looked around skeptically, a little Scooby-Doo-like, taking in the lifeless room around them. Finally, Ash meets Dean’s eyes, and Dean withdraws a little.

“Yeah, we know. Welcome to the team, Deano.”

Tag list: @dochunterwitch @justonecitizenoftheearth @gnbrules @purpe @castiel-is-a-cat

#fanfic #my writing #destiel #deancas #15x20 coda #coda #fix it fic #sunset sound #sunset sound: stairway to heaven #runnin' on empty #chapter 1 #dean winchester #ash #castiel #charlie bradbury #bobby singer

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occasionalrpmemes · 4 years ago

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Will Wood: the Normal Album Sentence Starters

lines taken from the 2020 album. edit as desired. tw: violence, disordered eating, gender dysphoria, mental illness, substance abuse, suicidal ideation, death

01. Suburbia Overture: Greetings from Mary Bell Township! / (Vampire) Culture / Love Me, Normally

“Trick or treat. Merry Christmas.”

“Howdy neighbor!”

“Thank you Jesus!”

“It don’t look like survival, but buy now or die.”

“You’re not alone.”

“The lights are on, but no one’s home.”

“Takes a village to fake a whole culture.”

“Home is where the heart is- You ain’t homeless, but you’re heartless.”

“It’s the safest on the market.”

“You still gotta watch where you park it.”

“Give me your half-life crisis.”

“I can tell that you know where paradise is.”

“Parasites don’t care what your blood type is.”

“A snowflake only matters in a blizzard.”

“Everyone knows that nobody knows that.”

“Well, word gets around on hit number stations.”

“Smile and wave, boys, kiss the cook, live laugh and love, please pass the pills.”

“It’s only culture. It’s only culture. It’s only culture.”

“Didn’t they want your blood?”

“Why apologize when you turn blue and cold?

“Hey, fuck your culture.”

“Do you know the difference between blazing trails and slash-and-burn?”

“Hey, you’re only mortal.”

02. 2econd 2ight 2eer (well, that was fun, goodbye)

“The devil made me do it, but I also kinda wanted to.”

“Forget bored stiff, I got rigor mortis.”

“My third eye’s open and I like what I see.”

“If you knew what I knew, if you saw what I see- ”

“But I got facts and I’m not afraid to use ‘em.”

“I’m getting better one forever at a time.”

“If sick is defined by what’s different, well then pull the plug out and let me die.”

”Who I am, I choose through all the things I do.”

“If it rhymes, it’s true, but I hate poetry.”

“Well that was fun, goodbye.”

03. Laplace’s Angel (Hurt People? Hurt People!)

“Have you ever died in a nightmare? Woke up surprised you hadn’t earned your fate?”

“Have you ever felt like Atlas, threw your back out on the axis, and collapsed and threw the planet away?”

“Nobody dies agnostic.”

“Nobody dies agnostic, but we still dial 9-1-1.”

“Am I really that bad?”

“Whatever you think of me, if you were in my shoes, you’d walk the same damn miles I do.”

“With my head up in the clouds, I can see so much ground.”

“From up here, you look like ants in a row.”

“It doesn’t take a killer to murder. It only takes the reason to kill.”

“The difference twixt fate and free will is whether you’re singing.”

“You wash your hands of where you’ve been until you flood the second floor. Neatly fold your skeletons, but still can’t shut the closet door.”

“The only ones in need of love are those who don’t receive enough.”

“You could break an angel’s fall, and ignore the Devil’s call.”

“It’s a small hell after all.”

“Man, no more than animal, is made of moral chemicals.”

“If you were in my shoes, you’d see I wear the same size as you.”

04. I / Me / Myself

“I’ve been feeling lightheaded since I lost enough weight to fit back in my skin.”

“Am I pretty now?”

“For some reason, I find myself lost in what you think of me.”

“I wish I could be a girl, and that way you’d wish I could be your girlfriend, boyfriend.”

“Am I pretty enough to lie to?”

“Just little old me in a big, big world.”

“I’ve been feeling lighthearted since I gained enough weight back to cover my bones.”

“You’ll be walking out early, but the show must go on.”

“No, I know that I’m wrong. But I love how you’re on my side when I cross that line.”

“It’s been a point of contention between myself and this body that they stuck me in.”

“The privilege of being born to be a man.”

”I am quantum physics; my witness brings me into existence.”

”Am I pretty enough to love back?”

“Am I pretty enough to fucking die?”

“I wish-”

“Don’t you think that there’s a chance that you could live without it?”

05. ...well, better than the alternative

“My daughter’s growing up. She’s gonna be a lot like me, but I don’t wanna be at all like me.”

“I don’t wanna be at all like me.”

“You’re telling me I’m holding up eleven fingers.”

“Stranger things than death can happen.”

“Everybody knows that nobody knows that.”

“Everybody’s in on everybody’s business.”

“This isn’t my first Christmas, I know mistletoe when I see it.”

“Baby, could you play along with me?”

“Baby, would that be alright with you?”

“When we find out what’s wrong with me, could you tell me how I’m right for you?”

“Could you tell me how I’m right for you?”

“Could you tell me if I’m still pretty?”

“If they could see the future back when times were simple...”

“If everyone’s sick, well then, nobody can catch it.”

“Everybody’s all up in my god damn business.”

“This isn’t my first kiss.”

“It’s better to be lost than loved, now, isn’t it?”

“Everybody’s all up in my motherfucking business!”

“This isn’t my first anything.”

“After all of that’s been done to me, could you tell me how, could you tell me how, could you tell me—”

“What’s so wrong about what’s wrong with me?”

“I’m just trying to do what’s right by you!”

06. Outliars and Hyppocrates: a fun fact about apples

“Did you know that the hole in the apple didn’t come from the outside in? It was eaten from the core and out to the skin, and that’s why you’ll never find the worm in it.”

“The disease is defined by its treatment.”

“You people make me sick.”

“Who’d want to be human anyway?”

“Why’d you come into this world or come out that way?”

“Isn’t it funny? Well, not "ha-ha" funny, but y’know, funny.”

“I doubt that you would even if you could change.”

“You think it makes you special, but it makes you strange.”

“The things that make you special are the things that make you strange.”

“I am the shadows cast aside by gallows, and you the red-hot sky.”

“And if you’re believers, then why would you grieve for the dead, instead of a devil that you never prayed for?”

“Too weird to love, too scared to die. Too alien to take you home.”

“Who’d want to belong to anyone?”

“I mean, what do people even do?”

“If you love me, let me let you go.”

“Five more minutes, please? You wouldn’t believe the dream I just had.”

07. Black Box Warrior - OKULTRA

“Bless the torpedoes!”

“For what? For what??”

“For what it’s worth, if it was going to kill you, boy, it would have by now.”

“There’s no more looking back, it’s looking up or looking down.”

“Wonder if Christ-Consciousness would charge a cancellation fee.”

“Auf wiedersehn! Au revoir!”

“Hello, welcome. Why don’t you take a seat? Get comfortable, relax, take a second if you need to.”

“Now, what’s bothering you?”

“Well, why don’t we start at the beginning?”

“Growing up, how was your relationship with the fundamentals of conscious existence?”

“Did you die before your day?”

“You got a better idea? It’s about the best we could come up with.”

“What, you think ideas spread because they’re good? No, they spread because people like them.”

“So here we are once again. Holding, as it were, a mirror up to your mirror.”

“I guess it’s just something people do!”

“You learn to be an animal instead.”

“I never did think you better than this.”

“It’s you who are the problem. Not the things you do, but something sick inside.”

“Boy, you really is defective.”

“Offer up your innocence, please ignore the side effects.”

“You’ve lost your mind and almost lost your life before, so you’ll be fine!”

“Why would you want to look back? I mean, it’s no good looking back. So try to look forward now.”

“For what it’s worth, if they were gonna get you boy, they would have by now.”

08. Marsha, Thankk You for the Dialectics, but I Need You to Leave.

“They could prescribe you any illness you’d like if you define the terms of your ailments.”

“A crow don’t know the smell of carbon monoxide.”

“How many years have you been on that couch?”

“Your draw a line in the sand where it ends and you begin, but the tide rolls in, so who knows?”

“A little identity never hurt nobody, but lately you’ve been focusing too much on yourself.”

“How many milligrams of you are still left in there?”

“Back in my day, we didn’t need no feel-good pills and no psychiatrists. We just drank ourselves to death. And god damn it, we liked it!”

“What’s a symptom, what’s a flaw, can it be both?”

“Well, I suppose that’s an answer.”

“Would you give up your humanity for just a touch of sanity?”

“They’ve discovered a cure for the symptoms of being alive. It’s a painless procedure with a low rate of failure, but very few patients survive.”

“And a little conformity never hurt nobody, but lately I’ve been worried that you’re losing yourself.”

“What’s my prognosis?”

“Disease is in the eye of the beholder.”

“Tell me ‘so it goes.’”

“Better safe than sorry, and we both know the danger.”

“So doctor, could you run another test?”

“If our harmonies don’t sync, we can change our voices.”

“Don’t heed no evil wills of moral nihilists.”

“Don’t you make me waste my breath.”

“GOD DAMN IT!”

“Does aspirin kill you with the pain?“

“You’re not your thoughts, you’re not your brain, you’re just the character you’ve made.”

“What seem like separate body parts come together to believe they’re you, and not just chemistry.”

“It’s not the way that you were raised, or what the advertisements say.”

“It’s not what you pay for, what you pray for, what you want, or what you say.”

“Something tells me that you need, forgive me now if I misspeak--”

“Something tells me you prefer to be sitting there flipping through those old issues of People.”

“Well, that’s our time. See you next week.”

09. Love, Me Normally

“In lipstick on the mirror are the lyrics to my obituary.”

“Crossing my eyes, dot my T’s.”

“I was delivered holding scissors.”

“I live deliberately, I’m a quitter.”

“I never agreed to participate in this game.”

“Won’t follow my dreams, cause they all got me waking up screaming.”

“I’d rather be normal. Yes, so normal.”

“I suggest that we keep this informal.”

“A normal human being wouldn’t need to pretend to be normal.”

“Well, I guess that’s the least that I owe ya.”

“C’mon, c’mon, and love me normally.”

“If I could live in third person, well, I don’t think life would be much worse than it is.”

“Is it courageous or escapist to leave the quarantine when you’re contagious?”

“It may just be a cold. And besides, I don’t wanna get old.”

“I drank myself to death to be the afterlife of the party.”

“When the afterparty came, I was rolling in my grave.”

“Now, this is the part of the song where I talk to my audience.”

“There’s something I want from you hepcats tonight.”

“I want you to look to your left. Look to your right. Your twelve o’clock, three o’clock, six o’clock, nine o’clock, rock around the clock tonight–”

“I want you to find those points of no return, those singularities, those burning rings of fire in the beautiful pupils and the beautiful eyes of the beautiful boy, girl, neither, both, or in-between that you brought with you tonight. And I want you to tell ’em how you really feel!”

“Jam that square peg in the round hole in their hearts!”

“You love them exactly the way that everybody else is.”

“I was nothing before, so I couldn’t have asked to be born. I’ll be nothing again, so what am I between now and then?”

“Is there nothing to fear? Cause shit’s getting weird.”

“So to God who made this man: you better have one hell of a plan.”

10. Memento Mori: the most important thing

“If you’re lucky you’ll be surrounded by the ones that you love, when the lights in your eyes fade and life flashes by.

“One day you’re going to die.”

“Heaven, hell, nirvana, nothing, no one knows how it ends.”

“Rest in peace— or pieces.”

“Read your horoscopes, your palms and tarot cards. But either way your destination ain’t very far.”

“You could drown, or choke, or burn, or be hit by a car.”

“What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, but something will eventually.”

“One day you’ll look back at the life that you lead. No more future left to fear that you’ll have the past to regret.”

“But your worries will be over if you truly realize— one day you’re going to die!”

“Take it away, hands!”

“In the fabric of time and in the vastness of space, a billion amounts to nothing in infinity’s face.”

“Your life never mattered, so who cares if it's a waste?”

“Well, one day you’ll be not even a faint memory.”

“You’ll never know what it all means.”

“Just keep this in mind: that everything and everyone goes with the passage of time.”

“No need to fear, ’cause when it’s here, you won’t be alive.”

“Try not to think about it!”

“So if you only have one chance, you oughta try your best to live as you like.”

#rp memes #sentence starters #dialogue prompt #writing prompt #wwattw

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hermit-pistol · 4 years ago

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insecure (mista x reader)

thesexiestpistol asked: Okay so we were talking earlier about Mista's confidence when it comes to his own body. How would Mista help an s/o that struggles with body positivity?? Thanks ♥️

*claps aggressively* Fluffy Mistaaaa YES. A little hurt and comfort if you will, enjoy bb~

"Y/N? What's taking you so long! I wanna see that dress that you!" Trish impatiently tapped her foot on the ground. The two of you were at the mall; Trish had insisted on bringing you with her to try out the clothes that had just come out for the season. You were never big on shopping or fashion, but you had agreed to go and actually found quite a few good pieces of clothing.

That is, you thought they were good until you decided to try them on.

The first shirt that you had tried was too tight, hugging all the wrong places in your body. This wasn't the first time that this had happened, so you decided to cut your losses and keep going.

The same happened with the next, and the next, and the next. Until you were standing in your underwear in a dressing room with the new clothes thrown on the floor around you. This happened every time. "That's just great...." you muttered to yourself as you begrudgingly began to scoop up the clothes from the pile to put back on their respective hangers.

"Hey, did you say something? Come out in what you have on!" Trish called. She was also holding her own pile of clothes ready to be tried on.

"I'm not getting any, Trish." You set the pile of heavy hangers on a nearby hook and started putting your own clothes on. After you were dressed ,you opened the door to reveal a worried Trish.

"What? I'm so confused! I know that those clothes would have looked good on you!" She swapped spots with you, making it her turn to try on her clothes. Just from eyeing the stack, you could see that it had crop tops and short skirts. You had never had the confidence or the body to pull those off.

"Don't worry about it, just try on your clothes and let's get out of here." You could see other people walking in and out of the fitting rooms every so often. All carrying new clothes, threadbare and appropriate for the coming season.

For the next few minutes, you were subject to Trish walking out of the fitting room, walking up to you and giving you a spin. She had no problem showing off her body. You envied her confidence.

After a while, she could tell that you were uncomfortable, and decided to call it quits for the day. "C'mon Y/N. Let's go do something else, okay?" She could tell that her best friend was in a mood from the fitting room incident that had occurred earlier.

She hurriedly got dressed and paid for all of her finds. This was an all too familiar feeling: standing at the check out line with a friend, hands empty.

The two of you stopped at your favorite pretzel place for a quick bite to eat, and then you dropped her off at her apartment. "See you later!" She called out before she retreated inside, hands filled with bags of clothes that you knew wouldn't fit you.

You reversed out of the driveway and went back to your own apartment, shared with your boyfriend Mista. The episode from earlier had really put you in a funk, but this was how it usually went. Your emotions were a rollercoaster as you stopped at a red light, your vision now blurred with tears.

Of course, everyone has insecurities about their own body. But not anyone can just love themselves that easily, right? It's not a switch that can just be turned on at will. Some days your insecurities consume you. At times you wonder why someone who takes care of themselves like Mista would even be remotely interested in someone like you.

You pulled into a parking lot once you reached the complex. Tears were streaming from your eyes now, and there was no stopping them.

After stomping up the stairs, you fumbled with your keys and opened the door. Mista was curled up on the couch, reading something on his phone.

"Hey, babe-" He started, but when he saw how upset you were he became instantly concerned. He shot up from the couch and wrapped his arms around you and held you tight.

You couldn't help the loud sobs that echoed throughout the living room. "H-hi." Hiccuping between breaths you could barely muster a couple of words.

"Did something happen with Trish? Do I have to make an angry phone call?" He tried to use humor to diffuse the situation; he couldn't bear to see you unhappy or upset.

"No. Trish is fine. I'm the problem. My body is ugly. I'm ugly!" You buried yourself into his chest.

Mista looked absolutely floored. "Uh, no way. You're speakin' nonsense here. C'mon baby we gotta sit down." He picked you up and brought you to the bedroom.

After gently laying you down on the bed he joined you on the other side. Grabbing your hand, he spoke softly. "I think that you're beautiful. Clearly something made you upset earlier and I wanna know what it is."

You explained the situation, trying your best to calm yourself down. Just having Mista there to listen was enough.

"Ah, I see. I bet Trish dragged you to one of those super fancy places that make clothes for twig people." He chuckled.

"Yeah, everyone else including Trish in the store barely had anything to 'em, if you know what I mean." Mista handed you a tissue to dab at your eyes, where your tears were already starting to subside.

"Well I can understand wanting to be healthy, but the people that barely eat anything to fit into those tiny pieces of fabric probably have a screw loose or somethin'." He reached up to grab a stray strand of hair out of your face. "Look I want to show you this."

He leaned back on the bed and took out off his hat. You audibly gasped, seeing as he usually hated having his hair out. After running a hand through his locks he spoke, "You see this? I am super self-conscious about not having a hat on for more reasons than I can count. But I feel comfortable showing this side of myself to you because I care about you. We all have things that we don't like about ourselves, but if we have a strong support system and embrace our insecurities, then there's nothing to be upset about."

A pep talk from Mista was really what you needed at the moment. "Thank you, Mista. Those were just the words I needed to hear." You gave a shy smile, which he returned.

"You shouldn't worry about what other people look like or what they wear. I love you and think your body is beautiful. And, if you really want new clothes then I will go to the store with you myself and buy you something nice. Something that you will look absolutely beautiful in."

"Or instead of going to the store, we could just shop online?" You eyed your laptop on the desk in the corner. "Mista, can I have my laptop please?" You gave him your signature puppy dog eyes.

"Well, since you asked so nicely-" He hoisted himself up off of the bed and grabbed the computer, but not before giving you a flirty wink. What a tease.

"Here ya go!" He handed you your computer and within a couple of minutes, the two of you were snuggled up together looking at fashion catalogs. "I like that one for you, I think you'd look amazing in that, babe."

"And look at that! Just my size~" You clicked the 'add to bag' button. "I do prefer this kind of shopping better. Fitting rooms can be such a drag."

"Agreed," Mista said as the two of you giggled and held each other close in front of a laptop screen. You realized just how wrong you were earlier. He would always love you no matter what you looked like, and just knowing that kept your insecurities at bay.

#jjba x reader #jojos bizzare adventure x reader #jojos bizarre adventure #jojo #jojo x reader #jjba #guido mista #mista x reader #i love mista #i loved writing this #i'll scream it from the rooftops #tw for body image #possibly #love yoself #respect yoself #mista #jojo mista #guido mista x reader #thesexiestpistol

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nanoland · 3 years ago

Text

am writing hellblazer fic asfdfsfff

title: The Cave

fandom: Hellblazer

characters: John Constantine, Chas Chandler, the First of the Fallen

blurb: John gets lost in a cave.

warnings: Depression, covid19, demons getting themselves Extremely murdered.

It was when the death toll had crested 100,000 that he’d snapped and made his way to Number 10 Downing Street with murder in his eyes and a briefcase full of every cursed artefact he owned.

“What are you gonna do, eh?” bellowed Chas, who’d been following behind him in his cab for the last half mile. He’d already tried to physically drag John into it and had received a bite on the hand for his trouble. “Chuck ‘em through the windows? That’s bulletproof glass, John! Fuck’s sake! Be reasonable!”

“Stop sodding shouting!” John shouted over his shoulder, wiping rain off his face. “You’ll spread sodding germs!”

“John, I already had it. Four months ago, remember?”

“You can have it more than once! Christ, does nobody in this city read the papers but me?”

It was fair to say that John wasn’t at his best. In his defence, he’d spent the last year sitting inside his tiny, poorly-ventilated, roach-ridden flat, vividly imagining what a respiratory virus would do to lungs that had suffered over forty years of heavy smoking, two run-ins with cancer, and the actual devil sticking his actual great big grubby clawed hand in ‘em. No fucking thank you.

Chas sighed heavily and climbed out of the cab again, slamming the door as he did. He splashed through a dozen puddles before coming to stand in John’s path, arms folded. “Listen, Conjob. I love you. Even when you’re a complete prick, which is most of the time. And I know you can do amazing things. But mate, hear me out; you cannot assassinate the British Prime Minister.”

“Someone bloody has to!” John Constantine, greatest wizard of his age, screamed at the top of his wretched, ragged, Satan-besmirched lungs.

Eventually, Chas managed to calm him down and get him home for a cup of tea.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” John grunted as his socks dried in front of the heater and the rational parts of his mind re-exerted themselves.

“S’alright.”

“How’s the bite?”

“Didn’t pierce the skin. John, you need a break. A holiday. You need to get out of town for a few weeks. Go breathe fresh country air, do some weird mystical shit with a goat, whatever it is that sorts your head out these days. But you can’t carry on like this, mate. I haven’t seen you this miserable in years.”

He handed John one of Renee’s strawberry-patterned towels. Dragging it across his face, John grunted, “Holiday? At a time like this?”

“Why not? Makes as much sense as any other time.”

“What if you come down with it again? Or Geraldine? Or Renee?”

“John,” said Chas, gently, laying a hand on his shoulder. “You already tried to cure me with magic. It didn’t work. At all. Just wasted a lot of chicken blood and Renee’s best spoons. Get this in your skull: there’s nothing you can do. Alright? I know you hate that, but it’s the truth.”

John swallowed thickly. “Yeah. Yeah. Alright.”

So he went home to his tiny flat, stuffed fresh socks and his toothbrush into a backpack, booby-trapped his front door, and fled London in the dead of night, feeling like one of those gits in Boccaccio’s Decameron.

“It’s called glamping.”

“Some new wizardy stuff, I’m guessing?”

Chas’s voice over the phone was distracted, like he was half-watching the telly. John was relieved; he’d wanted to hear another human speak but wasn’t feeling up to a proper conversation demanding his usual levels of sparkling charisma and staggering wit. Not right now. Not without weed, and he’d not thought to bring any.

Nestling deeper into his teak folding chair and drawing a thick woven blanket up over his knees, John said, “Nah. Not buggering about with any of that old guff until I’m back in town. Promised myself.”

“Right.”

“Don’t sound so sceptical, you git. I’ve done it before.”

“Mm-hmm. What’s your record? The longest you’ve ever gone without doing anything mystical and creepy?”

“‘Bout… hmm. Three days.”

“You’re coming up on the tail end of that right about now.”

“I know. Chas, on my word, I am going to make it to Sunday without so much as sniffing around a graveyard or wanking off a werewolf. I am on holiday.”

“Alright, alright, if you say so. Good for you, mate. So what’s this ‘glamping’ business, then?”

“It’s camping. But posh. I’m sitting up here atop a hill in Yorkshire with a tent the size of a cathedral and me chic woodburning stove and me box of white wine and feeling like the yuppiest old cunt who ever drew breath.”

“Sounds horrible.”

“It does, doesn’t it? That’s why I chose it over a nice comfy bed and breakfast. Figured I’d wake up with a cow shitting on my head and could use that as an excuse to come home early. Actually, though… it’s alright. Quiet. There’s a river at the bottom of the hill where these giggling honeymooners like to have a morning bonk but it’s far enough away that I can’t hear them unless they’re really having fun. And the weather’s been alright. It’s all surprisingly decent.”

“And you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Yep.”

“Hmph. I should have come with you. You get all weird and introspective when you’re left alone for more than a couple days.”

“I’m not alone. There’re birds. Squirrels. A few ghosts hanging out by the toilets.”

“John.”

“Ain’t gonna talk to ‘em! Mind you, one did give me a wink when I was zipping up. How’s everything back home?”

“Er – look, I won’t lie, it’s shit. It’s all shit. But it’s not any more shit than it was when you left three days ago. Not any worse, not any better, yeah?”

“Right.”

(Stupid to be disappointed. Stupid that a part of him had secretly believed that as soon as he abandoned the sinking ship that was London, things would miraculously get better for everyone, even as another part of him, on the opposite side of his brain, had been convinced – maybe even hoped – that the moment he was gone, the entire city would descend into screaming anarchy, at which he could point and laugh from a safe distance.)

“Listen, John, I’ve gotta go. Renee needs groceries. Be careful, please?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Don’t fuck about with any occult bollocks. Don’t go foraging for brain-melting mushrooms. Don’t do anything. Just stay in your tent and read your dirty books, yeah?”

“Heard and understood, Mum.”

“Bastard.”

“Love you.”

“Yeah, you too.”

John dropped his phone onto the grass and stared up at the sky. A herd of thin grey clouds drifted past. Off in the distance, he could just make out the shape of a barn – or was it a church? Either way, there were sheep next to it.

A squirrel scurried down a nearby tree trunk and then up another one.

Yawning, he scratched his chin. (Getting scruffy. Hadn’t shaved in two days now.)

“Should prob’ly do some reading,” he mumbled to no one.

A few minutes passed.

He dangled his head back behind his seat and sang quietly: “First produced my pistol… then produced my rapier… said ‘stand and deliver’, for he were a bold deceiver… mush a-ring dum-a do dum-a da…”

Heaving a sigh, he stood up and walked around his tent to dispel pins and needles, then went inside to read his book.

“I am not bored,” he muttered fiercely, staring down at pages that might as well have been blank.

“Oh, but you are, John.”

England’s greatest wizard jumped up, wielding his novel as though it were a club, and dealt a devastating blow to empty air while screaming something along the lines of, “Raargh die die die!”

Then he waited for a moment to see if the voice returned. Tried to determine whether he could sense anything. Nope. Admittedly, that didn’t mean much these days. Lots of beasties and bastards out there had learned how to hide from him.

“Either I’m hallucinating or someone’s pissing me about,” he concluded, placing his hands on his hips. “Chas, mate, I’m sure you would agree that either constitutes a fine reason to leave this fucking tent.”

And leave he did.

He went caving.

The BBC had published an article a couple years back calling the UK’s cave systems its ‘last true wilderness’. He and Chas had had a good long laugh over that, Chas suggesting that John take the caver quoted on an expedition to Faerie or maybe direct him toward any of the two hundred portals to Hell between Plymouth and the Orkney Islands.

But the article had stuck with him. Perhaps it was the obvious love the caver had for his hobby, the clean and simple joy he got out of crawling around in dark, damp holes. John was always drawn to people like that, and not just because it sounded smutty.

(Imagine if he’d loved something clean and simple; gotten into bird-watching or carpentry instead of magic. Would have saved him a lot of hassle.)

Idly, one evening, he’d poked around on the internet – now that, that really was the last true wilderness – until he’d found a map listing all the cave systems in the UK, along with a guide to which were popular, which were dangerous, which were good for a family holiday, and yes (inevitably), which had been the scenes of grisly accidents.

(Wikipedia said that historically there’d been only 136 fatalities ‘associated with recreational caving’ in the UK and that, statistically, it wasn’t a particularly dangerous hobby. Hadn’t stopped him from having vivid dreams about bodies wedged in tiny tunnels miles below ground, cooling and rotting and bloating, except how could they bloat when there simply wasn’t enough room, what happened when…

Anyway, Chas had eventually rescued him from his maudlin musings and dragged him to the pub.)

And while his memory was a messy old thing, especially these days, that just happened to be the sort of useless information that tended to hang around in his head for years, like the words to every song in Sweeney Todd or the rituals required for an exorcism spell that didn’t actually work, doing nothing but taking up space.

There was a cave only a few miles from the campsite.

When he arrived, he beheld a clumsily painted sign nailed to an oak tree next to the entrance:

CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC UNTIL SPRING

NO TRESPASSERS

HAZARDOUS! ENTER AT OWN RISK

He lingered at the cave’s mouth. Though it was big enough for him to stand up in, it made for an unassuming sight. Squirrels played in the old oak with three sets of lovers’ initials carved into it that stood at its left and the pathway leading up to it was strewn with weeds and wildflowers.

“Am I really this stupid?” he pondered aloud, before correcting himself: “Am I really this bored?”

After five minutes’ internal debate, he decided that yes, he was.

He took a step towards the narrow crevice, before stopping himself. No. This was ridiculous. What was he thinking? Shaking his head, he turned and walked away.

Three hours later he was back, now with a good pair of leather boots (stolen from an arsehole in a nearby village), a Power Rangers backpack (given to him by a kid in exchange for a cigarette and some magic tricks), a cheap flashlight, two cans of lager, and a packet of crisps (paid for with the last of his cash).

“Off we go, then,” he said, and marched into the dark.

Like a well-fed leopard on a low-hanging branch, the First of the Fallen lounged across his throne of vertebrae, long black hair dribbling off his broad shoulders and pooling on the ground. Though he was wide awake, his eyes were closed. This, combined with the corpses of three supplicants dangling from nearby steel hooks, would hopefully discourage anyone from bothering him for the next few hours.

“My liege?”

Shit.

He kept still. Said nothing. Perhaps they would go away.

“Um… my liege, I’m terribly, monumentally sorry to disturb you, but…”

With a wave of his claw, the messenger exploded into red mist.

When, ten minutes later, a second messenger summoned up the courage to approach him, he realized that it must be very serious indeed.

“You have five seconds,” he said cordially, holding them up by the neck.

“Con… constantine!” they croaked.

Brightening, the First set them down. “Indeed? What’s the little bastard up to this time, eh?”

“Nothing, my liege. He’s dead.”

A few minutes later, a fourth corpse hung from a hook and the throne of Hell was empty.

To the First of the Fallen, caves were still a novelty.

Confined spaces, in general, were still a novelty.

At 13.6 billion years, he was only slightly younger than the universe. While solid planets had come into existence around the same time, he’d not actually visited one until the emergence of homo sapiens and his subsequent quarrel and falling-out with God – a mere 300,000 years ago.

Cast from Heaven, naked and freezing cold, he’d stumbled into a rocky cranny by the shoreline and wedged himself between its slimy walls. That was his earliest memory of ever being ‘indoors’. No surprise, then, that he avoided such places when he could. He had built no castles in Hell; his throne sat atop a mountain beneath an endless red-gold sky.

But right now, it wasn’t the cave that had his attention, dark and chilly and, yes, slimy as it was.

“Stupid turd,” he grumbled, glowering at the corpse. “Ow!”

He’d bumped his head on the cave ceiling again. It was too low for the average human to stand upright, much less an eight-foot primordial being.

Constantine stared at him, blue eyes blank and glassy. His body was unmarred save for the dent in the left side of his scalp, which had stopped leaking some time ago. As far as the First could tell, his nemesis had simply tripped and fallen onto an unfortunately positioned, unfortunately sharp rock.

The First spat on his tie and snarled, “Pathetic! What the fuck are you even doing here, eh? And – God’s hairy bollocks, when did you last bathe?”

His soul was still dangling off him, like drool from a dog’s mouth. Heaven, obviously, had no interest in him and the First hadn’t yet authorised his admission into Hell.

Because he wasn’t ready, dammit.

He’d not been expecting to welcome John home for at least another thirty years.

“Always have to make it difficult, don’t you?”

When he reached down to take hold of the soul – such a grubby, tattered thing – it bit, blazing gold for a sliver of an instant before he snatched his hand back. Stuck his index finger in his mouth until the sting abated. Fumed.

He tried again, grasping it firmly, as one might a snake. It thrashed. He gave it a disciplinary shake before opening Constantine’s mouth with a claw and forcing it down his gullet.

Coming back to life was never enjoyable. Constantine spasmed and gurgled, legs and arms contorting as pink foam gathered at his lips. The First, bored, sat down beside him, reclining against the cave wall with one knee crooked. Surveyed their surroundings. The ground was – oh dear – littered with crisp crumbs, an empty foil packet, two cans, and dozens of cigarette butts. How foul.

“Disaster in your wake, as ever,” he commented, tutting.

Constantine groaned, eyelashes fluttering.

Belatedly realizing that he wouldn’t be able to see in this subterranean gloom, and very much wanting to afflict him with the identity of his saviour, the First snapped his fingers. A dozen lit candles appeared across the cavern, hovering ghost-like in mid-air.

“Urgh… fffu… whu… oh, Christ Almighty.”

Watching him sit up, the First assumed a lordly expression, tilting his head. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”

Unhealthily pale skin and facial muscles stretched and twisted to an indeterminable end.

Then John Constantine set his jaw.

Growled: “I’m on holiday, you bellend.”

And passed out.

He awoke to the smell of slightly burnt waffles.

Better than burnt flesh, which was what he’d anticipated after His Infernal Bloody Majesty had popped in for a fag and a chat. Certainly better than sulphur.

“For you,” the First of the Fallen purred.

A white plate – averagely-sized but rendered absurdly dainty by the dimensions of the clawed fingers holding it – was set down in front of him.

He frowned at its golden-brown contents. “The catch?”

“No catch. I was peckish. I imagine you are, too.”

“Come on. Not in the mood. Did you piss on ‘em? Did you mix a baby’s blood into the batter?”

“Honestly, John.”

Scratching his chin, he reviewed the facts. Still in the same sodding cave, albeit far better illuminated than the last time he’d been conscious. Alive, but with that unmistakable stiffness that he’d come to associate with having recently been dead. Cold. Irritable.

Hungry.

His archenemy’s smug smile was almost enough to make him spit the first bite back out. Instinct borne from months of extreme poverty forced him to swallow instead.

“Tastes like shit,” he remarked, wiping his lips. “But I suppose you usually have minions to prepare food for you. Where’s the syrup?”

A regal sigh, before a bottle appeared beside the plate. He emptied a third of it and spent the next few minutes in delicious, sticky silence.

There were, as ever, consequences to allowing the First of the Fallen centre stage. The moment the big smelly git realised that John really wasn’t in the mood for banter, he waved a hand and conjured up a thin hardback with Into the Underworld: The Amateur’s Guide to Caving in Britain on the front.

As John rolled his eyes and stuffed another waffle into his mouth, the First cleared his throat and read: “‘According to the National Speleological Society, the minimum number of people required to safely embark on a recreational caving expedition is four – at least one of whom should have prior caving experience.’ Did you know that, John?”

John chewed sullenly.

“I did. I’d wager that most people do. At least, I’d wager that most people know that going caving in groups smaller than two – going caving alone – is wildly inadvisable. Caves are dangerous, John.”

Where were his cigarettes? Had the bastard nicked them?

“And… let’s see – ah! Here we are. ‘There is a great deal of commercial equipment available to a first-time caver, some of which is necessary, some of which is not. Two items, however, that are absolutely non-negotiable are a helmet and a helmet-mounted light.’ Do you have either of those, John?”

“Do I criticise your fucking hobbies?” he exploded, knowing better, knowing it would only encourage him. Sugary crumbs flew everywhere.

“You do, in fact. Often. And quite understandably. My favourite hobby is murdering your friends, after all.”

John threw the plate at his head.

He’d had a good sense of direction even before he’d learned how to see psychic residue coating streets and walls, left behind by previous travellers. Always scurrying around in places no kid should; subways, sewers, dirty basements, any haunted house his greedy little eye fell upon.

When he’d reached sixteen, burgeoning schizophrenia had muddled him up now and then. Occasionally, it’d even left him standing in streets he didn’t recognise with no earthly idea how he’d got there. PTSD had compounded the problem.

Even so, at fifty plus, he didn’t make a habit of getting lost. Meds, practice, and years of experience meant that he could walk from Chas’s house to Saint Paul’s with a blindfold on.

Long story short: This was embarrassing.

“I’m fairly sure we’re going in circles. That stalactite is very familiar.”

And he certainly wasn’t fucking helping.

(The floating candles, following them like ducklings, were. John’s torch had broken when he’d tripped. Still, he didn’t need the First of the Fallen for light. Could conjure it up himself, no bother. It just made sense to avail himself of a primordial being’s infinite magical resources before dipping into his own, far more limited stockpile.)

“Do you know the way out?” John asked, not breaking his stride.

“I do.”

“Will you tell me where it is?”

“I will not.”

“Then shut up.”

In his defence, John hadn’t thought the cave was big enough to get lost in. It hadn’t looked it from the outside.

But he’d wandered, then crawled, down at least a mile of twisting, increasingly narrow tunnels before getting himself killed. He’d kept meaning to stop; said to himself five times, ‘Okay, Conjob, this is getting stupid, let’s trot our arse back to civilisation’. Then he would notice another crevice wide enough for him to squeeze into.

“Curious place for a holiday,” the First of the Fallen commented after bravely keeping his tongue still for an unprecedented five minutes.

“Curious times we’re living in, innit?”

He hummed in agreement. “Are you really not here for any particular reason? Not – I don’t know – trying to find a missing child abducted by the fae? Searching for a wicked spirit who’s been cursing the local shepherds? Treasure-hunting, perhaps?”

“No.”

“You’re just here.”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“I told you. I’m on holiday. Taking a nice long break.”

“John. We’ve known one another for some time. I am familiar with the ways in which you ‘take a break’. You either go to the pub or you go to several pubs. Attempting to reconnect with nature is hardly your style.”

“Being oblivious to current events – especially shit ones – is hardly your style. Been too busy shaving your chunky arse to pick up a newspaper lately?”

“Print is dying. Besides, you try managing an entire dimension. See how much spare time it leaves you. Honestly, I’m run off my feet most days.”

“So quit.”

“Don’t be silly. What else would I do?”

“I dunno. Could be a camgirl. You’ve got the legs for it.”

“Stop trying to change the subject. Why aren’t you at home?”

John stopped walking and spun to face him. “There’s a plague, you gormless, oblivious prick. I can’t go to the pub. I can’t meet up with me mates. I can’t visit people’s homes to perform exorcisms. I can’t do anything but sit indoors, on my own, for months on end, just watching everything get worse, and that… and that’s not an option. Not for me. I crack too easy. So I got out. Before I killed someone. Now, for the last time, shut up and let me concentrate.”

He bent down to tug off his shoes and socks.

Telepathic magic tended to work best when you were naked. But sod that. Not with the First of the Fuckheads watching. Waffles or no waffles, he did not deserve a treat.

“Oh, is this what we’re doing now? Marvellous! I do love watching your quaint party tricks,” he oozed with a mocking round of applause as John dropped to his knees.

Ignore him.

Taking a deep breath, John let his awareness expand.

It was hard, with the First standing right there. His presence was staggeringly heavy, weighing on the ley lines like an iron ball on a lace hammock. And so alien; elements found nowhere on Earth, bones and muscles formed before Earth had been a glint in God’s eye.

John sneered into the darkness. Piss on that. On him. This was child’s play. Buggered as his brain might be, John Constantine wasn’t going to falter at the sound, scent, or sensation of a mean-spirited old cosmic relic.

Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.

Seven years ago, three people came this way. A family. A woman; her sister; her daughter. They were having fun. The sisters had done this before; the daughter had been begging to come along for years. Afterwards, they were going for pizza. It was a good day.

Two years ago, four people came this way. All friends from work. Well – ‘friends’. One was the company CEO, the other three wanted promotions. Everyone but the boss was miserable. One was arachnophobic.

Eight months ago, a… sheep? Yeah. A sheep. Barely more than a lamb. It was lost. There was a storm and it came down here looking for shelter. Went too deep. By the time the shepherd found it, it was half-starved.

“John? What are you-…”

Ignore him.

Ten years ago, another family. Fifty years ago, a frightened child running from a monstrous father. And others – a hundred others – a thousand. The cave had a rich and storied history. Almost against his will and entirely against his better judgement, John followed its threads through the rock layers, chasing faded ghosts, brushing up against magic so ancient it had fossilised.

“John!”

Ignore him. Ignore him. Ignore-

His head was ringing. His blood was on fire.

Fuck, I’ve gone too far, too bloody deep, fuck, oh fuck.

“Constantine! Heed me!”

His eyes snapped open.

“Ah,” he said.

“Precisely,” said the First of the Fallen, who was holding him up by his coat collar like a jizz rag in need of a bin.

The cave had changed.

It was brighter, thanks to a small, well-constructed fire in its centre.

The walls were covered in paintings. Deer. Hogs. Great red and brown bulls.

A woman sat in the corner, wrapped in furs, adding detail to what might have been a fox. She didn’t seem to have noticed them.

“Did you mean to do that?” the First of the Fallen queried.

“In thirty thousand years, a monk will come down here and find them. He’ll be horrified, believing that they’re the work of… well, me. So he’ll leave and return with water in buckets and scrubbing brushes. As he lies on his deathbed, he will be firmly under the impression that this great good deed will grant him entrance into Paradise.”

The First of the Fallen paused for effect, then added, “Alas, he will be mistaken.”

Without looking away from her work, the woman spoke several words in a language miles removed from any contemporary tongue John had ever heard.

“The young lady says she doesn’t mind spirits wandering her caves, but requests that we don’t chatter while she’s trying to concentrate.”

Crouching next to freshly-etched cow and her calf, feeling uncharacteristically dazzled, John said, “Ask her if I can take a picture. Ask her!”

“Homo neanderthalensis, John. She won’t have the faintest idea what you mean.”

Rolling his eyes, he fished his phone out of his trenchcoat pocket and waved it at her. When she deliberately ignored him, he shrugged and took the shot.

The flash won her attention. She stood – revealing a faded seashell necklace and a long, curving scar across her left thigh – and approached them, limping slightly. John held out the phone to show her the picture and, after a resoundingly unimpressed inspection, she uttered a terse sentence.

“She’s unsure why the sickly-looking spirit thinks shrinking her beasts in any way improves them,” said the First of the Fallen.

The woman raised her head (hard to tell how old she was; younger than him, definitely) and looked John in the eye, squinting. Another few sentences followed, some of which sounded like questions.

Sarcastic questions, unless he was mistaken.

“She asks if you shrink them because large beasts frighten you. She speculates that, if the only beasts you can bear to approach are scrawny ones, it’s no wonder that you yourself are such a measly creature. She says that she too was scared of bulls when she was a child, but that her mother taught her not to be. She wonders why your mother failed you in this regard. Should I tell her your mother died in childbirth, John?”

“Stick your head up your own arse and choke. But ask her name first.”

Tossing back his thick black hair, he scoffed. “Why? What does it matter? She’s a primitive, doomed creature and she’s not even really here. This is just one of the cave’s memories.”

“Christ – are you jealous I’m talking to her more than I’m talking to you? Because that’s fucking inane. This is a one-in-a-lifetime type deal. I’ve never spoken to a legit bloody Neanderthal. I speak to you all the blasted time, more’s the pity.”

Yellow eyes narrowed. “Maybe I’ll kill her.”

John laughed. “You said it, squire; she’s a memory. You can’t kill her. She’s long dead. Now shut up.”

He wasn’t able to learn her name. Still, via pantomime and pointing, he eventually managed to convey his desire to find a way out of the cave – or so, at least, it seemed.

She took a bundle of sticks from beside her fire, lit them, and walked towards the nearest inky-black tunnel.

“See?” he said to the First of the Fallen as they followed her. “Politeness. All it takes.”

“Don’t act like you have any real idea what’s going on. She could be leading you straight into a trap. You’re aware, I’m sure, that archaeologists generally agree Neanderthals practised cannibalism? Ten muscular relatives might be waiting right around the corner with clubs and a cooking pot.”

“For fuck’s sake – I have literally stood and watched you slouching on that colossally pathetic bone throne of yours and nibbling the edge of someone’s pelvis like it was a turkey drumstick. Loathsome bloody hypocrite.”

“That doesn’t remotely count as cannibalism, John. That was a human pelvis. I’m not a human. I’m the prototype. A species of one. Which, I suppose, means it’s technically impossible for me to commit cannibalism. Hmm. What an interesting philosophical notion.”

Walking a short way ahead, bare feet soundless against the rock, their new self-appointed guide said something.

“What was that?” John whispered.

“‘If you must burden my ears by bickering like children, you could at least do it in a language I can understand’. Then she called us a rude word.”

Then the First of the Fallen spoke several sentences in his usual bored, drawling cadence and, to John’s surprise, she laughed.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” the First of the Fallen said, innocently.

“I’m serious, bastard. What’re you saying to her?”

“Nothing important, John, really.”

More than once after that, he caught her glancing back at them and snickering.

The artist and the twisting stone galleries through which she led them – it couldn’t possibly have all been hers; the monk had destroyed the work of generations – were insufficient to keep John’s mind from straying back to important matters.

“Hey. Ponce. What’ve you done with my cigarettes?”

The First of the Fallen had plucked them from his trenchcoat pocket while he was unconscious. When it came to his sorcerer, he’d learned, you always wanted a bargaining chip to hand.

“We’re in the company of one whose lungs are as yet unsullied by the Industrial Revolution, Constantine. Are you really planning on exposing her to second-hand smoke?”

It was a prospect John, it seemed, hadn’t even considered. Obviously angry with himself for that (oh John), he snapped, “No! I was – it’s – look, she can’t get lung cancer, can she? She’s dead. Doesn’t matter what she breathes in now.”

Smothering a smile, the First of the Fallen said, “Oh? So the fact that she won’t actually perish upon inhaling your fumes is all that matters, is it? Never mind her comfort or dignity, I suppose; as long as you don’t have to clean up another corpse.”

Nostrils flared. Fists clenched. Blue eyes gleamed with something hotter and even more violent than divine wrath.

“Like you give a shit about her,” John growled.

So much in this miserable world reminds me of Heaven. The grass. The sky. The beauty. You alone remind me of the time before Heaven; that bizarre, unpredictable time when there were no rules, no beauty, only feelings, only sudden bursts of light, fierce and erratic, cutting through the void.

“Or anyone,” John continued, gathering steam. Nicotine withdrawal, the First of the Fallen suspected, was kicking in. “Remind me, what was that you said the day we met? ‘To be mortal is to be stupid, proud, conceited – and ultimately pathetic’. You showed your hand, idiot; you loathe us all. Ergo, any taunts that depend on you concealing that are a total bust. Forget about the ciggies. If they’ve been anywhere near you, I don’t want ‘em.”

For years, the First of the Fallen had secretly hoped John had forgotten his, in hindsight, ill-considered words.

(He’d meant every one of them, but at the time he’d been trying to come off as a Gentleman Devil, the quintessential Man of Wealth and Taste, affable and urbane, not a bitter, angry old monster.)

Should have known better. John was so foolishly protective when it came to humanity as an abstract concept, even while his attitude towards actual humans tended to be far more variable. He’d probably been furiously gnawing on that phrase – ‘ultimately pathetic’ – like a dog with a bone for thirty years.

Thirty years.

Was that really all the time they’d known one another? John Constantine, his Constantine, He Who Was Most Hated… a mere thirty year acquaintance?

“What’re you laughing at?”

“Heh. Nothing, John. Reminiscing, that’s all.”

“About what? Poor old Brendan?”

Brendan, Brendan. Who -? Oh yes. John’s friend. The one who’d sold his soul. The catalyst, in fact, for their meeting. Pity the bastard was in Heaven; he’d have liked to thank him.

“You see these?” said the artist, holding up her torch to illuminate a painted wolf pack. “My grandfather did these.”

“What’s she saying?” John demanded.

As the First of the Fallen translated, he gazed dispassionately at her.

The first time he’d encountered a human, they’d looked much the same. Small. Unremarkable. Clad in skins and hardened from a life exposed to this planet’s weather (he personally hated weather and had made sure there was no such thing in Hell).

Mind you, the ones he’d run into while naked and terrified and still injured from being swatted down to Earth like some insect had been much less hospitable. They hadn’t known what he was; only that he was wrong. When he’d tried to approach their campfire, they’d thrown stones at him. Slaying them all hadn’t even occurred to him. Father had said that they were precious and at that stage, he’d still given a toss about His rules. Instead, he’d slunk away.

Catching food wasn’t a problem. He was faster than any buck or bird. It was loneliness, not hunger, that drove him to try again, and again, and again. In time, they grew used to him. Even showed him kindness. They had an extraordinary capacity for that. (For all that it was so often conditional and withdrawn the moment one became too strange or too frightening.)

But he’d never grown used to them. They were, at heart, creatures of community. And he simply wasn’t. He was a species of one. The prototype. He’d always been alone but for God’s company, and adjusting to life as a member of a tribe had proved impossible. Their norms, their traditions, their complicated etiquette – it had all bewildered him, then intimidated him, then irritated him. That, combined with his ageless body and supernatural strength, had driven an inevitable wedge between them, and he’d returned to the wilderness to wander alone.

He considered telling John that story.

(Why not? He’d told him everything else and the idea that his nemesis might have an incomplete view of him was, for some reason, concerning.)

Then he considered John’s likely reaction. The curled lip. The scornful snort. “What, you looking for pity? ‘Boo-hoo, my rotten childhood turned me into a git’? Hah! Jog on, squire.”

No. John’s hatred was a hard-won prize. John’s contempt was to be avoided at all costs.

“You realise most people aren’t allowed down here,” the artist said, glancing his way. She was shorter than John, who himself was slightly shorter than the average man; her eyes were level with the First’s navel. “Only elders and those who’ve earned the right. There are grave penalties awaiting any who sneak in.”

“Really?” he replied, interested only in John’s furrowed brow and silent, aggravated attempts to work out what they were saying.

“Yes. Because this place is important. Sacred. When I was young, I spent years dreaming of being allowed to venture this deep. I don’t know the ways of spirits – but I’ll not pretend it doesn’t rankle that you spend more time studying your sickly friend than your surroundings.”

“You’re still young. Compared to me, everyone is.”

“He doesn’t even seem to like you very much. Why are you travelling with him?”

“I don’t know. Why do urine and semen come out the same hole?”

“‘It’s none of your business’ would have sufficed. Are you always this rude? Is that why the sickly one doesn’t like you?”

“No. No, he dislikes me for other reasons.”

“Well, well, well. Hullo,” came John’s voice, and they both realised that he’d stopped walking.

Turning, the First of the Fallen spied his nemesis standing with his hands in his pockets, studying a man dressed like a thirteenth-century peasant.

“Eh? Where did he come from?” the woman asked.

In quavering tones, the peasant said, “Are you angels?”

The First of the Fallen laughed. “John! He’s asking if-…”

“Just because I can’t speak Neanderthal doesn’t mean I don’t know sodding Middle English. Give me an ounce of credit. I’m only a cocking wizard, after all,” John snapped, before addressing the new arrival: “No. Just travellers.”

The peasant’s shoulders slumped. “Oh. I thought maybe God had sent me angels. I’ve been requesting them for several days.”

John shuddered. “Bad idea. Trust me. You don’t want to mess around with that lot.”

“But I need guidance. Protection.”

“From what?”

Eyes wide, the peasant took his hand and clutched it. “My friend, can’t you see? I am being pursued.”

“By who?”

“By demons.”

(to be continued)

#hellblazer #john constantine #chas chandler #first of the fallen #fanfic #my fic

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loving-jack-kelly · 4 years ago

Text

Like Real People Do

The path was hidden. Barely visible. It was rarely used. Almost never, in fact, leaving the path faint.

The entrance was marked by a stone, perfectly round and covered in moss that was just slightly too bright green to be entirely natural.

It was always talked about in hushed whispers. Whispered warnings told to friends who wandered too far off the road.

If you wander, the whispers said, the path will appear. And once you take the path, you can’t step off of it until you’ve given it what it wants.

What it wants, nobody knows. Names, some said. Lives, souls, wishes, hopes, dreams, money, goods, anything you have. It wants.

But some whispers didn’t stop there. Some whispers kept going, some whispers dropped even quieter, hard to hear over crackling fires, hidden in the dancing shadows cast by candles. Some whispers went past the warnings and delivered the promises.

The promise that the path, if sought, not stumbled upon, could give up what you needed in return for what it wanted.

The path was dangerous if you wandered onto it by mistake. Keep your eyes on the road, watch for the round, mossy stone and the faint trail, and avoid them.

Perhaps, the promises said, the path was even more dangerous when sought. Perhaps there’s nothing more dangerous than seeking your wishes and being willing to give yourself up for them. But perhaps, for some things, it would be worth it. Perhaps, for some wishes, having no name would be worth it. Perhaps, for some dreams, fewer years would be worth it. Perhaps, to some, the most dangerous few, perhaps vengeance would be worth never leaving the path at all.

David had heard all of it before. It was cookfire gossip, stories of old relatives told to young children to scare them into staying on the well-traveled road and staying off the hunting paths. That was all. About a half-hour outside their little village there was a decent-sized rock that marked an old deer trail, and that was what kids pointed to to tell the stories. They dared each other to step onto the faintly-there trail, and nobody ever went through with it.

Because maybe they all claimed they didn’t believe the stories, but was it worth it, really? To risk it? To risk everything to test a story?

There was another stone. Further along the road, and smaller. Almost hidden in the undergrowth, but almost perfectly round, and covered in moss so green it almost seemed to glow. And just beyond it was a path so faint it was almost invisible, little more than a simple break in the trees. Too natural to be a hunting path, and almost too narrow to have been made by an animal.

That was the stone and the path David was staring at.

Was it worth it? Was it worth the risk of this being the real path? Was it worth giving up a piece of himself?

Yes.

It wasn’t as hard of a choice as it should have been.

David stepped onto the path.

It didn’t feel any different than the rest of the forest. It felt like what it looked like, a barely used rough path through the trees. He followed it, feeling the underbrush catch at his pants, the dead leaves and dry twigs crunch under his boots.

He was hyperaware of everything around him. He wasn’t even sure what he was expecting, but he kept waiting for the path to shift. To change. To become whatever it was that could grant his wish.

It didn’t.

The path ended against a boulder. It wasn’t a clearing, just a big boulder with the trees and brush growing up right against it.

David sat down with his back against the boulder. The path he’d followed hadn’t disappeared. It was still there, he could follow it back to where he came from.

Maybe this was the wrong path. Maybe there was another somewhere, hidden even better.

Or maybe he’d been stupid to believe the stories, even for a second. Even out of desperation. Maybe he’d just wasted his afternoon following a path to nowhere.

“Been a while since anybody’s been down here.” A voice came from somewhere above and behind him, startling him out of his moping. “You here on purpose?”

David stood up and turned around.

A man who looked like he was several years older than him was sitting on top of the boulder. David didn’t know him, had never seen him before, and hadn’t heard him approach or climb up the boulder. He was just…there.

“Must be, if you sat down. When people end up here on accident, they’re freaking out by now. Cursing the name of someone or other, whoever told ‘em to follow the path.”

He was grinning at David, a bright, disarming smile. Something about him just seemed…strange. Maybe it was his eyes, the same bright, bright green of the moss on the round stone. They didn’t seem to match the rest of him. He had dark hair, dark skin, his clothes were muted natural colors, and his eyes were so bright they seemed to glow.

“Nice to have somebody come visit who isn’t kicking and screaming. Guess that probably means you want something, though, huh? Nobody’s ever here just to visit. I wasn’t, the first time. Just got lost in the woods, picked the wrong place to wander.”

He was sitting cross-legged on top of the boulder, and as he spoke, he rested his elbow on his knee and his face on his hand, still grinning.

“Cat got your tongue? I don’t bite. Unless you try to trick me, then I do. It’s in the contract. Clause eight. If trickery is attempted, bite them. Hard. Draw blood. I’m paraphrasing, of course, no need to look so scared. I just have to trick back. You won’t try to trick me, will you? You gotta say something, here, I won’t be able to help if you don’t tell me what you want.”

“You’re…”

“I’m a wish-granter, a man of the path, a soul stealer. A life taker. I’ve been called many things. I guess you could call me Jack.”

“Jack.”

“That’s what everyone called me, once. A long time ago. Nobody has asked in a long time.”

“This is the wish-path, then.”

“That’s one name it’s been given.”

“What do you call it?”

“Home.” Jack’s smile widened, and David pinpointed another slightly unnerving feature. His teeth were ever so slightly pointed, just a bit sharper than a human’s. “And what do you want with it? Nobody comes here on purpose without a wish in mind.”

There was a glint of something in his eyes, David decided. He was speaking charmingly enough and seemed friendly enough, but he was dangerous. Maybe he’d been kidding less than he’d seemed when he’d said he would bite back.

But he was right. David had come here for a reason, and he did have a wish, and he was going to make it.

“I wish that my father was healed.”

“Oh?”

“He got hurt. Two weeks ago. He can’t work, and without him working our family doesn’t have enough. My little brother and I have to work, instead.”

“And you don’t want to work?”

“I don’t mind, but Les is only ten. He shouldn’t have to be working yet. He should be in school. Playing with his friends.”

“You know, making a wish is a dangerous thing. Answers come with a price.”

“I know.”

Jack’s bright green eyes seemed to look right through David like he could see his every thought and his true intentions and was analyzing them closely to see if he was worthy of the wish.

“And you’re willing to pay the price?”

“If I can.”

“I never charge an impossible fare. That’s also in the contract, clause two.” Jack smiled again. It was unsettling, how close he was to human with just the details slightly off. Human but a bit to the left.

“What would the price be?”

“Your wish is simply to heal your father?”

“Yes.”

“Your name.” Jack’s eyes flashed a deeper green, and David wasn’t sure if it was the light or if they’d actually changed colors.

“My…name?”

“I can heal your father if you give me your name.”

David knew those stories well. It seemed like such a simple request. Give Jack his name, just say the word, and his father would be healed. Only that’s not what Jack was asking, not in the way any normal person asked for David to give his name. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t “what is your name?”

It was a price. If Jack told David to give him his name and David responded, then his name wasn’t his anymore. It was Jack’s.

Was it worth it?

David thought about why he was here. About the expression on Les’s face when he had to go to work instead of to school, about how Les was too tired to play with his friends. Was it worth giving up his name for his little brother?

Yes. It didn’t take long to decide. Of course it was worth it. His family was worth anything.

“Okay.”

“In exchange for healing your father, give me your name.”

“David.”

In a flash of a moment, he could feel the difference. It wasn’t his identity that was gone. He knew who he was, where he came from, who his family was. Why he was here. He could remember that a moment ago, he’d had a name, and that it was David. But he could feel that it wasn’t his name anymore. He didn’t have a name. He was himself, but there was no name to attach to that.

Jack’s eyes glowed. This time he knew it wasn’t a trick of the light, light came from Jack’s eyes.

“That’s a nice name. Strong.” Jack looked down at him from his seat on top of the boulder. “Your father is healed.”

“Thank you.”

Jack hummed thoughtfully and slid down to the ground. Almost floated, really, very gently and gracefully. Jack was shorter than him by a few inches, and once he was close his energy was almost palpable, like the feeling before a lightning strike. Jack paused, looking into his eyes, and too late, he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to say thank you. After a long moment, Jack smiled, a much softer smile than the one he’d displayed before.

“You’re honest. You have a good heart. Take a gift from me. I give you a name, not as strong as the one you gave me, but a good one anyway. Davey. And I give you a promise, that nobody will ask to take it away.”

As soon as he said it, the void left by giving up his name was filled, and he knew that he was Davey.

A gift from Jack. Not a filled wish, not a trade, but a gift. Maybe that was even more dangerous, maybe it left a debt unfilled, but that was a powerful gift. A name that nobody would take away.

Jack reached out and touched the tip of his finger to Davey’s nose, and another space was filled, this time one he hadn’t even known existed until it was gone. His name was secure, now, immovable. The second part of Jack’s gift.

“Use it well.” Jack’s eyes flashed again, and when Davey blinked, he was back on the road, staring at the stone that marked the wish-path.

Wish-magic was a dangerous thing. Davey knew that. He’d known that before he sought the wish-path and he’d known that while he was making his wish and he knew that as he made his way home, a new name in his being and a gifted protection burning at the tip of his nose.

He could feel it, where Jack had touched him. The imprint of Jack’s finger, right at the tip of his nose, where the magic flowed around him and protected his name.

Wish-magic was dangerous, and gifts from wish-granters were dangerous, but when Davey got home and the village all knew him as Davey even if there was a little bit of confusion like they knew it had changed, and his father was out of bed, still weak but no longer in pain, it didn’t matter how dangerous the magic was.

He was home. He had a name, and a promise that he would always keep it. His family was safe and cared for. That was what mattered.

In the months and eventually years that followed, Davey was almost able to forget Jack, the man with the bright green eyes who’d granted his wish and given him a gift.

Twice, the tip of his nose burned like it had right after Jack had touched it. Once, when an old woman in the center of the village, passing through selling her wares, asked his name. He gave it, without thinking, and when his nose burned, he noticed her face fall.

And again, walking on the road and passing by a stranger going the opposite way. As soon as Davey looked at him, his nose was burning, and he knew better than to take a second look.

On those occasions, Davey was forced to remember his trip to the wish-path because it was clear the gifted promise was still in effect. When he passed the stone that marked the path, covered in its otherworldly green moss, he remembered. And sometimes, when he wanted something so bad it hurt, he remembered.

But most of the time, he didn’t think about it. The things he wanted were things he could get himself or go without, and he wasn’t stupid enough to think that he’d get off so easy on a second venture to the wish-path.

So while he occasionally thought of the wish-path and of Jack the wish granter, he didn’t really seriously consider going back.

Until, that is, he was told that he was to be married.

He knew that his parents wanted what was best for him and what was best for their family, but he also knew that he would never be happy married to the woman they’d chosen. Mostly because, well, she was a woman. And he didn’t want to marry a woman.

He knew they didn’t understand why it upset him so much when they told him, and he didn’t know where he was going when he left, but somehow he wasn’t surprised when he found himself standing in front of the moss-covered stone.

When he started walking down the path, his nose burned. The closer he thought he was to the end, the stronger the feeling got. It wasn’t painful, but it was very present.

“I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a repeat visitor before.”

Jack’s voice hadn’t changed at all in the three years since Davey’s last visit. When Davey looked up and saw him, again perched on top of the boulder at the end of the path, his face hadn’t changed either. The same bright green eyes framed by dark, dramatic curls. The same muted clothes. He hadn’t changed at all.

By looks, Davey had caught up to his age.

“How are you, Davey?”

That question surprised him. He couldn’t think of any way it could be twisted around. He wasn’t be asked for anything, just a simple question.

“I suppose that’s a silly question, actually. Why would you be here if you were good? Your gift is serving you well, though. I can feel it working now, and I’m not even trying to trick you. I must have made it more powerful than I meant to.”

Jack’s eyes sparkled, and Davey was sure it was with humor.

He had a feeling Jack didn’t do much on accident.

“Do you have another wish?”

“I wish that I didn’t have to marry her.”

Jack tilted his head, and for a second time Davey felt like he was reading every detail of Davey’s mind, thoughts and motivations and desires.

“Strange,” he said after a long moment. “That’s a selfish wish, and yet you still aren’t selfish.”

“What?”

“People have made that wish before. It’s almost out of nothing more than selfishness. Because she’s too ugly, or he isn’t rich enough, not out of consideration for anything. You don’t want to marry her because it will make you unhappy, but also because you know it wouldn’t be fair to her. I’ve never seen that before.”

“Doesn’t everyone deserve to be happy? Is it selfish to want that?”

“It’s selfish to want your own happiness even if it means the unhappiness of others. I don’t think it’s selfish to want something for your own happiness when what you want will also make somebody else happy.”

Jack slid down to the ground, again with the otherworldly grace Davey had seen the last time he was here.

“Selfishness is addressed in the contract. Clause four. If a wish is made for selfish gain, it may only be granted at the highest cost. Even though I don’t think your wish is selfish, it’s a powerful wish. Much more powerful than simple healing. I can grant it, though.”

“What’s the cost?”

“Give me your time.” Jack extended his hand, his eyes glowing like they had when he’d healed Davey’s father.

Davey hesitated, but he took Jack’s hand. It was warm, and Davey could feel energy coursing through the connection, like the burning at the tip of his nose but more comfortable and powerful. After what only felt like a few seconds, Jack let go.

Davey felt dizzy. Something had happened, he could tell, but he wasn’t sure exactly what it was.

“A powerful wish. A powerful price. I hope it was worth it.”

“What did I give you?”

“A year of your time.” Jack tilted his head, studying Davey’s reaction. “She’s married. Happy. There’ll be a kid in a few months.”

“You mean it’s been a year since I came here?”

“I told you. A high price for a powerful wish.”

“What will my family think?”

Jack shrugged.

“They know you’re safe. They probably know you found a path, people are smart about these things. I’m sure they’ll be glad to see you.”

“I…I have to go.”

“Of course.” Jack’s eyes flashed again, and he gave Davey a small smile. “Hey!” He called when Davey started to walk back down the path.

“What?”

“You don’t have to have a wish to visit. Come back any time.”

“You…you want me to just come to visit?”

“Gets pretty lonely here. People don’t come very often. It’d be nice to have a friend.”

Davey’s family was glad to see him. His parents had tears in their eyes when they hugged him, and Sarah and Les did too. The people in their little village looked at him differently. He’d been gone for a year, of course they did.

He didn’t tell his parents, or his siblings, or anyone that his missing year had been a wish. Of course he didn’t, that would require explaining too many things. He told them he’d gotten lost. Took a wrong path while not paying attention, and when he’d found his way back, it had been a year. Just like that. A year passed in the blink of an eye.

And that was what happened. Technically. Just with a little extra intention behind it.

For a while, things were wonderful. Even though it hadn’t felt long for him at all, and he hadn’t aged that year he’d given to Jack, for his family it had been a long time that he’d been away from home. They were happy to have him around, happy that he was safe and home and with them again.

Every once in awhile, Davey found himself wandering down Jack’s path, spending an afternoon just talking to him.

There weren’t many people his age in the village. And he knew, obviously, that Jack wasn’t his age either. Jack was something old and powerful, not even human. But he had a face that seemed to be Davey’s age, and when he wasn’t talking in riddles or saying things just outside of Davey’s realm of understanding, he sounded like he was Davey’s age, too. In fact, he was easy to talk to.

Friendship with somebody like Jack was probably even more dangerous than wish-magic, but he was easy to be friends with. Easy to talk to. Even if the tip of Davey’s nose burned whenever he was there, it was easy to feel comfortable at the end of the path at the moss-covered boulder.

Jack asked questions about life. He’d been human once, Davey learned, a long time ago, before he signed the contract he kept referencing. He wanted to know how much had changed since then. The answer seemed to be not much.

Davey sometimes was brave enough to ask questions back. He learned that Jack was bound to his path, that he could walk from the top of the boulder to the smaller stone that marked the entrance, and no further. He learned that there were limits to Jack’s power, but not many. Jack could raise a person from the dead. He couldn’t force somebody to fall in love. He couldn’t change a person’s nature, make a bad person good or a good person bad.

It took a lot of visits before Davey asked why Jack had signed the contract.

It was clear that he was lonely. He missed being a human, having friends. He wanted to grow up.

“I found this path on accident and made a very, very powerful wish,” Jack said simply. “Signing the contract was the price I paid.”

“What was your wish?” Davey asked.

Jack’s eyes, which changed shades with his mood, darkened to the deepest green Davey had ever seen in them.

“Justice. Something the world rarely offers, which makes it a very costly wish.”

“Was it worth it?”

“Yes.” Jack didn’t hesitate. “Justice served more than me. It was a bigger cause than my life was worth. And one day somebody will come along and sign their name under mine, and I’ll be able to walk away.”

“That’s how it works? A trade?”

“Of sorts.”

For a while, that was wonderful. Davey was happy at home, and happy to continue his friendship with Jack. Happy to continue his relationship with Jack.

If wish-magic was dangerous and being friends with a wish-granter was dangerous, surely falling in love with one was deadly. But could Davey help it? When Jack was interesting and kind and always willing to listen, and always had something to say. Maybe for the same reason he’d been drawn to Jack as a friend, that there weren’t many boys his own age in the village, Davey couldn’t help it.

When his parents began to urge him to find a wife again, that only intensified it, because the way he felt when he was around Jack, leaned back against the boulder in a conversation he was actively enjoying…that kind of feeling never came from anybody else, least of all the girls his parents were pushing him towards.

It was that realization that took him down Jack’s path again, with a wish in his heart.

Whenever Davey came, Jack asked.

“Do you have a wish?”

Normally, Davey told him no.

“I do.”

“Really?”

“I wish that everyone would understand.”

Just like Davey hadn’t had to explain who he hadn’t wanted to marry, he knew he didn’t have to explain what he meant. Jack understood.

“That’s a selfish wish.”

“I know.”

“Clause four. I have to charge a high price.”

“I know.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Jack looked into Davey’s eyes, reading him.

“Give me your breath,” he finally said.

His breath.

That was a high price.

Before he could change his mind, he nodded.

Jack’s eyes flashed.

And then he kissed Davey.

It took his breath away.

When Jack pulled back, he was laughing.

“There’s more than one way to steal a person’s breath.”

“That seems like a cheat.”

“Isn’t that my job? To trick? I tricked you. I tricked the contract.”

Davey was also laughing when Jack kissed him again.

The summer sun streamed through the trees, the boulder was solid behind his back, and Jack stole his breath until the light was gold and he had to leave.

And when he got home, everyone understood.

It was a strange thing, long after Davey’s third wish had come true and everyone understood and nobody was trying to push him into a relationship. Long after he’d started to find excuses to spend sun-drunk afternoons with Jack, somehow easily falling into a relationship that should have felt impossible.

A man walked down the road into the village.

He looked familiar, Davey thought. Dark curls framing a dark face, worn in clothes that almost faded into the forest behind him. Eyes so dark brown they were almost black. He was pretty. He walked with a slight limp like there was a stone in his shoe.

Davey didn’t recognize him at first, not until he was much closer.

“Jack?”

“Hello.”

Davey’s nose wasn’t burning the way it always did when he visited Jack’s path. Jack’s eyes weren’t green, they didn’t shift when he smiled. But it was Jack. Unmistakably Jack.

“You left the path?”

“Somebody made a wish,” Jack said, sitting down next to Davey on the step to his house. “A selfish, powerful wish.”

“Oh?”

“There is nothing more selfish or more powerful than wishing to live forever. To leave behind everyone and everything, to cause your loved ones pain, and to disrupt the way of the world.”

“Somebody signed the contract.”

“And now he’ll live forever, and I can live my life.” Jack smiled again, and Davey decided that his brown eyes suited him much better than the green.

“I have one more wish, then.”

“I don’t know if I can grant it.”

“You can.”

“Oh?”

“I wish that you would stay. Here. With me.”

“That might be the most expensive wish from you yet.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Give me your life.” Jack opened his hand, palm up, and extended it to Davey. Resting on his palm was a ring, made out of something as green as Jack’s eyes had been. As green as the moss on the stone that marked the wish-path.

“Okay.” Davey took the ring and slid it on his finger. It fit perfectly. Of course it did, Jack seemed to know everything he wanted to.

Out of all of the prices he’d paid for his wishes, this was perhaps the easiest to pay. Hadn’t he already started to make the decision anyway?

Jack’s smile widened, and he twined their fingers together, staring at the bright green ring against Davey’s skin.

Davey realized that this was the first time he’d seen Jack smile without anything else behind it. Nothing but happiness.

And that meant that Davey’s wish wasn’t selfish. Jack had decided that before, that a wish wasn’t selfish as long as it was to make more than one person happy.

Maybe this was the most worthwhile wish yet, even if magic hadn’t been needed to accomplish it.

#Asper Yells #newsies #javid #davey jacobs #jack kelly #i wrote this #what started as an exercise in atmosphere has become javid because i love them simply too much #i haven't posted a fic on tumblr in a long time but it's too late to go on ao3 and i wanted it up Now #txt

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chickensarentcheap · 4 years ago

Text

Never Gonna Be Alone -Chapter 13

Title: Confrontations

Warnings: none

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @tragiclyhip, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @alievans007

“How big does my ass look in this?”

It’s the age old question: does this outfit make me look fat? Men for centuries have been making the mistake of actually answering; aware that it’s a trap but freezing up in the moment and choosing a response instead of just a vow of silence. It’s a slippery slope. Answer honestly and find yourself banished to the couch for six months to a year, tell a very obvious lie and find your sex life become barren and obsolete for the rest of your natural born life, or say the honest to goodness truth yet have it taken as bullshit and never get to sleep in the matriomonial bed again. Tyler considers himself one of the lucky few. The question isn’t posed often and when it is, she knows he speaks the truth; believing his words and accepting the compliment and having her whole day run smoothly and happily because he’d taken mere seconds to say something nice. He’s never seen her in the negative light she often paints herself in; the extra pounds and the stretch marks, the wrinkles by the corners of her eyes and the strands of gray in her hair. It all makes her who she is; hips wider because she’s given birth to HIS children, the lines by her eyes only showing when she’s smiling and adding something even extra adorable to the mix, those silvery strands in her dark dresses sparkling in the light and making her even more attractive.

Maybe she ISN'T the same person she was twelve and a half years ago. The tiny, incredibly fit and toned little thing that had shown up on his doorstep; tattooed and pierced and full of confidence and swagger for someone so small and seemingly fragile. Walking in there like she owned the place and not even batting an eyelash at the crude and rustic living conditions or the amount of booze littering countertops and almost every open space or even the countless bottles of OxyContin sitting on the kitchen table. She hadn’t even been put off by his initial less than hospitable welcome. Ignoring both his grumpy mood and his leeriness at having a stranger in his space and serving up that beautiful, bright smile; offering an impossible small, soft hand that had been engulfed by his.

If he’s totally honest with himself, it was then that he knew shit was about to change. The way she didn’t shy away from prolonged eye contact and how their hands remained clasped a little longer than normal. When Nik had left them alone to begin the ‘getting to know your fake spouse’ process, she hadn’t been easily intimidated by either his size or his gruff nature. Laughing at his off handed remarks and not seeming the least bit nervous or awkward when he offered her a drink; downing it quicker than he’d ever seen a woman do before and not refusing when he poured her another. He’d learned in those few minutes just how deceiving looks can actually be; assuming by her petite stature and that fresh faced, ‘girl next door’ look that she was way too pure and innocent to be caught up in a world like his. What in the hell would a woman like THAT being doing getting herself mixed up in the job? Someone with so much light still remaining in their eyes; happy and bubbly despite the fucked up situation they’re so willingly throwing themselves into. He’d never come across that in the past few years as a merc; someone who hadn’t been traumatized by the things they’ve seen, heard, or done. And it had been a breath of fresh air; liking the sound of that tiny little voice and the beautiful smile and the way she’d so intently watch him and cock her head to the side while listening to him talk.

She’d been different than anyone he’d ever met. Even outside of the job. A mere thirty minutes more than enough to discover that she wasn’t a push over; feisty and headstrong as opposed to meek and mild. And that’s what he’d been the most attracted to. The fact she hadn’t been turned off by him or her surroundings in the slightest; not afraid to engage him in conversation and push him -in a very smooth and effortless way- to keep up with her. Finding himself talking more to her half an hour than he’d spoken to anyone in the past few years. His instincts had been on high alert; assuring him that she was trustworthy and accepting and that her queries and curiosity were her being genuinely interested in him, not looking for things to judge him on. And when she’d left he’d actually found himself feeling happier and lighter than he had in a hell of a long time. Anxious about seeing her again.

That had been the first moment of fear; the anticipation of once more coming face to face with her and getting to know more about her. Even an hour ago, he wouldn’t have given a shit; if a strange woman had been dropped at his feet, he wouldn’t have even bothered to feign interest and would have quickly dismissed them. But there’d been something about that cute little brunette. Those dark, soulful eyes and that sweet smile and that tiny voice. The way she’d looked at him when they’d first been introduced and how her palm had felt against his. It had been years since he’d felt any stirring of feeling towards someone else; convinced he was dead inside and that he’d live the rest of his life -if he wasn’t lucky enough to catch a bullet or drink himself to death- miserable and alone in that dusty little shack. Convinced that he was too much of a mess for anyone to take a chance on; an alcoholic hired gun with a checkered and fucked up past and pain killer addiction. Who in their right mind would want to take on someone like that? And did such a person even exist? Strong enough to deal with his shit and help him through it, yet compassionate and understanding enough not to judge him and condemn him for it?

He’d actually gone into the whole ‘fake marriage’ thing with cautious optimism. Staying completely sober for the twenty four hours until he saw her again; cleaning himself up and wearing proper clothes and suddenly feeling more confident and secure than he had in a hell of a long time. But it had all happened too fast, too soon; the feelings way too much to cope with and the fear of being a disappointment and a failure leading him to push her away that night at the hotel outside of Dhaka. He’d wanted to be with her; shocked by the amount of both sexual and emotional attraction he was experiencing towards her. He’’d come so close; mere seconds away from kissing her and giving in to unbridled lust and accepting her invitation to spend the night in her room. And it had been that same fear and worry that had caused him to react so badly on the job; grabbing her by the throat in an attempt to scare her away instead of having his heart broken when she could no longer put up with his shit and walked away.

It had been a complete and utter failure, of course. She hadn’t been the less bit scared. That had been an even bigger turn on; knowing how much she could actually take and just how strong she really was. And he’d known afterwards -both arms wrapped tightly and securely around her and her resting on his chest as she napped- that there was no chance of walking away. That no matter how bad the worry and the fear got, he wouldn’t be capable of letting her go. It wasn’t love. It was way too soon for that; it’s impossible to feel something so deep and profound THAT quickly. But he’d known he was well on his way to BEING in love with her. If he was lucky enough to live that long and get that chance.

Now, twelve and a half years later, he glances up from where he’s crouched in the front foyer, attempting to get the three littlest bundled into their winter gear. It’s an adventure to say the least; the climbing into snowsuits and boots and the constant search for hats and mittens that match. And it never fails; getting them completely ready and one -or more- announcing they need to use the bathroom. It’s happened twice already; Takota and Addie deciding they need to go and can’t wait until they get to their lunch destination. Brooklyn the lone holdout; smart enough to go BEFORE preparations to leave began.

“Be honest,” Esme says, as she stands at the bottom landing; a hand on the railing as she turns both sideways and backwards, enabling him to get a look at the ‘object’ in question.

She’s not clad in her normal every day attire; baggy sweatpants and oversized t-shirt replaced by a pair of black leggings and a charcoal gray sweater dress cinched tightly at the waist by a wide, plain black belt. Just hint of make up graces her face; nothing more than eyeliner and mascara and a tint of blush. Sides of her hair pulled back, the braided section hanging over top the remaining tresses. And when he pauses a tad too long in answering, a frown replaces the almost nervous smile. “That bad?”

“Not bad at all. I was just thinking how nice you look. Not that you don’t look nice all the time. Just you look different. In a nice way.”

“You look beautiful mumma,” Takota praises, as a knit beanie is pulled down onto his head and mittens tugged on his hands. “You’re pretty always, but you’re beautiful NOW.”

“You are the sweetest little muffin ever,” Esme declares, as steps off the landing and takes his face in her hands; pressing a kiss to each chubby cheek and then his lips. “And daddy is teaching you VERY well.”

“Gotta start ‘em young,” Tyler reasons, then reaches for the handle on the front door. “Out. Before you start sweating. Or have to go to the bathroom again.”

“My feet are already sweaty,” Addie complains, as she yanks a purple and pink striped beanie down over her forehead. “I don’t like sweaty feet. I don’t like boots. Or shoes.”

“I feel your pain.” He pulls the zipper of her coat up to her chin. “Outside. Tell TJ and Millie I’ll be out in a second. No going outside the gate.”

“It’s scary outside the gate,” Brooklyn says, as she falls in line behind her siblings as they stomp out the door and onto the front porch. “Too many cars. And noise. And people. I don’t like people.”

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Esme remarks as playfully pulls her husband’s hat down over his eyes, then gives his shoulders a tight squeeze. “I wonder where she gets THAT from?”

He fixes the beanie; pushing it back off his forehead and then tending to the laces on his boots. “Why do you blame me for everything? The way they bitch and moan about the cold, the way they hate socks and shoes, this pout that they supposedly all have.”

“There’s nothing supposed about it. They all have the pout. Which they inherited from YOU.”

He shoots her a scowl over his shoulder. “I don’t pout.”

“Like shit you don’t. You DO pout. And I have more than one piece of photographic evidence, thank you very much.”

“I don’t care what any of those photos say. That is not a pout.” He grimaces as he stands, the tightness -and accompanying gnawing pain- in the knee and back a little more intense than usual. “It’s a frown.”

“It’s a pout. A very vicious one. One that says you might bite someone’s head off if they get too close.”

“It’s not a frown then, is it. If it’s mean. Pouts aren’t mean. Pouts are sad. I’m not sad if I’m wanting to bite someone’s head off.”

“We are going to have to agree to disagree on this,” she says, and smoothes down the front of his front of Henley style shirt before reaching for the zipper on his jacket.

A grin tugs at the corners of his mouth as she tends to him. It’s something he’s gotten used to over the years; her need to provide even the simplest level of care for the people that she loves. It’s the motherly instinct that runs strongly through her veins; unable to turn off the need to help and nurture, even when it comes to him.

“You know, I DO know how to do this stuff for myself.”

“I know,” she chirps, and then stands on her tiptoes to pull his beanie down further. “But I like doing it. I like taking care of you. You think you’d be used to it by now. I’ve only been annoying the shit out of you with it for the past twelve and half years. Your back’s sore?”

“And my knee.”

“Maybe when we get home you should call and get them looked at it. Better to be safe than sorry. They’ve been acting up pretty bad lately.”

“Just the cold weather. Nothing serious. You need to stop worrying so much.”

She stares pointedly up at him.

“I know. You can’t help it. But can you tone it down just a bit? I’m fine. It’s the weather. It makes the arthritis act up. Just like the surgeon said it would.”

“You realize we don’t have to come here for Christmas, right? We could save this place for getting away during warmer weather. We do NOT have to come during the winter.”

“The kids like coming here; the whole white Christmas thing. And so do you. I can deal with it. I’ve dealt with worse.”

“But you shouldn’t have to just ‘deal with it’. Your comfort is important to me, too. The kids and I would cope. With Christmas in Australia. It’s no big deal. If it’s that painful…”

“It’s not. It just acts up from time to time. More uncomfortable than actual pain. You’d know if I was in pain, trust me.”

“And you’re taking meds? You’re not trying to go without?:

“I am taking them the exact way they’re supposed to be taken. Take it down a notch, okay? I know you worry. I know you want to take care of me. And believe, I love you very much for that. But you also drive me a little fucking insane.”

“I happen to love you, you enormously stubborn pain in my ass. And if you’re that uncomfortable and it’s only getting worse…”

“Stop,” he gently orders, taking her face in both of hands and pressing a kiss to her lips. “And by the way, speaking of your ass…” Placing his hands on his shoulders, he runs them slowly down her arms. Fingertips drifting over the curves of her wrist and over the top of her hand; palms briefly settling on her hands before travelling to her butt. “...it looks fucking amazing in that outfit. And I think you should wear it more.”

She grins. “What happened to wanting me to wear yoga pants all the time?”

“Oh, those are still my favourite. But I’m okay if you wear this too.”

“Just for you, I’ll add it to my steady rotation of clothes. I’d hate to deprive you of any quality ass watching time.”

“You spoil me.” As he leans down to kiss her, she perches herself on her tiptoes and wraps both arms around his neck. Eagerly responding at first, then giggling when he brings his palms against the cheeks of her ass in sound, stinging smacks before aggressively pinching. “You do look beautiful, by the way. I mean, you always do, but…”

“Extra beautiful?”

“Very,” he confirms, and kisses her once more; longer and deeper, hands slipping from her ass in order to softly glide up and down her back. “Think I should lock the door? So we can have a quickie right here?”

“As tempted as I am, that’s definitely NOT a good idea. You’re going to have to be patient and wait for later. When everyone’s in bed."

“No sneaking into the pantry or the guest bathroom? These are some pretty shitty wifing skills on your part.”

“Just the most horrible wife ever. In the history of marriage. You poor, poor man. I am sorry you have go one day with getting one blow job instead of two.”

“That’s ground for divorce,” he teases.

“I’ve been way too good to you over the course of the last five years. You’ve come to expect these things. You don’t see me expecting to be woken up the same way every morning.”

“Bullshit. I’ve been waking you up the same way every day for nearly six years. You can’t tell me you don’t expect it. That you wouldn’t miss it if it suddenly stopped.”

“I would be extremely disappointed, actually. But seeing as you like doing it just as much as I like being on the receiving end, I know it won’t stop any time soon. I WILL make it up to you. You have my word. And I’m good on my word.”

“I have to admit, you haven’t disappointed me yet. Promise me that you’ll spoil yourself today? That you won’t buy me or the kids all kinds of shit we won’t need? I know what you’re like. I know you always plan on buying things for yourself and never do. Don’t piss me off. Don’t make me put you through a dry spell.”

“I promise that I will only spoil myself. Although I don’t see why I should bother. You do a good enough job. You’re the king of needless spoiling.”

“I spoil you because you deserve it. And because it makes me happy. That I can’t buy you shit just for the sake of buying it. Humour me, okay? Let me make up for all the times we barely had money for food and I had no idea how I was going to pay rent from month to the next.”

“Which was none of your fault,” she reminds him. “You almost died. You were in inpatient for two months. And even after you got home, you weren’t exactly well enough to work. Stop blaming yourself. It was way beyond your control. And we did fine. We managed. We didn’t have much but we were happy. All that mattered to me was that you were alive and we were together. And that our baby girl was healthy. Nothing else mattered.”

“I just like being able to give you things. Not because you need them or even necessarily want them. Just because. So shut up and let me do it, yeah? Let me spoil my wife.”

“I have a feeling this is an argument I will never win.”

“You know what? I will gladly die on this hill.”

“Speaking of hills to die on, you’ve picked a pretty big one. Taking all seven plus Alannah out at once? That takes some balls, babe. That’s some serious superhero shit. And you say you’re not brave?”

“Out of curiosity, which kids are your favorites? Because I can’t promise all seven of them will make it back. And seeing as there’s no sharks to offer sacrifices to, looks like I’m feeding them to the subway trolls.”

“You’ll be just fine. You’ve done this before; taking all the kids out at once. And you lived to tell about it. You have some serious cajones, honey. No one can ever convince me otherwise.”

“You think way too highly of me. I better go. Before someone DOES have to go to the bathroom. And if I have go through that one more time…”

“You are a brave, brave man, Tyler Rake. I don’t want to ever hear you say any different. I’d say have a good time, but we’re talking about seven kids plus an extra, so…”

“Just keep your fingers crossed my sanity stays intact. Or what’s left of it anyway.” Laying a hand on the back of her head, he pulls her into one final kiss; her tiny frame once more perched on her tiptoes as she leans into him. It’s become their ‘thing’; never leave the home without a hug and a kiss and telling the other how you feel about them. Life is just too short and unpredictable; the incident five years ago reminding them just how quickly everything can change and be snatched away from you. And he pulls her close; a forearm along the small of her back and his lips against her temple. “I love you.”

Giving his neck a final squeeze, she runs her fingernails along the nape and then brushes her lips against his cheek. “I love you. Be good. No feeding any of the children to the subway trolls. I happen to quite like all of them.”

“I’m not making any promises. Remember what I said; about spoiling yourself. And about something sexy.”

“I still think I should get a hint. About your plans for after Ovi’s wedding.”

“I told you. It’s a surprise.” He reaches for the handle on the door. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

“Yeah…” she smiles, shooting him a wink as he steps out onto the snow covered porch. “...you will.”

*****

Even a simple two block walk is an adventure with eight kids in tow. The oldest leading the pack while the stragglers and the littlest ones follow; tiny legs finding it easier to navigate unshoveled sidewalks when they have much larger footprints to step into. For the most part they are an amicable and well behaved group. Millie and Alannah with their locked arms and their high pitched giggles and seemingly endless chattering, TJ with a protective slung across Tanner’s shoulders and always ready and willing to help him to either climb over snow covered curbs or carrying him entirely. Declan and Brooklyn are the ‘wild ones’; sandwiched in the middle of the group to avoid them running too far ahead and kept in line by a stern Millie threatening to clothesline them if they dare jump into the puddles of slush. Takota and Addie are the slow pokes; tiny bodies weighed down by heavy boots and layers of clothes, always stopping every few feet to make footprints in the higher banks or to ball up snow and toss it at each other. And while the frequent stops and the repetitive -yet calm and patient- requests to just ‘get a move on’ would likely be annoying to most parents, Tyler relishes in every second he gets to spend with his kids; knowing how quick everything can be snatched away and your life altered forever. Nothing makes him smile like the sight of those little faces turned up towards the sky; eyes closed and their noses scrunched up as they try to catch snowflakes on their tongues. And there’s no sound more beautiful than those shrieks and giggles; unleashed when he picks both of them up and tosses them into snowbanks. In the end the journey and the deeper areas of snow defeats tiny legs and he resorts to carrying them; one in each arm as they tightly cling to his neck.

They’re shown to a booth at the back of the restaurant; upholstered in red leather and large enough to fit parties of their size. It’s chaos getting everyone undressed; arms flailing as jackets are yanked off and the straps of snow pants pushed down, littles complaining about their feet being sweaty and not thinking twice of kicking their boots off, hats and mitts having to be fetched when they slip out of sleeves and hoods and have to be fetched from under the table. They’ve eaten in the establishment enough to be seen as regulars. The havoc and noise going on unacknowledged by staff and fellow diners; the occasional sympathetic or amused smile being tossed in their direction, a handful of compliments revolving aroundt how cute the kids are and their ‘charming’ accents, praises on how well he’s handling such a large ‘brood’ and how brave he is for taking them all out at once. Even a comment about how not seeing many ‘male’ nannies even in this day and age.

“He’s not our nanny.” Brooklyn is quick to speak up. Never backing down from what she considers something ridiculous or rude. “It’s our dad. We’re all related. Except for her…” she jerks her head in Alannah’s direction. “..but she might as well be. We love her like she’s one of us. And she likes our house better. It’s more fun. Her parents are assholes.”

“Language,” Tyler admonishes, and lays a hand on the back of her head and gently pushes her in the direction of the booth. “And you don’t have to tell everyone our business.”

“It’s totally obvious you’re not our nanny. We all look alike. Well, maybe not Declan. He’s the odd duck.”

“Hey!” Declan objects from his place between Millie and TJ. “I look like grandma Adeline. Which was dad’s mom. So that means I look like dad. Just a red headed version. I still look like him though.”

“You don’t even have blue eyes,” Brooklyn argues, as she slides onto the bench and wriggles her way across. “You don’t look like daddy at all. Well, maybe his nose. And his ears.”

“I don’t have blue eyes either,” Addie pipes up, as she’s helped out of her coat and shoves her hat and mittens into the sleeves. “Yet daddy is my daddy. I don’t look like him at all.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re adopted,” Declan says.

“I am not! I look like mommy! Daddy says so. That I look just like her. That if mommy got put into a shrinking machine, you’d get me. That’s what you said, right daddy? That I look like a tiny version of mommy.”

“You look just like her,” he confirms, and slides the straps of her snow pants down her arms. “A little version. Her mini me.”

“Like TJ is yours, right? Only TJ isn’t so little. He’s tall and big. I’m short and wee. Why am I short and wee? Why can’t I be tall like you guys?”

“All the good genes ran out,” Millie explains. “By the time mom and dad got to you, there was nothing good left. You got the spare stuff.”

“You’re full of shit,” Addie counters, then smiles sheepishly up at her father. “Sorry. Language. I know, I know. But sometimes it just slips out. You’re a bad influence.”

Grinning, he removes the elastic from her lopsided ponytail and uses his fingers to comb through the messy dark tresses. “You’re going to throw me under the bus, are you?”

“You swear all the time. Especially in the car. When people don’t use their blinkers or they drive too slow in the fast lane.”

“Or if people come too close to us when we’re in the crosswalk,” TJ adds. “Remember last year? When we were going to see mom at the store? When someone was going to run the light when we were crossing? Dad put his foot right through their front grill.”

“And said a whole lot of bad words,” Declan adds. “For everyone to hear.”

“For the record…” he gathers Addie’s hair in both hands and resets the ponytail. “...it could have been worse. I could have put my foot through his face.”

“I would have paid to have seen that,” TJ declares. “I’m almost eleven and I still haven’t seen you mess anyone up. I feel robbed.”

“I’d like to see him hand someone their ass,” Millie says. “I’ve just heard stories. I want to see it with my own two eyes.”

“You should totally beat the crap out Jacobi,” Declan chimes in. “He totally has a crush on mum. That’s not right. That’s someone else's wife. You don’t mess with someone else’s wife. Is nothing sacred anymore?”

“Especially OUR mom,” Tanner adds, as he rummages through his backpack for his weighted lap pad and noise cancelling headphones. “Has he not seen our dad? Like, hello! He’s ginormous. And he looks scary too. All the tattoos and stuff? And he has a scary voice.”

“He only looks scary when he’s mad. And his voice is only scary when he yells,” Brooklyn contributes. “His normal voice isn’t scary. It’s just deep. Like Darth Vader. And mommy’s voice sounds like a little elf. It’s a really weird combo. But you should, daddy. Beat up, Jacobi. He tries to get cozy with mommy. The other day while you were away, he brought her a caramel macchiato from Starbucks. A venti. Do you know how much those things cost? He must be in love with her. You should for sure punch him in the face. At least once. Twice if you want him to stay down.”

“Listen pipsqueak, I don’t need your advice on how to knock someone out. And no one is beating anyone up. Jacobi’s a kid. He has a crush. That’s it.”

“Naw, it’s totally love,” Declan argues. “No one with just a crush buys you Starbucks. Dunkin’ Donuts, maybe. Not the expensive stuff.”

“You all need to relax.” Sliding into the booth, he reaches for Addie and places her on his lap. She and Brooklyn have their own calendar they’ve created; keeping a very accurate and detailed log on the dates and times each got to sit with daddy in order to determine whose turn it is and avoid arguments. “I don’t think your mom has a thing for Jacobi. I don’t think you have to worry about him ever becoming your step dad.”

“Desi might,” Takota pipes up. “He likes mummy. They always spend a lot of time together.”

“That’s mum’s best friend,” TJ informs his littlest brother. “He’s like an older brother to her. She IS not going to leave dad for Desi. She’s not going to leave dad for anyone. He’d have to be the one to screw up and leave.”

“No one is leaving anyone for someone else. You guys are too much. Just decide what you want, okay? You’re giving me more gray hair here. Let’s play the quiet game. Everyone look at your menu and pick something. And don’t talk while doing it.”

“The quiet game doesn’t work,” Tanner says, and pulls a stuffed koala from his backpack and hands it across the table to Addie. “You almost forgot Fredrick at home.”

“You’re the best, Tanny! Thank you!” She rubs her cheek against the toy’s faded and tattered ‘fur’ and then snuggles him tight to her chest.

Frederick has seen his fair share of adventures; being carted all over Australia and Colorado by a much smaller and younger Millie, and his ‘koala napping’ in Mumbai five years ago. If he thinks long and hard enough about it, Tyler can still remember the terror of that initial night; the bedroom window open and an infant Addie screaming from the discomfort of the cool air. His instincts had immediately told him to fear the worst. That it wasn’t something as innocent and simple as one of Anil’s workers opening the window and forgetting to close it. And when that bear had shown up on the doorstep of the safe house in Dhaka, his worst nightmare had been in danger of coming true. Someone with a score to settle had gotten close enough to his daughter to potentially take her right from her bed; having to reach over her and likely coming in contact with her body. In all his years on the job and as many times as his own life had been in danger, he’d never felt fear quite like that. That chill of terror that seems to take over your entire body and settle into your bones. There was always a chance of someone tracking him down out of the need for revenge; a worry that his kids could be made a target as a way of breaking him. But that was the closest anyone had ever gotten.

He’d vowed to never let that happen again. And to kill anyone that posed even the slightest bit of threat.

The silence that ensues is a welcome change; a waitress bringing coffee for him and glasses of chocolate milk for the kids and then taking their orders. TJ, Declan and Tanner watching youtube videos on the latter’s Ipad while Millie and Alannah whisper and giggle at the Instagram posts they scroll through on Alannah’s phone. The littlest busy themselves with the baskets of crayons that the restaurant had provided; scribbling and doodling on the craft paper that covers the table. All in all, they’re good kids; polite and always minding their manners, careful not to make too much noise that will bother others around them, saving the majority of their arguments and insults for the street or at home. It can’t get wild; seven little humans all talking at once and vying for attention. Christmas morning is far the most chaotic; a living room full of presents and excited chattering and squeals of joy and excitement. It’s enough to take the sting out of the memories of his past. Seeing those cute faces light up and the tears of pure happiness over receiving a much sought after item and feeling those little arms wrap around your neck and the lips that press to your cheek; those tiny voices saying thank you and telling you how much they love you.

*****

“Daddy?” Addie breaks the silence.

“Yeah?”

“Will you please help me? Will you draw a kangaroo for me? I don’t know how.”

Selecting a crayon from the basket in the middle of the table, he tends to his daughter’s request. He’d discovered at a young age that not only COULD he draw, but that he was exceptionally good at it; his mother nurturing and feeding the talent and always encouraging him by buying his pencils and sketchbooks and constantly praising his work. It was something he had enjoyed just as much as surfing or spending time outdoors, but had quickly learned to keep a secret from his father. The old man had viewed anything even remotely related to the arts as ‘girly’ and ‘pathetic’; preferring his son to pick up more manly pursuits and drilling it into his head that a ‘real man’ didn’t create. After his mom had died, his father had gone through his room and not only trashed every piece of art tapped to the wall, but burnt every sketch book and pencil in the fire pit in the backyard.

He hadn’t picked up a pencil since. Until Millie had started showing a very keen eye and skilled hand and had asked for an area in the house to be turned into her own little studio. A loft added above the new garage; a place filled with paints and pencils and easels and canvases and anything else that she could possibly need. And spending time with her in that studio and nurturing and encouraging her talent had been a way of rediscovering his own. Using it as a form of escape and relaxation when life gets too hectic and stressful or his mental health feels as if it’s spiralling out of control.

“Daddy?”

“Addie?”

“If mummy didn’t do the same job as you a long time ago, how else would you have met her?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she would have come to Australia. Maybe we would have met that way. On the beach or something.”

“Would you have still liked her? If you met her that way?”

“Why wouldn’t I? She still would have been mummy. She still would have been the same person.”

“Do you think she would have liked you? If she met you a different way?”

“I think so. I hope she would have.”

“What would you have done? If you didn’t do that job?”

He shrugs. “Maybe I would have stayed in the military. Or become a fireman. Or done construction. Or built houses. Something where I could stay busy and use my hands.”

“I think you would have been a good policeman. You would have been really good at catching bad guys. I mean, that’s what you were doing in the first place. Just you weren’t a policeman. What do you think mummy would have done? If she had a different job?”

“I’m not sure. I think she would have made a really good teacher. Or a nurse.”

“Like Auntie Riley and Auntie Shaena?”

“Yup. Just like him. She’d probably work with kids though. I think your mum is meant to be around kids.”

“I think so too. She’s a really good mummy. She always plays with us and she even does dress up and makes up different names and voices for all my dolls. She’s never too busy; to have fun with us. And she gives really good cuddles and kisses too.”

“She’s an awesome mum. I definitely picked a good one to have kids with.”

“So did mummy. You guys make a good team. And you make cute kids.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, and presses a kiss to her temple. “Really, really, REALLY cute kids.”

“I bet she would have still liked you. If she met you a different way. I mean, you still would have been daddy. You still would have looked the same. You still would have had nice muscles.”

“Is that what mummy says she likes the best?”

“She says it’s third on her list.”

“What’s number one and two?”

“Your eyes and your smile. Your voice is number four and your butt is number five.”

“She didn’t say anything about my hands? That’s weird. For your mom.”

“Your hands were number six. And your forearms were number seven. I don’t understand that one. Mum says it’s hard to explain. Why she likes them so much. She said when she first met you, she was attracted to your face. That you had a kind of a sad face. In a beautiful way.”

“She said that?”

“Yep. She said that you had kind eyes. And that she liked how they crinkled when you smiled. That you smiled at her and you made your insides go all funny. What does that mean?”

He chuckles. “It’s nothing you need to know until you’re older. What else did she say?”

“Just that you were really good looking and she liked your haircut and your beard. And that you shared the house with a chicken. Is that true?”

“It is. I did have a chicken in the house.”

“Can we have a house chicken? When we get home can we get one?”

“No. Chickens stay outside now. No chickens in the house. They poop too much.”

“Not even if I let the chicken stay in my room?”

“Not even then. Sorry, Peanut.”

“Can I have a kitten?”

“I don’t like cats.”

“How can you not like cats? Cats are cute. They’re all fluffy and sweet and purr and stuff. How do you not like cats? Can I? Get one? For my birthday?”

“How about I talk to your mum about that? She gets the last say.”

“That’s ‘cause she wears the pants in the family.”

Tyler smirks. “Did she say that too?”

“Don’t deny it, daddy. You know mum's the boss. She just let’s you think you are. Everyone knows she rules the roost.”

“I’m going to have a talk with her later. Is this good enough? Good enough kangaroo?”

“Best kangaroo ever! Looks like Charlie. Do you think he misses us? I bet he does. I bet he’s sad that we’re not there. Because no one is giving him peanut butter sandwiches and lettuce. What if he’s mad at us? That we went away? What if he doesn’t come back? I don’t want him being mad at us.”

“I had a talk with him before we left. Told him we’d be back in a couple weeks. And that we’d give him extra lettuce when we got back. And peanut butter sandwiches.”

“Was he mad? That we were going away?”

“Nope. He was a little sad. Said he’d miss you the most. That you make the best peanut butter sandwiches.”

She tips her head back to look at him; a smile stretching from ear to ear and her dark eyes sparkling. “He did? He said that?”

“He did. He said ‘tell Addie she’s my favorite and I’ll miss her and her peanut butter sandwiches’. He said he’d be there when you got back. First thing in the next morning.”

“He’s a good little Joey. I hope he never gets tired of us and that when he grows up and has his own babies, he brings them to our house too. And then we can feed them all peanut butter sandwiches and lettuce.”

Smiling, he curls an arm around her waist and pulls her tighter into him, then presses a kiss to her cheek and then the side of her head. She’s so much like her mother; the short and petite build, the dark eyes and the beaming smile and the freckle splattered nose. And their personality is shared as well; both bubbly and light hearted and willing and eager to experience new things and meet new people. Out of all the kids, she’s the one he babies; by far the tiniest and the seemingly most fragile. But it’s the similarity to her mother that drives his need to protect and coddle her the most; reminding him of Esme and everything his wife had gone through during the entire McMann fiasco to make sure Addie was carried and brought into the world safely.

Silence one more falls on the top when the waitress returns with drink refills and their respective orders. And it isn’t until halfway through the meal when he notices Millie look up from her plate of food and towards the front door; eyes narrowing and a scowl capturing her lips. She reaches behind Declan and smacks TJ upside the head; the latter growling in protest, but then following his sister’s gaze when she nods in the direction of the door.

“What’s up with you two? What’s…?”

“It’s that lady,” Millie grumbles. “The one that came to the house looking for you yesterday.”

“That’s her?” TJ’s nose crinkles in disgust. “SHE had the nerve to shit talk mum? Oh hell no.”

Tyler makes the mistake of glancing over his shoulder; greeted by a broad smile and a wave as Natalie nudges her daughter in the direction of their booth. He inwardly lets loose a string of profanities. There’d already been enough drama caused over a simple and unassuming conversation at the park. The last thing he needs is someone...especially another woman...dropping by his house and getting too close and comfortable. The women at the soccer park and on the playground are bad enough. But at least they’re not showing up unannounced on his doorstep.

“Hey,” Natalie cheerfully greets. “Imagine meeting you here.”

“My dad’s not the only one here,” TJ responds first “You do see us, right?”

“Do you mind if we join you? If everyone shoves down just a bit…”

“We do mind,” Millie speaks up. “Very much. We’re here with our dad. It’s a family thing. We don’t even know you.”

“Amelia…” he stares at her pointedly. “...settle.”

“Dad, it’s quite obvious what and who she wants. Someone has to stick up for mum. She isn’t here to beat her ass herself.”

“I said settle. Relax. This doesn’t involve you.”

“Fine,” she huffs, and leans back against the leather of the booth and crosses her arms over her chest.

“This isn’t a good time,” he addresses Natalie. “She’s right. This IS a family thing.”

Smirking, the neighbour nods in Alannah’s direction.

“She’s as close to family as it gets. So if you don’t mind…”

“I stopped by yesterday. To thank you for being so nice at the park. Met your wife.”

“Yeah, she told me. She also told me you weren’t the friendliest. Something about making fun of how she looks?”

“I wasn’t making fun. I was merely critiquing.”

“You can keep your critiques to yourself. My wife looks amazing. Just the way she is. And really don’t think it was appropriate; you showing up like that. It was small talk. That’s it. I wasn’t trying to make it seem like anything more than that.”

“I thought we had a little...connection.”

“No. There was no connection. None. Whatsoever. I was being nice. That’s it. I’m married. And not the type of married that you’re probably used to. I’m married as in I’m not interested and nothing is ever going to happen.”

“Our dad doesn’t cheat,” TJ informs her. “And our mom is way better than you. Like, a hundred times better.”

“Tyler, stop. I can handle this. I know you’re protective of your mum, but…”

“I must have misread the signals.” Natalia gives a sheepish, apologetic smile. “The way you were giving them off and the way you were…”

“I wasn’t giving off any signals. I don’t play games like that. If I was interested, you’d know. And I’m not. Interested. I have a wife. That I love more than life itself. So thanks, but no thanks. Not gonna happen. EVER. And if you don’t mind, don’t come to my house. That was way out of line. I didn’t appreciate it. There was no need for that. Unless you just wanted to ruffle feathers.”

“I never meant to cause problems. My visit was taken way out of context. I just showed up to be friendly and neighbourly. That’s it.”

“Something tells me that’s bullshit. And I’d really like it if you didn’t come around. Like I said, I’m married. Happily. VERY happily. I don’t know what kind of married men you’re used to, but I’m not one of them. So if I could get back to lunch with my kids…”

“I’m sorry to have caused you any issues. Or to have wasted your time.”

He watches her as she goes; the tightly clenched jaw and the rigid shoulders and the over aggressive way she shoves her daughter in the direction of an empty table. It’s the behaviour of a woman that is used to getting what and WHO she wants. Who isn’t used to rejection -especially public- and can’t handle being put in her place.

“I don’t know about you, dad,” TJ says, as he turns around in his seat after watching Natalie’s dramatic exit. “But I don’t trust her. She’s definitely up to no good.”

Nodding slowly, he lifts his coffee cup to his lips and takes a long, slow sip. His instincts tell him the same thing; it isn’t the last he’s seen or heard from the new neighbour. He’s witnessed that kind of behaviour before. She’s cunning and manipulative; refusing to take no for an answer and doing whatever she can to wreak havoc as a response to being shot down. But he’s faced far greater challenges and threats. Nik had learned the hard way not to fuck with his family. Being ostracized and shunned for years until she was ready to make amends for the trouble she’d caused and she’d finally moved on with Anil; getting married and having children of her own and settling nicely into a repaired and much healthier relationship with both Tyler and Esme. And if Natalie has to suffer the same embarrassing fate, he has no qualms about dealing her that particular hand.

More than ready, willing, and able to protect and defend the life he has.

#Tyler Rake #Tyler Rake fan fiction #Extraction fan fiction

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second-chance-stray · 3 years ago

Photo

RP Log: Rising takes Cravs out to skyfish. Egg fish.

Rising Lotus still looked a bit wobbly on her feet as they made their way through the aetheryte plaza. "Ugh, wasn't even a long airship trip..." she took a few deep breaths, trying to collect herself now that they were on solid land... more or less.

Cravendy Hound , in contrast, is in high spirits. She steps out onto the floating island with wonder lighting up her eyes, and she dashes out to an edge to get a better look. "Risin', ye got to work on yer sea legs...or air legs, in this case? Anyway, holy. Shit. What the 'ells keepin' all these rocks flyin' up?"

Rising Lotus: "Some sort of air crystals or somethin' I think? Some sort of aethery type of deal, someone explained it to me when I came here the first time but I don't remember the specifics." she shrugged ."It ain't too far from the spot...which is weird cause you think you could jus' cast out off any side."

Cravendy Hound shrugs. Magic didn't make much sense to her as well. She would follow Rising to whatever spot she was talking about, chatting along the way. "So, ye showed me that weird balloonfish last time, but what else could we drag up?"

Rising Lotus shrugged. "There's lots of different air fish. Some ain't really look like fish though, least not where I casted off here." she started down the way. "But I guess it counts as long as you hook it?"

Cravendy Hound: "I mean, if we're tossin' our 'ooks off a cliff, seems reasonable ye'd catch things other than fish. Like, birds, maybe." She pauses every once and awhile to observe the native flora and fauna around these parts, having never seen anything quite like it.

Rising Lotus approached the edge cautiously, looking out on the vast cloudscape. "Think over here was the place. I remember these weird plants." she plopped down, setting her tackle box between them. "Also careful when you go for some bait, it has a tendency to... uh float away."

Cravendy Hound: "What?" Cravs goes for Rising's tackle box and opens it, letting a couple of red balloon bugs drifting out. "What?!"

Rising Lotus was able to snag one out of the air as the others wafted away on the breeze. "See? You jus' wanna hook 'em..." she slid the hook into the body part instead of the balloon part, so that it still could float on her line. "Like this. So they can still float. You'll probably still pop a few though on your first try." She then casted her line out, line floating about with the stange bug hook on.

Cravendy Hound does her best to catch some of the bait before it flies away, but the wind blows away most of the escapees. Following Rising's lead, she stabs one a little too roughly through her hook. It's not floating at all anymore. That's not a good sign.

Cravendy Hound throws caution to the wind and decides, screw it. She casts off with the dead bug anyway. The chill really sets in once she begins waiting in earnest. "Eesh, it's colder than I thought up 'ere."

Rising Lotus snickered as Cravs had a deflated bait hanging from her line. "It's a little tricky, the ballon part is way bigger than the non-balloon part." she shrugged as she cast off anyway. "You think it'd be warmer since we're closer to the sun."

Cravendy Hound feels something tug on the other end and she pulls up a...weird? Purple circle? Cravs can't tell if this is a living creature or skytrash. "I think I caught this through pure luck."

Cravendy Hound: "Well, the tops of mountains tend to be cold? Maybe whatevers 'oldin' in all the warm air becomes thinner the 'igher ye go."

Rising Lotus reels in the same thing, unhooking it then tossing it away, watching it drift away. "Wonder what those things are, weird purple balls." she casted off again. " I got some other bait in there too, these giant bugs. But ya know, different from these bugs."

Cravendy Hound gives her Storm Core a confused squeeze and the thing begins to deflate, spitting out questionable liquid as it becomes as flat as a pancake. Cravs feels a tinge bad, decides to toss it off the cliff as if releasing a fish. The purple thing descends and disappears below the cloud layer. It's probably fine, she tells herself!

Cravendy Hound: "Other bait? Giant...bugs?" Cravs mutters apprehensively. "How big we talkin' 'ere."

Rising Lotus: "Well their body is small, but it has super long legs." she motioned to a small cage with Giant Crane Fly fluttering about. "...So...how did Riylli take... ya know.." she reeled in once more after asking, pulling in a small slug like thing with little wings, giving it a strange look. "...it's like some small angel thing."

Cravendy Hound peers over at the bait and lets out a breath of relief. "Oh, that's nothin', I thought ye were talkin' like, /big/ bugs. Like this bug." She spreads her hands a few ilms apart, invisibly outlining something the size of a loaf of bread.

Cravendy Hound: "She took it well enough...at least, don't think we 'ave to worry about 'er gabbin' to Momori anymore. I think it'd be good to keep 'er and Florus separated though, she still wants to tear 'im a new one."

Rising Lotus "Well yeah that was a no brainer...good though. I was worried 'bout her runnin' with Momori... an' her bein' as naive as she is at times...well..." she let out a sigh at the thought before reeling in another catch. It looks like a weird mass of cloth moving about. "Whoah.." she held her line up so she could look at its form better. Whiteloom

Cravendy Hound: "While most Eorzeans don't take kindly to Garleans, I think somethin' personal must've 'appened with Riylli to make 'er distrust 'em that much...and she's sheltered, too. Bein' in the woods for all yer life don't do the mind any good."

Cravendy Hound glances over at Rising's catch and lets out an amused snort. "Hah, did ye accidentally reel in someone's smallclothes?"

(Cravendy Hound) Buoyant Oviform UMM )) (Cravendy Hound) THATS JUST AN EGG?? )) (Rising Lotus) What's the lady's name they're trying to stop again?)) (Rising Lotus) and yes that's an egg)) (Cravendy Hound) Mindred Rot? )) (Rising Lotus) okay thanks I was blanking xD))

Rising Lotus looked again at her catch. "..Well them Ishgarde folk do wear that frilly stuff." She carefully unhooked it and tossed it over the edge only for it to start swimmin' back through the air.

Rising Lotus: "But aye... worried someone's gonna take advantage of that...someone like Momori or Rot."

Cravendy Hound: "Good thing Riylli's got us to protect 'er, then. Or try. She's pretty stubborn."

Cravendy Hound - Something tugs on the line and she reels in an egg of all things. Cravs holds it in her hand, stunned into a prolonged silence.

Cravendy Hound: "...AY. OKAY, NOW I KNOW YER MESSIN' WITH ME." She turns to Rising with the egg brandished like a club. "The purple beachball and cloth thing were fishy enough, but an egg?! What do ye take me for? Are ye, like, attachin' crap to my line or somethin'?!"

Rising Lotus was about to speak on the Riylli matter when Cracs pulled up an egg. "Huh... that is an egg." she cocked her head. "..so there are eggs floatin' 'round up here too? I mean... does it hatch into things?" she gave it a puzzled look, losing her own bait. "How in the hells would I do that? I'm right here with you!" she set herself up and cast out again.

Cravendy Hound: "I dunno, ye tell me! Did ye 'ire a moogle to loiter below us? Or maybe yer usin' magic. That shit can do anythin'," Cravs rambles as she grips the egg in her hand. "Well, the jig is up!"

Cravendy Hound tosses the egg against the ground, smashing it. A tiny, weird fish splats out of it and flops futilely as Cravs goes from confused to seconds away from losing her mind.

(Cravendy Hound) I have no idea but like - if eggs can fly.................. )) (Rising Lotus) These eggs can! If they're even eggs)) (Cravendy Hound) sus eggs ))

Rising Lotus "I don't know any magic! Aside from some of that blue kind I haven't practiced in...whoah!" she was jerked forward from the tug on her line, causing her to stand up and fight with it. "This ones feels big..." her eyes darted down to the edge nervously and inched back a decent amount of ilms. Eventually with a mighty tug a shark swooped up over the side, thrashing about as it landed on the edge before Rising.

Rising Lotus: "...It's a flyin' shark!" her face lit up, though the creature's resistance broke through, biting through her line and the fly-swimming off.

Cravendy Hound peels her eyes off of the questionable fish-egg and hurries to loop her arm around Rising's elbow. "Don't let it drag ye off! It's a long way down!"

Cravendy Hound: "Well, shit! That's a flyin' fish if I ever saw one," Cravs points out. "But like, a /real/ one, not just the glidin' type I see on the water."

Rising Lotus grunted as it flew off. "Well it was a fish.." she watched it fly off into the distance and back into the clouds. " Ain't ever had that happen before. You'll vouch for me that I caught a sky shark right? I'll vouch for your egg." she snickered.

Cravendy Hound narrows her eyes again. "Ye say that, and people'll just think yer loony. Damnit, I wanna hook a shark too." She stabs another balloon bug onto her hook and decides to change spots - maybe standing somewhere else, she'll have more luck?

Cravendy Hound: "Anyway, what exactly did ye promise to Momori? Somethin' 'bout takin' 'er to Idyllshire? Gods, I feel bad that yer stickin' yer neck out for me to begin with..."

Rising Lotus made her way down the way and cast out again. "Ugh... all I could offer was some connections out there, which even that I ain't thrilled about. Gotta warn 'em 'bout her." she sighed. "An' don't worry 'bout it...gotta look out for you to."

Cravendy Hound blinks several times at that last part, two parts dazed and one part embarrassed. Mixed in is also that feeling of fear you get when you look down a cliff - which /may/ be from literally looking down a cliff. She's not sure. "Ah. Well. I can look after myself...but I appreciate the 'elp anyway."

Cravendy Hound: "We look out for each other." Cravs pauses, then glances up to give Rising a shy smile. She finds her footing. "..A 'ound never 'unts alone.

Rising Lotus nodded, returning the smile as she idly reeled in her line. "Aye..." she chewed her lower lip, looking like she was fighting with something. "...I was alone for a bit before I joined up with Heartwood. Was...a bit hard...so.. ya know...you an' Riylli..." she trailed off, reeling in her next catch.

Cravendy Hound tilts her head as she listens to Rising, every word slow and careful. Which struck her as odd, but then again, Cravs figured she was feeling just the same way. "Yeah! It's good the three of us stumbled into each other. Ain't good bein' alone all the time."

Rising Lotus fished up an egg of her own, breaking the tender moment by by grabbing it and shoving it in Crav's face "See! I wasn't putting you on! There are jus'..." she looked at the egg in her hand "..these things floatin' about.." she shrugged and tossed it away.

Rising Lotus: "..b-but yeah...Thanks." she smiled weakly, though it looked like something was still bothering her a bit.

Cravendy Hound rolls her eyes with a smirk. "Well I'll be...ye also got one of them flyin' eggs. Either there really are eggs just out there, waitin' and willin' to be fished up, or we're both goin' crazy from bein' up 'ere too long. If they're aren't just a 'allucination, we should shove 'em in a carton at 'ome as a prank. See if someone bakes a cake with it."

Cravendy Hound: "Anyway, I'm gonna 'ead back. My nose's gonna be frozen solid if I stay out 'ere any longer." She packs up her rod and bumps Rising on the shoulder with a clenched fist as she begins to walk back. "Thanks for takin' me out. Shout if anythin's givin' ye trouble."

Rising Lotus nodded. "Aye, I think I've had enough of starin' off into...certain death." she stashed her rod away. " Glad we finally had a chance to go out here." she rubbed her elbow a bit at her offer, glancing back over the edge before nodding lightly. "..A-alright." she shivered a bit as the chill was finally starting to get to her as well. "..I wonder if they got a bar in that town back there.."

#ff14 rp logs #Rising Lotus #Cravendy Hound #it's literally just an egg #there is a surprising DENSITY of lore in fish descriptions and logs #I love it. I am blindsided and I want more

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sourbkg · 5 years ago

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ｗｏｒｄｃｏｕｎｔ: ２１９３

ｗａｒｎｉｎｇｓ: ａｌｃｏｈｏｌｃｏｎｓｕｍｐｔｉｏｎ（ｂｙｏｔｈｅｒｓ），ｓｏｆｔｂｋｇ

“Did you guys… race to the door?” You ask with a laugh, stepping in after Kiro. Mina grins, taking a dish from you while Kirishima takes the brownies from your brother.

“Maybe. Do you blame us? We’re excited to have you around!”

“That’s very sweet.” You laughed, following as the two set the dishes on the counter in the kitchen.

You look around the house as you walk, taking in the way he has the home decorated and set up. There’s some pictures of him and friends, what you can assume is family, and random paintings. It’s not bare, necessarily, but it’s tasteful from what you can see. Organized, there isn’t a mess in sight- well, if you take away the drinking cups and food trays brought from the adults. Kiro’s tugging on Kirishima’s arm the second he sets the brownies down, begging him to show him how to play some game the red head must've mentioned previously. You open your mouth to tell him to stop, but Mina squeezes your upper arm.

“Don’t worry about Kiro, babe,” she hums, “everyone here’s used to having a kid around. Jirou and Kami’s daughter Mari usually comes with them to these things. They should be on the way, actually.”

“Everyone?” You repeat, eyes narrowing, an unspoken question catching on your tongue.

“Even Bakugou.” She laughs, tugging on your arm to guide you where everyone else has gathered.

Kiro sits in Kirishima’s lap, pressing random buttons on the controller as the red head explains how to play Mario Kart while Bakugou sets up the game. The blonde’s eyes briefly travel to you and Mina as you make yourselves comfortable on either side of Kirishima, and you give him a small smile when you make eye contact. He turns his attention back to the game in return.

“So, what’d you bring to eat?” Mina adjusts herself to where she’s facing you, leaning against the arm of the couch while Kirishima leans back slightly so the two of you can talk, “Me and Eiji- I mean Kiri brought drinks, we also grabbed some juice pouches for the kids.” She winks.

“That’s smart, I didn’t even think about that.” You also adjust yourself, leaning against the other arm. Kiro gives you a toothy grin, showing you the controller and tries to explain how to play it, only to be corrected softly by Kirishima. “I made some teriyaki tofu, broccoli gomaae, and brownies. I didn’t really know what kind of food you guys usually make, so…”

“Yo, that sounds amazing,” Kiri practically drools, “I bet it’s as good as Bakugou’s cooking.”

Bakugou’s shoulders tense at the proclamation, before muttering under his breath, “I doubt it.”

You choose to not comment, instead turning your head when the door is thrown open. A small girl with blonde hair and dark eyes stands in the doorway, an obscure band tee hanging off her form that’s too many sizes too big, but the longsleeve and shorts under it seems to make up for the bagginess. She immediately pounces on Bakugou, throwing her arms around his shoulders with a giggle.

“Mari!” Jirou calls, kicking in a stray volleyball while carrying alcohol in one hand and chips in another, “Come carry your toys!”

Bakugou stands with the girl dangling from his neck, keeping an arm around her waist in case she loses her grip, “You heard your mom, go help.” Mari puffs out her cheeks, but complies, dropping her arms and letting Bakugou set her down on the floor. Bakugou moves to take the beers from Jirou while a blonde man walks in, wearing a matching tee to Mari and carrying more alcohol, specifically beer.

He makes immediate eye contact with Kirishima, pointing at the red head, “Hope you’re ready for a drink off.”

“Bring it on.” Kirishima laughs, catching a can as he throws one.

The blonde then looks at you, “Oh, you must be (l/n)! Kyoka told me about you! I’m Kaminari, but you can call me Denki!”

“Just call me (y/n).” You answer awkwardly, before the stray volleyball makes contact with Kaminari’s face, followed by an annoyed Jirou.

“Don’t flirt with everyone you meet!”

Kirishima leans over to you, whispering, “Don’t worry about Kami’s flirting, he does that with everyone.”

Your shoulders visibly relaxed, eyebrows raising when Kiro tuggs on your arm and points at Mari, who holds a juice pouch (being given to her by Bakugou).

“You want one?” You asked, receiving a nod, “Alright, c’mon,”

You both get up, getting whichever flavor he wanted and watched as the two compared juices with a smile. The two kids begin to talk as they drink their juice pouches, some nonsense only children would understand, before they’re scurrying away in a game of tag.

“Don’t run in!… the house.” What starts as you calling out to your brother only ends with a sigh, hand on your hip.

“‘S fine.” A voice says from beside you, making you jump.

It’s Bakugou, who pulls out plates and silverware to set on the table.

“Oh… uh, do you need help setting the table?” You offer, tilting your head slightly.

He clicks his tongue, but gestures to the dishes that are out, “Go for it.”

You take the plates and set up the table, then place napkins and silverware at each space, before he starts taking tinfoil off of the dishes you brought and you open chip bags, following him as he put everything on the table.

“Come make your plates!” He calls out suddenly, making you jump again. Everything had been unwrapped or brought out, save for the drinks and brownies. Bakugou made sashimi, which looked divine (but you’d never tell him that), and it seemed that aside from that, the only other real food was what you brought.

Bakugou gestures for you to make plates for you and Kiro first, and when Kirishima voices complaints about it, he fixes him with a glare, “They helped set up plates.”

Kirishima’s argument is lost while you quickly put food on two different plates, Bakugou following by making his own plate. Kaminari makes a plate for Mari, and you help the two kids settle in the living room in front of the tv on the coffee table.

“Don’t spill anything on my carpet.” Bakugou warns, though the way Mari gives him a thumbs up with her tongue sticking out tells you there’s no real threat behind his words.

When you settle back at the table with the adults, you realize there’s an empty chair. Maybe Bakugou miscounted how many people were coming? You were given your answer when the door opened, the black haired boy you’d seen a couple days ago walking in. He had a sleeve trailing up his left arm and under the tank top he wore, eyebrow pierced, and snake bites.

“How dare you start eating without me.” He says with mock offense, going straight to the kitchen for a drink before coming back and settling in the empty seat you’d previously been thinking about.

“Should’ve been here on time, soy sauce face.” Bakugou grumbles, taking a bite of the food he made.

“‘Soy sauce face’?” You repeat, causing the newcomer's eyes to fall to you, he gives a fake frown.

“You drink soy sauce as a dare one time in high school and a nickname sticks for life.” His frown turns to a grin, “The name’s Sero Hanta.”

“(l/n) (y/n).” You return his smile, “(y/n)’s fine, though.” You begin eating as he makes his plate.

Soon enough, everyone’s full and light conversation flows between the group. Kirishima and Mina thanked you more than one time for making what you did, saying it really did compliment Bakugou’s sashimi. You even think you hear the blonde mutter about everything you made being okay. And to your understanding, that’s a compliment coming from him.

You and Jirou settle in the backyard after a while, Kaminari and Kirishima having already started their drinking challenge with Mina and Sero egging them on. Bakugou sits in the kitchen, putting food away while Mari and Kiro play with the ball Mari brought (you tried to help Bakugou with the dishes, but he waved you off and said something about not needing the help). The two of you talked about adult things; how your job is going so far, new ways to coerce the two kids to eat their vegetables, and what school Mari was going to attend when summer ended. Jirou threw a few suggestions of where Kiro could go, but ultimately helped you decide the school Mari was going would be the best bet.

The water you’d been drinking was soon gone, and you left Jirou with the two kids with the promise of refilling both of your cups. You pause at the doorway of the living room, staring at the mess unfolding before you. Kirishima and Kaminari sit in front of each other, chugging beer after beer. Once one leaves their hands, Mina or Sero provides them with another, already cracked open.

“Bet you Kiri’s winning.” Jirou says from beside you, making you jump at the sudden voice. She gives a giggle at your fright as you pass her her cup.

“Where’s the kids?” You ask after a moment, realizing the two aren’t running around inside. You can still hear their screams of excitement, but it’s pretty late out. There should be someone standing outside with them-

“Bakugou’s got ‘em.” She hums, taking a sip from her drink. She notices the furrow of your brows and nudges your shoulder, “Don’t worry, he isn’t a bad babysitter.”

It does little to ease your anxiety, seeing how rambunctious his friends get when they’re drunk. You ease your way back outside as Jirou joins Mina and Sero in encouraging either boy. You lean against the sliding door frame, watching the blonde fight off the two kids. Mari hangs from his bicep while Kiro latches on his leg. Bakugou groans dramatically, allowing himself to fall to one knee while Mari moves herself to his back, putting him in a faux chokehold and Kiro attaches to his free arm.

You let out a small laugh, alerting the three of your presence. Bakugou’s head turns straight at you, while Kiro drops from Bakugou and runs over to you, grabbing your hand that doesn’t have water and practically drags you to where Mari still attempts to bring the blonde down.

“(y/n)! You gotta help us take down Mr. Bakugou the Villain or else!!”

“Or else what?” You laugh again, setting your cup down and placing your hands on your hips as Kiro jumps on Bakugou’s back as well, trying to use both of their weight to pull him down.

“Or else he’ll destroy the city!” Mari answers, before the two let out a screech. Bakugou complies with their wishes, letting his body fall lax backwards. They didn’t take into account that he’d be on top of them. You can tell he’s holding some of his weight up, bracing his elbows in the grass on either side of him as Kiro and Mari squirm beneath him.

You give a tilt of your head, “You’re gonna crush them Mr. Villain.” You nudge at his side slightly with your foot. He scrunches his nose.

“I can’t let these dorks win.” He counters.

There’s a muffled, ‘we’re not dorks!’ ‘yeah!’ but you really can’t decipher who said it, with their giggles intermingling and screeches being so high. He lets some of his weight fall, snickering at the grunts that follow.

“Katsu, please!” Mari wails, hand coming around to hit at his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, do you guys give up?” He taunts, eyes cutting you for a brief moment. Kiro manages to wiggle himself out enough, legs still trapped beneath Bakugou and Mari. He lays on his stomach, one arm sandwiched beneath him while the other reaches out for assistance.

“(y/n), help!”

You stare down at the pile of limbs, looking between your brother’s outstretched hand to the male laying atop him. The blonde raises an eyebrow. A dare to try, if you’ve ever seen one. You reach down to pull him out, hearing him laugh maniacally at the prospect of escape, but Bakugou isn’t having it. There’s barely time to process his mumbled ‘oh no you don’t’ before he’s moving.

Grabbing your arm and pulling you down while at the same time flipping you onto your back- you'd commend him for the smoothness of the attack, if you had the time to realize what even happened. A small oof is pulled from your lungs, the impact being dulled by an arm lying beneath your lower back. You blink, processing what just happened. Bakugou leers above you, fingers still brushing against your arm while his other arm moves from under you to cage you in. Red eyes scan over your features, before his attention is being drawn to the side.

You hear someone yell ‘attack’, before his body is being shifted by two five-year-olds. He shakes his head momentarily, standing while the pair latch onto both his legs. You can only stare at him with a doe-eyed expression, blinking when he offers you a hand to help you up. You take it, mumbling a thanks, then watch as he walks back towards the house with seemingly no trouble- despite the extra weight sitting on his toes.

{𝓽𝓪𝓰𝓼} @mrsreina @cold-deep-water @pm4gal @dragonempress123 @my-neighbor-todoro @starsandkeysruler @goodpop9

#biker!au #biker!bakugou #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #bnha #mha #bnha x reader #mha x reader #boku no hero academia #my hero acadamia #my hero acadamia x reader #x reader

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dariadraws · 4 years ago

Photo

and my final piece so far for @geekinthecorner‘s @batfam-big-bang fic Bats Of The West, it’s Jason Todd! ngl i think this is one of the ones i had the most fun with, and also the one i crammed the most details into that no one but me will ever know exist, but i’ll share a few of them under the cut, along with the image description. plus, a list of all of Jason’s scars in this au, and how he got them.

also, like i said, this is my final piece so far but i fully intend to come back and round out the batfam, draw all the other characters i havent had a chance to get to yet, so keep an eye out for that, and in the meantime here’s some fun facts!

alright so. first off, just some general overall thoughts on Jason and some of the details i added here.

his gun in the first pic is super expensive and pretty, but i imagine he doesnt use is as often as some of his other ones, simply because when he’s out in The Wilderness tracking down criminals for weeks on end, it’s not really the kind of place you want to bring your prettiest, most expensive gun. when he’s on the ranch or in town tho, or really just anywhere where he doesnt anticipate needing to rough it for more than a couple days (which isnt the same as not expecting the need to get rough), he’s probably got this gun.

his gun belt and holster are a whole other story tho. he spent exactly zero dollars and zero cents on them, just assembled them from some spare leather they had lying around, which is why theyre in such Not Great condition, and also why the belt itself ended up so long. he could cut it down to a more reasonable size, but it’s not like there’s anything else he could make from those scraps anyways, so why bother.

that big gun in the second image isn’t technically his tho, it’s the Communal Ranch Rifle. mainly it’s just used to scare away coyotes (or, yknow, actually hit coyotes) but it does occasionally see real action as well, tho not often.

also. does it even need to be said? his hat.. holder... bead... thing. with the turquoise inlay. is a gift from Dick

alright and now the fun part! i go through all of jason’s scars, and how he got them. there are quite a few and a lot of them are. Sad. so be warned, and take care of yourselves! (also just for the record, i promise the fic itself isnt actually as dark as this will make it sound. basically none of this shows up in the story, i was just given free reign to design whatever i wanted, and poor jason ended up paying the price)

ok so. scars.

first off, the claw and bit marks on his arms and shoulders are from getting attacked by some coyotes back when he was still just a kid. to quote my explanation back when i pitched this to Em, “bc as a Young Human with minimal supervision and not necessarily having someone to call him inside once it gets dark, he was unfortunately Very Delicious, if somewhat scrawny, by coyote standards”

next up: a bullet scar on his abdomen, on his lower left side (our right), from some kind of shootout with a criminal. this one is middling-recent; after bruce adopted him, but before the joker thing. i dont really have anything concrete for that one but it was a through and through, and somehow, miraculously, missed hitting any bones, and any organs. just missed his lower rib by like. an inch. that one messed bruce up more than jason, honestly. if anything, he was just surprised it took him that long to get shot, with the life he's had

the ones on his cheek and on his chin were just Regular Childhood Shenanigans scars, no real story.

the one through his mouth is from his time with the joker though. there's also the J brand on his right bicep, also from the joker.

also joker related, hes got a lot of scars on his hands, especially his knuckles and fingertips, from trying to fight his way out of his captivity, and scratching his fingers raw trying to pry open the door to his cell/untie the rough rope he way tied with/whatever the specific situation was. also some minor rope burn scars on his wrists from the same deal.

also some blade scars across his palms from trying to stop/block knives. definitely with the joker, but probably at some point in his youth as well

a few faint lines across his neck from being a temporary hostage a few time while helping Bruce on cases when he was younger, but none of them ever went deep or caused any serious damage

oh and also, whip scars on his back from his time with the joker, which arent too prominent, and mostly cant be seen from the front, except for a couple of spots where they crest over his shoulders and the very tail ends of them can be seen, but they’re there

and also some kind of straight scar on his left forearm, which was a carry-over from my usual Jason design, that i like but dont really have a story for, so that one’s purely aesthetic, lol

and that’s it! i think? that’s all my notes on that? either way this post is getting Way Too Long, and i still gotta do the image descriptions, so i’m calling it there.

[IMAGE ID: two images of Jason Todd in old-fashioned cowboy clothing. He has red, curly hair with a streak of white running through it at the front. his skin is pale but sunburnt, has deep-blue eyes, many freckles both on his face and on the rest of his exposed skin, and his body is broad and muscular, and he has many scars. he has small round metal piercings in the lobes of both ears, as well as an additional two in the top cartilege of his right ear.

in the first image, he is facing directly at the viewer with his arms crossed, and a challenging look on his face. he is wearing a maroon cowboy shirt with checkered red accent at the chest and the sleeves rolled up to his upper arms. he has a dark blue polka-dot bandana tied around his neck, and over that pass two strands of red braided cord holding his tan cowboy hat, which is visible hanging off his neck behind him. the cords are tipped with small metal beads, and pass through a large, dark brown wooden bead inset with turquoise, which regulates their length. he is wearing dark-wash blue jeans with prominent yellow stitching, pulled over his cowboy boots up to the ankle until only the foot of each boot is visible. the boots are dark brown with pale seams and red stitching, and light brown heels and soles. fastened around each boot are embossed red spur-straps, with metal spurs extending from them behind the boots. at his waist are two cracked leather belts. one is dark brown, with a pale silver buckle stamped with vine designs, and it is threaded through his belt loops. the second belt is hanging diagonally over his hips and holds his gun and holster. this belt is a reddish tan with a pattern of darker brown, overlapping rings down its length, and has a darker silver buckle. it is long enough that the loose end of it wraps back around itself several times before hanging down. the holster is simple brown leather folded over the gun, with two straps to tighten it. the gun itself is an ornate and expensive-looking revolver, black metal with intricate gold detailing and a mother-of-pearl grip.

in the second image, he is facing slightly to the side, with a long shotgun propped over his shoulder with one hand and an unimpressed expression on his face as he looks somewhere to the right of the viewer. he is shirtless, and his torso is muscled, stocky, and as sunburned and freckled as the rest of him. his cowboy hat is hanging off his neck again behind him, once more held in place by the braided red cord and round wood-and-turquoise bead. he is wearing tan, high-waisted pants tucked into his cowboy boots, which are the same as in the first image but now fully visible, with red pulls at the top. the pants are attached to red suspenders, though they are not on his shoulders and hang down around him instead. his gunbelt is once more around his hips, but the holster is obscured behind him, and isn't visible. the hand not holding the shotgun is down loosely at his side, and has a red and white bandana wrapped around the wrist. END ID]

#batfam big bang 2020 #jason todd #red hood #Bats Of The West #daria draws #alright im done #it's like 2 am and im passing out at my keyboard and im sure there's a million typos in this fucking novel of a post but #it's FINISHED #soct 07 edit: i JUST realised the first pic was an older non-updated version but it'e been fixed!#god i cant believe im releasing my art w fucking patchnotes now

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heli0s-writes · 5 years ago

Text

Surprises

Summary: You and Bucky babysit the Barton clan. Pairing: Reader x Bucky Barnes A/N: Silliness, little angst at the end. TW: Mentions infertility.

Bag of Tricks One-Shot Masterlist

You are surprisingly good with kids.

When you visited the Barton farm for the first time, all of Clint’s kids loved you. After the initial excitement over Captain America, Thor, and Auntie Nat, they always came back to you. You’d be plopped down on the couch, flipping through the channels, and Clint’s daughter would find her way into your lap with a picture book.

To be polite, you had read it to her the first time, accidentally becoming very invested in the Lorax’s plight for environmental justice and the next thing you knew, your voice was loud and booming, rising and falling with the cadence of each line. The boys had shown up, too, clapping and cheering at the end and requested another book.

Clint never let you live down reading his kids four books that evening. And building a blanket fort. And rolling yourself up in the blanket and hobbling after them.

The next time you returned, Lila had moved onto chapter books, and you were happy to help her read those as well. She had a lot of questions about volcanoes and dinosaurs, and you would answer them to the best of your ability. She knew quite a lot for a 2nd grader, so you ended up asking her quite a few questions about volcanoes and dinosaurs as well (who the heck knows how to pronounce Deinonychus anyway?)

At the end of the night, she was curled up in your lap while you braided her hair. You were glad she fell asleep because it was quite honestly a travesty that all 7 braids were different sizes and shapes.

“You ever think about raising your own kid?” Clint asked later that night. “In this business? Pfft.”

So, you settled on being the Barton’s babysitter when they needed one. And on one dark October night, you enlist Bucky Barnes’ help.

“Can you braid my hair while we watch the movie?” Lila asks as she settles in next to you on the couch. Cooper and Nate are down on their bellies in front, squished pillows underneath them to soften the hardwood flooring.

“Lila,” You sigh, “You don’t remember this, but last time I braided your hair… you looked terrible.”

“It’s okay.” She giggles, “It just feels nice!”

Bucky is on the other side of the couch, gaze attached to the slasher movie you had been told specifically not to put on for the kids. With a slight kick to his knee, you ask him for help with your eyes. Lila doesn’t know, but you can’t braid worth a shit—most of what happened to her hair last time had a lot to do with sheer dumb luck. And it was still a travesty.

She might say that she doesn’t care, but you know any eight-year-old girl cares about what their hair looks like. Even if it’s just a night in with her brothers.

He sends you an annoyed look back, because you dragged him to bumfuck middle of 80 acres of nowhere and he’s watching Planet Terror with a bunch of children. Barton is going to skin his ass when he gets back.

“Bucky, can you braid?” You whisper as Rose McGowan fires her fucking machinegun leg and the ricochet shudders through the T.V.

“Yes.” He replies.

“Help a girl out, man.” You motion to Lila, who has now covered her eyes as red sprays from an enormous wound. Bucky grimaces at the way your fingers have separated three locks. Already it is a tangled mess and you haven’t even started.

“What are you trying to do? Give the kid dreadlocks?” He scowls, slapping your hand away and scooting over so that she’s now mostly in front of him and you are squished and diagonal, pushed away by his shoulder. In mere minutes he makes short work of the herculean task you had tried to take on.

It’s a perfect fishtail braid, and he’s even used strands of her hair to wrap around the elastic neatly. You stare open-mouthed at him as Lila pats the back of her head and happily squeals at what he’s done. Bucky grunts in reply and then sinks back into the sofa, crossing his arms.

“I gotta turn this off. This can’t be good for the kids.”

“EARTHQUAKE!” You scream, grabbing the edge of the dinner table and rocking it so hard all the pieces of the board game fall over. Cooper is out of his seat, throwing his hands up in the air as he yells, “CHEATER!” And Nate looks like he’s on the verge of tears.

Lila could care less, still enamored by her beautifully weaved locks.

Bucky puts his face in his hands as you expertly dodge the metal dog and thimble piece Cooper is throwing at you. It’s bad enough that you had been massively in debt to the bank but shaking the board because you were losing is a new level of low. The kids chase you around the house and throw pillows at you when you climb too far out of their reach. Pastel strips of Monopoly money lay scattered all over the house.

Bucky hisses your name as you perch on the hutch in the dining room. “Get down from there! Christ!”

Nate tosses a cushion up that you swat away easily. Cooper throws a cookie that you catch in your mouth. “I’ll die before I come down.” You mutter, “Stupid, capitalist, Monopoly-monocle’d, pocketwatched motherfu—”

A pillow to the face muffles the rest of your complaint and Bucky points at you in a silent scolding. Thank God he has good aim because if the Bartons come home from date night and little Nate was calling someone a motherfucker, Laura would skin his ass.

“You are terrible with children!” He whispers when the kids leave the room to find something else to do.

Slowly, you climb down and pat his shoulder. “My favorite part about kids is the part where I give them back to their parents.” You admit. “I didn’t think they’d take this long.”

From the corner of the dining room, Nate and Cooper rush forward screaming at you. Pillows are raised high above their heads as they leap and pummel you with the fluffy squares. You shriek and fall down and make a huge show about it—something about melting and turning green and flying monkeys. It’s all too much, but the kids love it and tell you it’s what you deserve for being a cheater.

But then Nate and Cooper yelp as you snatch their ankles in your hand and stand tall, holding them upside down. It’s easy to forget that you have super-human strength because you certainly don’t look like it. But it’s on display now as you spin around on your heels and take the boys circling with you.

Nate’s head misses the corner of a wooden chair by centimeters and Bucky thinks he might fucking faint. Lila takes this opportunity to try and jump on your back to save her brothers, but she’s just a fraction too slow and your arm crashes into her instead, sending all three siblings tumbling and you as well.

Bucky sighs severely as he stands over the mess in the kitchen. One adult (tentatively labeled), three children, rubbing their heads and limbs, pouting like babies. There is a swelling mark underneath Nate’s hairline and he rubs it gingerly, whimpering when his fingers touch it.

You run to the refrigerator for an icepack before he can burst into tears.

Forgiveness is earned after three hurriedly made root beer floats—extra whipped cream piled so high that it overtakes the entire glass and the kids stick half their noses in it to try and lick some off. You slump heavily in a chair and dig a spoon into your own glass of fizzing cream and soda.

A single cherry is plopped on top of the bubbles. Bucky peers down at you, licking the syrup off his finger with a smirk.

“I guess you’re not so bad with kids.” He says, glancing over at where the three previously dour Bartons sit, now giddy with cheer as they slurp their desserts. Cooper has stuck his finger in his glass, scooping up the last remnants of sweetness before turning over and eyeing Nate’s half-full container.

You throw the cherry into your mouth and grin, “Yeah. I’m kind of a miracle worker.” And then your tongue pokes around in your mouth and you shut one eye as if in intense contemplation. When you stick your tongue out again, the cherry stem has been tied into a little knot, glistening with spit.

“Woah!” Lila yells, “How’d you do that?”

“I wanna learn!” Cooper rushes forward, peering at the stem between your fingers, and then all three kids are screeching, “me too!” and jumping in circles around the table. Bucky puts both his hands up when you start explaining what to do because he—an actual, reasonable, adult—does not think teaching three kids to tie a cherry stem into a knot is a good idea.

Before he can do much else, the Barton children are shoving each other and arguing. Then they break out into laughter and take off into the living room. All Bucky hears next is screaming and the sound of six feet jumping on every cushion there is. They tumble, wrestle, run, and in general act like little hazards. Nate screeches at the top of his lungs—just because, apparently.

Bucky takes your spoon from your mouth and scoops a big chunk of ice cream for himself, resigned to getting skinned. When Clint and Laura come home and find their kids cracked out on sugar at—he checks the clock—good fuck, half past midnight, they are going to kill the both of you.

The spoon is still in his mouth when he mumbles, “You are terrible with kids.”

“Huh.” Clint says when he enters the living room and finds all five of you settled in comfortably with the children sound asleep. Laura’s cheeks are a bit peachier than you remember and there’s a lazy little smile that graces her features as she peers down at her children.

“Sorry—they fell asleep during the movie and I didn’t have the heart to wake ‘em up.” You say with a sheepish grin, tilting your chin up and watching him upside down.

“That’s okay, kid.” Clint grins, hand on his hip. “Jeez, you really wore ‘em out. What’dja do?” He gives Bucky a curious look but doesn’t say much else. The two of you are sharing a blanket in the middle of the floor, heads propped up by one couch cushion. Lila is to your left with her head on your arm, fishtail braid bursting apart, strands of hair flaying about around her head like a halo. Cooper and Nate are on the other side of Bucky, mouths open and snoring softly.

They’re even changed into their pajamas, teeth brushed and everything.

Slowly, Clint picks up Lila and Cooper and Laura does the same to Nate. They go upstairs to put the kids to bed while you and Bucky peel the blanket off, quietly making your exit.

Before you can reach the car, the front door swings shut and Clint is stepping out with his hands tucked in his pockets. “Hey.” He calls, “Thanks for the night. Laura and I haven’t been out alone in months.”

“Don’t mention it.” You beam. Behind you, Bucky scoffs just enough for you to hear.

“You sure you don’t want any kids? You’re damn good with ‘em.”

Bucky snorts louder, kicks the dirt beneath this boot and puts his hand on your shoulder, “Her favorite part is giving ‘em back.” He announces before you clamp your hand over his mouth. His eyes twinkle under the moonlight as Clint waves goodbye and retreats into his home. The screen door clicks quietly, and you watch the yellow glow of each room turn off until the cabin is just an afterimage against the darkness.

“You think brushing twice was good?” You mutter with a sigh as Bucky pulls out of the dirt driveway.

“No, which was why I suggested mouthwash.”

A silence passes before you suck on your teeth and say, “Hey, check it out.”

Peeling your lips back, you show him the cherry stem from earlier in the night, now neatly tied with another knot next to the first one. Bucky scoffs and snatches it from your teeth.

“I swear to all fuck, how you got them fooled is beyond me. Fuckin’ Planet Terror, then shaking the goddamn Monopoly board, and then teaching fuckin’ kids how to tie--” he throws the stem back in your face, “and then ice cream at midnight.”

“Hey! They had fun!” You cry, dodging him.

“They threw up!”

You cackle, because they did all throw up, and it was really funny. Bucky groans and rolls his eyes because you would absolutely be the worst mother. Your kids would grow up in the most chaotic household. But, he thinks, they’d be loved. So maybe you wouldn’t be the worst. You also had them help you clean up the house and were firm with them when they didn’t want to. Bucky feels a smile grow on his face. Maybe you are good with children.

“You’re pretty responsible, Buck. You think you’ll ever have kids?”

It’s a quiet question. Suddenly your demeanor is sullen as you turn to gaze out the window, peering at the full moon and he knows where your mind has wandered to.

Clint has something the rest of you can only dream about. You might crack jokes about being terrible with children, but it’s no secret that domesticity is something you long for. A baked apple pie in the windowsill, running under summer sprinklers, hanging the sheets up to dry, dancing through the living room barefoot, kind of life.

There are mobiles of stars and paper airplanes in your dreams, swaddling cloth with giraffes and moons. Gerber Baby food jars and baby-proofed corners. There are nights when you think about what the gene experiments did to your body and all you can do is stare silently.

The irony of you being so good with children is not lost on him.

A warm hand clamps itself over yours. Bucky links his flesh fingers through your smaller ones, holds onto the wheel with his metal hand.

“Nah.” Bucky says, “My favorite thing to do with kids is give ‘em back.”

A short laugh escapes as you grip his hand tighter, letting the moment pass on by like it always does. Usually you ride the wave on your own, crash on your own, and awaken the next morning in disarray on your own. But this time, his warm hand is holding you steady as the pain crests and ebbs away.

“Hey.” You say, rubbing your thumb over his in a surprising show of affection. Bucky feels his heart pick up a faster beat as you worry your lip with your teeth. Then, because you’re always full of surprises, you stick your tongue out where the cherry stem has collected another knot. “Check it out.”

He laughs, a deep, rumbling, genuinely joyful sound as he squeezes your hand. “You’ll have to teach me that some time.” He jokes-- anything to keep you from looking so sad.

Your lashes flutter as you blink slowly in contemplation. Bucky’s heart picks up again when you turn to him and shyly say, “If you pull over, I can teach you right now.”

#marvel #mcu #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #self insert #fanfiction

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maandags · 5 years ago

Text

the watchmaker (Finn Shelby x reader) {part two}

aaaaand here’s the second part yeehaw

– – –

Summary: After your uncle died, you decided to rid yourself of your troubling past and move to Small Heath, into the flat and workshop he left you. Soon after, though, Tommy and Finn Shelby crash into your life and bring back unwanted memories.

Genre: angst, fluff (at the end. gotta go thru some pain first im afraid)

Word count: 7.9K

Notes: CW: death mention - asphyxiation - panic attacks (?) - {part one} - masterlist - bitch i wrote 17k in like a week and , if i could write like this all the time ……………….. @ the writing gods : please,

– – –

That night, you stayed in your flat, pacing the floor and hesitating, not knowing whether to go or to stay. It was already late. You didn’t know if it was still worth it to go, yet your conversation with Tommy from earlier that day had left you confused and with more questions left unanswered than before. You bit your nail, approached the window that looked out onto the filthy street.

You wrung your hands. Undecided. Undecided.

The coat on its hanger was calling your name. In the distance you thought you could hear singing, and laughing; the sounds of jovial carelessness and mirth. Hesitating, hesitating. Then you frowned at your own reflection in the cold glass. Who were you to deny yourself a bit of fun? When was the last time you’d been truly carefree? As much as you tried to convince yourself of the opposite, there were no reasons why you shouldn’t go.

But… But what? you asked the irritating little voice inside your head; but what, exactly?

And so you went.

You’d never seen the Garrison in its full glory. It was pretty, you had to admit, though you knew you would probably have preferred it during the daytime. The rooms were filled to the brim, men shouting and hollering and singing drunkenly, waving around pints of beer and crystal glasses in which sloshed amber-brown whisky. The barman was having a time of himself trying to keep up with all the orders, hands moving so fast you got dizzy just from looking at them.

A short and stocky man approached you, and you immediately noticed the sheen cast over his eyes like a film of intoxication. He brought his face close to yours and you recoiled as he frowned and tried for eye contact.

“What’s a young'un like you doin’ here all by yeself, eh?” he slurred, stumbling when a man almost twice his size clipped his shoulder. He barely seemed to notice, though, all of his attention fixated on you. “Where’s your mates?”

“Um,” you stammered, scanning the crowd over his shoulder in search for a familiar face–Tommy, Finn, fucking Polly Gray for all you cared–and growing slightly panicked when you could find none of them. “I'm–I’m looking for someone.”

“Fuck ‘em,” the man drawled, draping an arm over your shoulder and effectively pressing his body flush to yours, “come with me. Let’s have some fun, you and I, yeah?” You had to make an effort not to gag.

Someone bumped into you from behind, and you were pushed into the man’s chest. His smell overwhelmed you, pressing into your nose and your mouth and your eyes until your brain spun and dark spots started to appear in front of your eyes. You felt your knees weaken, and you were sure that they would buckle at any given moment.

Then a hand closed around your upper arm and yanked you from the drunkard’s grasp. You expected a shouting match to follow–the drunkard had seemed rather insistent on your company–but all that came from him was a whimper and a mumbled apology. You blinked the dark spots from your vision, heavily leaning on the unknown figure–though you had a suspicion regarding their identity–as they lead you through the crowd. Steadily you regained your footing and your sight, and you stole a glance at the person whose hand still tightly held onto your wrist.

“Hi,” you said, a smile creeping up your lips despite yourself.

Finn glanced down, eyebrows furrowed in a concerned frown. “You okay?”

You nodded. Finn didn’t seem satisfied, but led you to a barstool. He gestured for you to sit down, then told the poor fellow on the stool beside yours, “Fuck off,” and hopped onto his freshly acquired seat.

You shook your head at him, but the smile you tried so hard to push down was still there.

“You look pale,” Finn shouted over the noise.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Finn. I’m fine.” You were a little dizzy still, but you didn’t want to get drunk. Your thirst for alcohol had dissipated with your desire to have a fun night, and you felt sour and tired and only wanted to go home.

Finn didn’t look convinced. He waved the bartender over, and a moment later slid you a glass of water. You narrowed your eyes at him. He shrugged.

“Job’s done, eh?” he stirred his own glass.

You nodded, glaring at your water, fingering the rim of the glass listlessly. “Done. All of it.” You took a sip, just to wash down the dryness in your mouth. “Fucking hell.”

He just watched you, and you looked at him, and then you said, “Do you want to go outside? I hate it in here.” You did. You hated the stuffiness of the place, hated the smell of bodies pressed together, the stench of booze hanging in the air and laying a haze of drunkenness over the very air. You hated it.

After a moment of curious consideration, Finn said, “All right,” and cleared a path for you to get out of the busy pub.

The outside air pricked your cheeks and you drew a few grateful breaths, welcoming the sweet coolness in your lungs. You almost coughed, just to rid yourself of the sticky, syrupy air from inside the pub. You started to walk, no destination in mind, but you knew you had to move and get some feeling back inside your limbs.

“Hey, hey, hang on,” said Finn from behind you, and he jogged a couple of steps to catch up with you. “What’s going on?”

“I’m going home,” you said, though you didn’t plan on going straight home. You’d take a detour, maybe stop by your workshop and take a few pieces home; gears or pistons or anything familiar to keep your hands busy and the nerves at bay.

“But why? You walked in and walked straight back out!”

“Yeah. All this stupid trip did was remind me why I don’t go out in the first place.”

“And why’s that?”

You shoved your hands in your pockets and kept up the pace, forcing Finn to jog a step every once in a while to keep up. “Too many people. Too much drunkenness. Too much chaos. Too much… just too much.”

You rounded a corner into an alley that you knew would take you to your shop faster than the main road. It was a tricky passage to take: it was dark and muddy and a popular spot for the most unpleasant of peoples to gather; but it was faster, and by your side was Finn, so you didn’t feel as nervous as you usually would.

He was trying to understand. You could tell. He was doing his damn best to understand why this affected you so much, why the fullness of the pub meant nothing good to you. You didn’t expect him to entirely get it. He grew up with this; he grew up with the sound of gunshots ringing around his ears, the thump of adrenaline that followed it, the nights of drinking and partying and going wild.

It was different for you. It always had been different.

The village you grew up in was quiet, and the most exciting moments of your early childhood were little walks in the forest with your father, and he would point out to you the birds and the squirrels and the mushrooms and sometimes, if you were very lucky, you’d spot a deer or two in a clearing somewhere; or when there was a big market in London, and he’d hoist you up on his shoulders and let you explore all the colours and sounds and smells unfamiliar on your own, from your perch where you towered above everyone else, and exhilaration would fill you like it was injected in the very air you breathed.

And then your father was sent to France, and never came back. Arrangements were made for you to live with your uncle Henry, who lived a few towns over, and he took you in and cared for you like you were his own.

Of course, when you got a little older, there was excitement enough in the building of bombs. But the town Henry lived in was only a little bigger than your home village, and though it took a while getting properly adjusted, it had finally started to feel like home.

Birmingham was different. It was dark and huge and unforgiving and things happened in its shadows that you would rather stay as far away from as possible. Nevertheless, it was where you’d set up shop. It was where Henry had bought the damn shop, and you still didn’t really know why. Uncle Henry had been an eccentric man, but he hadn’t been stupid. You believed that if he owned a flat and a shop in Small Heath it had to be for a good reason.

Speaking of good reasons…

“One more thing,” you started, rather loudly, and Finn almost jumped at your side, “that you better have an explanation for, is this.” You rammed the key inside the lock and yanked open the door to your shop, not stopping to hold the door open for Finn but instead letting him catch it on his own.

You snatched up your toolbelt and started collecting stuff to take home. “I talked to Tommy this afternoon.” Pause. You looked around, found the copper wire you’d been looking for, stuffed it in a pouch on your belt. “And he said that he never told you to babysit me at all. That he had no idea that you even were at my shop all day.”

Finn froze, and you watched with a sort of grim satisfaction as he seemed to lose some of the carefully constructed composure he always seemed to wear around you. He had begun to look almost a part of the shop when you were still doing Tommy’s job, but now he looked as out of place as he had been the first time he’d set foot in it.

“Strange, eh?” You continued. You didn’t know why you were so sour about it all of a sudden. Maybe you felt taken advantage of. Maybe Finn had pretended to enjoy your company all along, maybe he was doing it for his own intentions. It was just the sting of knowing he’d lied to you that made the words taste bitter as you forced them from your tongue. “There’s nothing for you to gain here. Why would you come at all?”

“Small Heath can be a dangerous place,” he muttered, but he wouldn’t meet your eyes and you scoffed.

“Not to you it fucking isn’t. You’re a Shelby, Finn, and I'm–not–fucking–stupid.” You slammed a drawer shut and knotted the belt around your hips before covering it with your coat again. “Actually, I’m surprised you didn’t tell Tommy; nothing happens in this shithole without him knowing about it, right?”

“Y/N–”

“Maybe you wanted to do something for yourself for once, eh? God knows all you can do is suck Tommy Shelby’s cock and hope for a reward.”

“Y/N, stop–”

“You know what? I think I liked you better when you were pretending.”

“Y/N!”

“What?”

“Listen to me!”

You stopped dead in your tracks. It was the first time he’d raised his voice at you, and through the haze of anger still burning in your chest you were a little offended. “What?” you spat again, shoulders drawn up to your ears and muscles tense.

Finn took a breath, closed his eyes. When he spoke again, it was in a voice that trembled, and threatened to spill over with emotion any moment. He was fighting hard to stay calm. “Your uncle–”

“What the fuck does my uncle have to do with this?”

“You’ll know if you let me fucking finish!” he said, irritated.

You crossed your arms in front of your chest and clamped your mouth shut, your chin lifted high and one hip jutting out to show you were absolutely not content with the situation whatsoever.

“Your uncle bought this place–and the flat–as a safehouse. Because he got in deep with the wrong people. He planned to come here once you were old enough to fend for yourself. He paid the Blinders for protection beforehand, but never made it here.”

With every word he spoke, your eyebrows crawled closer to your hairline. The information was entirely new to you, and you were having a difficult time processing all of it.

“He was murdered, Y/N.”

That hit you like a hammer to the chest and your heartbeat started racing. “No,” was all you managed.

“I’m sorry–”

“No,” you repeated, more forcefully this time, “no. No, he died in his sleep. It was a peaceful death. They said so.” You sounded like a child. You knew you did. But your entire world was tearing at the seams, and the fact that Finn–whom you had known for just over a week–knew more about your uncle, your flesh and blood, than you did, didn’t sit right with you.

“Then why didn’t they ever show you the body, Y/N?” Finn’s voice was gentle, like how he would address a toddler having a tantrum, and that made it all the worse.

“Because I never fucking asked!” you said shrilly. “No. Don’t fucking come near me.” You stuck your hands out in reflex when he took a step towards you, and though he stopped moving, hurt flashed across his face.

“Y/N. You need to understand. The people who killed your uncle want you dead as well. It’s relatively safe for you here, but Tommy’s had men watching the shop and your flat since the day you showed up. How do you think we knew about the bombs?”

“But–but–” Your knees buckled and you only just managed to yank a chair towards you.

“I just wanted to make sure you were safe.” Finn ran a hand through his hair, and looked at you with eyes full of hurt. “Glad it’s appreciated.”

As he turned, you dropped your head in your hands and said, “Wait.” You didn’t hear the door open, so you took that as a good sign. “I'm–I’m sorry. For shouting at you.”

He sighed. “It’s alright.”

“No,” you said with a bitter laugh. “It’s not. Can you sit down?” He did, pulling up a chair beside you. You rubbed your temples, screwing your eyes shut against the bonking. “Talk. Tell me… tell me everything.”

And he did. He told you about the twin brothers whose parents Henry had helped kill by building the bomb necessary–or, well, that’s what he had led them to believe.

“In his last letter to us he explained how, while he had been the one to handle any kind of face-to-face business, you had built the actual bomb,” Finn said. “The Pinfield twins found out somehow and are now hunting you down.”

“But they never found me?”

“Oh, no, they did. But every men they sent here to do the job got caught in… an unfortunate accident.”

You scoffed. Why he would want to spare your feelings now was unfathomable to you. “You mean Thomas got them killed.”

Finn nodded. For the first time he looked uncomfortable, and you realised it had probably something to do with your remark from earlier. You winced internally; that had been a fucking glorious move on your part, hadn’t it?

“So now the Pinfields and their men are after me and probably won’t stop until I’m dead.” You breathed a long exhale, surprised at your still-dry eyes. The tears would probably come later, you figured. When all had settled in and the reality of the situation would crash into you with all the force of a fucking freight train.

“Pretty much.”

It was strange, how light you felt. You had just gotten told that a two murderous brothers were dead set on murdering you just like they’d murdered your uncle, and all you could focus on was the fact that you were still alive, weren’t you? So they probably weren’t that keen on your death.

Then you immediately scolded yourself and internally gave yourself a good shaking. Men were looking to murder you. You should be panicking, screaming, crying–at least be afraid–but you found that you weirdly… weren’t.

Sure, the nerves were there. But you had been on edge since you first moved to Small Heath. You had anticipated an attack every time you stepped out of your flat. So really all the news did to you was confirm that you had a reason to be on edge. That it wasn’t just ghosts or shadows you were seeing.

It was mostly the explanation, you thought. The fact that you knew now why everything had felt as weird as it had. Why Finn had been so insistent on staying with you day in day out while you did nothing but work at your desk. Why he had accompanied you to London for errands you had run a million times in the past. A weight had fallen off your shoulders: things were still looking pretty fucking bad for you, but at least you knew why.

So you said, “Okay,” and stood up, dusting off your coat with only-slightly trembling fingers.

When you started towards the door, Finn said, “Where are you going?”

“Home.” Something was starting to form at the back of your mind. The barest whisper of an idea, fuelled by the calm fury that was starting to bubble into existence and seep into your very bones. And honestly, you hadn’t even considered telling Finn about it. This was something you had to do on your own.

You were going home. But before that, you had a stop to make.

“I’ll walk you,” said Finn, and his voice was slightly apprehensive. Maybe he could see the unfiltered, absolute rage boiling behind your eyes.

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Y/N. I’m walking you home.”

“Before I took Tommy’s job I never had anyone walk me home, Finn. I held out just fine those five months, I won’t suddenly get jumped and murdered tonight.” You tried to keep your voice relatively light, but the remark still came out sharper than you intended.

Finn made a face and touched your wrist. No particular reason; no particular intention. A simple touch, yet the feeling of his fingers on your skin made goosebumps erupt all over your arm and you felt your shoulders stiffen. Then you told yourself to pull yourself the fuck together, Y/N. Blushing like a goddamn thirteen-year-old over a boy touching your wrist. Fucking pathetic.

“I’ll be fine,” you promised. And you knew you would be.

There was still a bit of hesitation in his eyes, but also a grim sort of resignation. “Alright.”

You left him standing in front of your shop after you locked it up, his hands shoved in his pockets, watching as you marched the now-familiar streets of Small Heath.

It was late, and frankly you didn’t expect Tommy Shelby to still be at his office. Yet he was, and Lizzie–the secretary from before–only barely raised a brow at your quick return. You paid her no mind even as she made a snide comment about your appearance, and when Tommy called you in you thanked her absent-mindedly.

“Close the door, Y/N,” he said as he rummaged around for two glasses and poured a finger of whiskey into each one.

You did, and accepted the glass he offered you, even though you didn’t often drink liquor as strong as whiskey.

“You’ve returned,” remarked Tommy as he sat down and lit a cigarette.

You gave a mocking, sarcastic bow. “I have returned.”

“May I ask why?”

“Yeah. Um…” You swirled the drink, wondering how best to start. “I found out about my uncle,” you finally settled on.

“Ah.” Tommy set down his glass, leaned forward in his chair. He didn’t look awkward, per se, but there was a certain stiffness to his movements that there hadn’t been before. “Then you know why we took such an interest in you.”

“Yes. And this time, it’s me that has a proposition.”

He listened as you explained your idea–in a voice clear but trembling with anger–and smoked up three cigarettes in the time it took you to lay out the full details. He never interrupted once, let you say everything you needed to say, and you were grateful for it. If anything, this whole endeavour was to make sure you were never treated like a child again.

When you finished, he sat back in his chair and tilted his head ever so slightly as he mulled over your words. You were silent, waited for his verdict, because your plan would never work if you didn’t have Tommy’s support.

“It will be dangerous,” he finally said, but the four words made you happier than was probably reasonable. Will. Not would. Will. Affirmative.

“I know,” you replied. “That’s the point.”

He smiled then, a smile equally warm and cunning, and it was then you knew that you had him. “You’ve got balls on you, Y/N. That’s good.” He stood up and started pacing his office, and the two of you began building upon the foundation of the plan that you’d lain out before him.

“I’ll tell John to accompany you to London for the supply run. How fast do you think you can get this done?”

“In ideal conditions? Three days.”

“What are ideal conditions?”

“Me being able to work with no distractions, no need to get up from my bench at any point in time for any reason whatsoever so I can stay focused.”

Tommy pointed at you with his whiskey glass. “Lizzie will come see you twice a day with food and drink. No distractions.”

Everything was coming together. You stayed in Tommy’s office until the late hours of the night, and even after you’d gone over everything you didn’t feel tired. Adrenaline coursed through your very being, the prospect of bringing the plan to fruition much too exciting for you to feel any other emotion whatsoever.

When you were finally satisfied, and Tommy walked to the door to open it for you, you thought of one more thing and stopped in your tracks. You hesitated on the threshold, nipping at your lower lip. “One last thing.”

“Yes?”

You didn’t look him in the eye. “Finn can’t know. Keep him busy, away from my shop or my flat. I know you have people watching the streets–make sure he can’t even get close.”

His brows raised slightly. “And why should I do that?”

You glared at him and folded your hands into your coat. “Because we agreed there’d be no distractions.”

You went to London with John–jovial, rude, but fun to be around–and got everything you needed. You said hi to Harry and Jim, who looked up when you entered their shop for the second time in a week, but walked past the tea shop. No time for anything but work these coming days.

John was nice to talk to. Didn’t take himself too seriously, didn’t take anyone else too seriously. Confident in his status as both a Peaky Blinder and a Shelby, never hesitant to make use of it when the situation called for it, or even when it didn’t but he just felt like it. He was nice to hang around–but he wasn’t Finn.

It was easier to concentrate on your work with no-one around, you’d admit that, but it was a lot more boring, too. You caught yourself grinning to yourself a few times when you thought of something funny and already opening your mouth to share it with Finn–before realising that he wasn’t there anymore and that you were talking to nothing but air.

Lizzie brought you lunch and dinner, and you went home every night around nine P.M, exhausted and sore from sitting in the same cramped position for hours on end. You had a quick shower and stretch, then you collapsed onto your bed only to wake up at half past five the next morning.

For three days you worked like that, only allowing yourself a half-hour break to eat and stretch before getting back to it. It wasn’t like what you were building was hard–you had done it before. Not quite as many in as little time, but that was the fun challenge aspect of it, wasn’t it? Tommy expected it to be done in three days, and done in three days it would be.

On the last evening, you had to work an hour later than usual to get it finished, and then another thirty minutes to clean and close up. All in all, it was almost eleven o'clock when you turned the key and prepared for the walk back to your flat, the cloth bag hanging off your shoulder full and heavy. You kept one hand on it as you walked, just for an extra sense of security.

Then someone called your name from behind you, and your heart almost jumped out of your ribcage from the shock.

“Finn! You fucker!” you hissed, pressing your free palm to your chest and trying to keep your racing heartbeat under control. “What–what are you doing here–”

He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to see you at all, and least of all before the job was even done. He must have found a way to slip past the men guarding your shop and flat. You felt yourself getting apprehensive again.

“I just–I haven’t seen you in days. I just wanted to say hi.”

“It’s eleven in the fucking evening, Finn. You should be home.”

“So should you!”

“I was on my way there!”

Then his eyes went to your bag, and his brows creased. “What’s that?”

“Nothing,” you snapped, turning away, but you knew instantly you made a mistake. Finn wasn’t stupid–incredibly stubborn and cocky, maybe, but not stupid–and you could see him put two and two together.

“You said it was done.” And his eyes were so disappointed that you almost burst into tears right then and there. “All of it, you said.”

You knew there was nothing you could deny anymore, so you went on the defensive, hoisting the strap of your bag back up and preparing yourself for yet another shouting match that you would feel absolutely terrible about afterwards. “That was before I found out my uncle was murdered by the very same shitheads who now want me dead too.”

“I get that. You want revenge. I really do get it–but you’re only going to get yourself hurt.”

You scoffed. “God, Finn–you saying that tells me you don’t get it at all.” You started walking again. “I don’t care if I get hurt. I just want them gone.” You drew a shaky breath. “Besides, it’s too late for that anyway. I’ll be gone from this place after this is over.”

Finn put a hand on your shoulder. “We can do it for you. You don’t have to leave. I can do it for you–you don’t need to do it yourself.”

“I do, though! That’s the problem! I do need to do it myself, because my entire life I’ve had other people do things for me and look where that ended me up. Dead father, dead uncle. Alone in this godforsaken shit-hole of a town where I can barely make a living until Tommy Shelby and his gang show up and ask for bombs.” You ducked inside an alleyway, didn’t even look if Finn followed you as you spoke–because you know he had.

“There’s nothing heavier on the conscience than another man’s death, Y/N,” said Finn, and you didn’t even try to hold back the bark of bitter laughter that spilled from your tongue.

“Oh my god. Wow. That’s poetic, Finn, that really is. Did Tommy teach you that?” Ouch. You could tell that hurt him. It flashed in his eyes, souring his entire expression. It was something you’d jabbed at before, and every time you added onto it the cracks in his carefully composure widened.

And it hurt you, too. Knowing that you were the one who did this to him hurt you; it was a knife to the gut and a white-hot iron to the heart and yet the words spilled out like a dam broke and you couldn’t stop them. You felt the control on your emotions slip and took a breath, closed your eyes. Your flat was only a few blocks away. Focusing on the familiarity of the bland walls and creaky bed cleared the fog in your mind somewhat.

Calmer now, you said, “Stop trying so hard to be like him. It doesn’t suit you at all.”

He didn’t say anything else until you stopped in front of your flat and pulled out your keys.

“Don’t do this, Y/N.”

You opened the door. “I have to.”

“It’ll break you.”

You gave the darkness in front of you a sad smile. “Already broken.”

The trip to the Pinfields’ mansion was cloaked in silence, and the air was thick with tension. In the car sat Tommy, Johnny Dogs and a few of his men, you, and Charlie at the wheel. The boxes with explosives were laid out on your lap, and you were making the last final tweaks to the mines that were to be planted right in front of the Pinfields’ porch. They were inside. It was an early Sunday morning, after all, and they weren’t expecting an attack–you had a reserve of gas grenades, and all the other exits would be blocked, and the only way to get out of the house would be the front door. There, mines would be waiting for them, and the Pinfield twins would go out with a bang.

Or that was the plan. You would count yourself lucky if anything went somewhat according to the plan, which was based on quite a number of suppositions. You couldn’t deny the nerves that were slowly building up throughout the ride, but Johnny Dogs and his mates were joking around, not looking the least bit nervous, and Tommy wasn’t giving away anything at all, so you kept your face straight and tried to stop your knee from bouncing, a jittery habit you’d never quite been able to rid yourself of.

Then the car stopped, and Tommy announced that, for the last mile or so, you’d have to go through the forest. On foot. Nothing you hadn’t prepared for, so you adjusted the bag hanging from your shoulder and started walking.

When the mansion finally came into view, your breath hitched. Until now, it hadn’t felt real, somehow–it had been easy to talk about how you would kill the Pinfields, but now that you were actually pulling through with it… You wondered if you’d made a mistake. If it had been better to listen to Finn.

You shook your head. No. No hesitating now, no turning back. You’d agreed upon this plan–Hell, you had proposed this plan–and you were going to go through with it. No matter what.

It was still dark, and it was fairly easy to sneak into the garden–the Pinfields’ grounds were so big that their gates weren’t even visible from their house, and the miserable little stone wall they’d put up as extra protection didn’t pose a huge challenge for any of your team. As you approached the main door, your heartbeat started to speed up. But you were now visible from the house, and though you were wearing dark clothes you had to get this done quickly.

Johnny Dogs ran beside you, and he gave you one of his trademark grins and a pat on the back before sinking to his knees and starting to dig the trench.

The two of you worked quickly; Johnny digging, and you carefully placing the mines in the trench, activating them and quickly covering them with the loose dirt. They had a timer on, too, so they wouldn’t be fully active until after five minutes. Five minutes to plant seven mines–you couldn’t risk the brothers missing them–was tricky, but you were positive you could manage it. You had to manage it.

A whistle sounded, and you tapped the last of the dirt over the seventh mine. You shot a quick look at Johnny, who nodded and returned the call. Then he grabbed your arm and both of you sprinted back to where Tommy and the rest were waiting. He had his rifle over his shoulder, and didn’t acknowledge your return except for a grunt when you skidded to the ground beside him. Now it was just a question of waiting–waiting until just before dawn.

They were the longest, most agonising minutes of your life, each one feeling like an hour and when you were sure you would burst out of pure bottled-up nerves and excitement, Tommy said, “Now.”

One of Johnny’s boys sprang up and raced towards the house. A second later you heard the faint sound of shattering glass, and wisps of smoke started pouring from the windows. It would do a fine job of alerting the servants, maybe even the Pinfields themselves, and you started counting down the second, eyes fixated on the front door.

And then it swung open, and a man that could only have been one of the Pinfields stumbled out, one arm over his mouth against the smoke. Your hands flew up to cover your mouth, as if you wanted to stifle the sound of your very breathing.

He leant against the doorframe, wiping his sleeve across his mouth, spitting on the ground. Took a step forward. Kicked a potted plant across his porch, and your heart missed a beat–but it didn’t even fall. It was huge, the pot alone half his size, and all he did was probably hurt his foot. He cursed, loudly.

And then he stepped off his porch.

For a split second, nothing happened, and you thought you would faint with the pressure–but then a mine went off, and though you were expecting it, you jumped and turned away against the sheer force of the explosion that slammed into you like a gust of wind powerful enough to rip a tree straight from its roots and knocked the breath clean out of your lungs. The detonation of one mine quickly set off the rest, and the fast mounting explosions had you shield your head with your arms and flatten yourself to the ground.

But when you looked up and tried to blink the smoke out of your eyes, something scratched at the back of your mind and you scrambled up, ignoring Johnny Dogs’ vicious tugging at your sleeve.

“No, no,” you said hoarsely, falling onto your knees again and blindly grabbing hold of the fabric of his coat. “The other one. Where’s the other one?” Only one of the brothers had stepped outside. The other Pinfield was nowhere to be found.

“Fuck,” said Johnny under his breath, then he shouted what you’d said over to Tommy.

Tommy cursed and stood up too, raking a hand through his hair. He pointed at the men surrounding him. “Find the bastard. Find him and kill him.” Then he turned to you. “Stay here. You’ve done your part. This isn’t your fight anymore.”

Half of you wanted to protest, but you knew he was right. You’d never killed a man. Tricking someone into stepping onto a land mine was not the same as pointing a gun at their head and pulling the trigger. The end result may be the same (one maybe a bit bloodier than the other): a dead man on one’s conscience, but it was easier when you could turn away.

They all went their separate ways, some disappearing into the brush, others making for the house to see if he was waiting it out there, leaving you alone, half hidden behind the bushes and the trees, nothing but the beating of your own heart for company.

Your breathing was too loud. Your breathing was too loud, and when you looked down at your hands, they trembled. You balled them to fists. Hide. You had to hide, tuck yourself away so that nobody could find you. Dropping onto your knees, you shimmied yourself in between two bushes, letting the leaves fall around you, making for excellent cover.

The one downside to this was that you were completely blind to what was going on around you. You had expected noise; gunshots, shouting, engines roaring, but it was silent. So silent. Every rustling of leaves made your heart speed up, for you were certain that somebody had found you, somebody was coming for you, somebody was going to kill you–

And then it would be dark again and silent. Oh so silent.

After a while, it became too much. The pressure. The silence. You started to understand why the Shelbys liked having other people around, why those evenings of party and drink were so popular; it was to forget, to forget the events of the day, possibly forget everything if only for just a few hours. Clambering out of your hiding spot, you inched towards the edge of the forest, to try and catch a glance of what was going on.

Nothing. From the house came nothing, no shouts, no bangs. From the forest around you–nothing. You breathed out, letting it last, trying to get your nerves under control.

You would be fine. No one would find you. No one would hurt you. Tommy would kill the remaining Pinfield brother and he would come get you and you would go home. And then you would be able to leave Small Heath, leave Birmingham, once and for all.

Like a mantra you repeated it in your head, over and over, to keep yourself from running out there and finding the remaining Pinfield yourself. If you muttered it often enough, you found, you could even convince yourself it was the right choice.

You would be fine.

From behind you, there was a slight rustling and a grunt, and you exhaled in relief. “Did you find–”

But you were stopped short by two big hands clamping across your mouth, and you let out a muffled scream. Your own fingers instinctively shot up and clawed at the hands, but whoever it was that had got a hold of you was strong and wasn’t planning on letting go.

“Scream, you little fuck,” spat a coarse voice close to your ear. You struggled, tried to wriggle yourself from his hold. Panic seared through you in white-hot bolts and your eyes were wide, darting around to try and see your attacker as well as find a way out. “So you killed my brother, eh?” grunted the voice, and your insides turned to ice.

Nothing could ever have prepared you for this. Nothing could have prepared you for the scorching terror that burrowed itself in your very bones, seeped into your brain, made all rational thought impossible. Instead of going limp, you doubled your efforts to free yourself from his grasp, ripping and pulling and scratching and biting.

“You fucker–I’ll fucking kill you–” He was trying to stay quiet about it. Your feverish brain took that as a sign that someone was close by–within shouting distance, at least.

So you used all of your strength to yank your mouth free from his hand and scream. Scream as long and as hard as you possibly could; no words, just a blood-curdling shriek. A split second later he was back on top of you, more urgent this time, grunting as he tried to get his hands around your throat.

His fingers pressed into the soft skin below your chin, and only a few seconds later black spots started dancing around your vision. You gasped for breath, and, encouraged, he dug his thumbs deeper into the pressure point. A rock dug into the back of your head, and you concentrated on that pain, letting it flow through you, forcing you to stay awake. Fighting to stay awake.

But he was strong, and his knees were on either side of your hips, effectively pinning you to the ground. He was pushing harder and harder–breathing became more difficult by the second, and your grip on his wrists was slackening. You blinked furiously, but your vision was blurring. This was it, you thought. This was it.

And then a gunshot rang through the air. The sound was distant to your oxygen-deprived brain, but you heard it nevertheless, and for a second you feared the bullet was meant for you; but the fingers around your throat loosened, and Pinfield, who had been pinning you down just moments before, now froze and then dropped like a sack of potatoes.

He fell on top of you, and in a last attempt to free yourself you managed to roll out from beneath him, where you lay by his side, chest heaving with coughs and eyes screwed shut. You were vaguely aware of something warm and sticky on your face, clinging to the skin of your neck, your clothes, but being covered in blood was probably the least of your concerns.

Right now you focused on the fact that you were alive. You were alive, and the scorching breaths you sucked in proved it. Your head swam after being almost asphyxiated, and shaking fingers came up to brush the tender skin of your throat. Those would become bruises later.

You vaguely registered someone shouting your name, and a second later they dropped to their knees next to you. You opened your eyes, blinked hard, and slowly Finn’s face came into view.

He was paler than you’d ever seen him before, brows knotted together, lips pressed in a tight line. Only in the back of your mind did you note that he was not supposed to be here. He was supposed to be back in Small Heath. But a gun lay discarded behind him, and that’s when you realised it was Finn Shelby who saved your life.

He was saying something. His lips moved, but you couldn’t hear the words he spoke and you closed your eyes again, rubbing your hands across your face. “Wait,” you slurred. Your tongue felt like lead. Too big for your mouth. You coughed again.

“… you not to go. I fucking told you not to go, you idiot,” he was saying in a sharp but shaky voice, and when he helped you sit up his hands trembled.

“I just almost died. You don’t get to swear at me,” you said, but your voice was barely audible and you doubled over once more.

Despite everything, Finn laughed–jerkily and weak but a laugh nevertheless–and you smiled too, letting yourself fall forward into his chest. He wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your shoulder.

“I’m covered in blood,” you mumbled into his coat.

“What?”

You pulled away. “I’m covered in blood.”

Finn shook his head. “Not yours, so I don’t care.”

That’s when others started to appear–Johnny Dogs first, along with a few of his men, then Tommy, who immediately ran towards you and started questioning both you and Finn, barely paying any mind to the body lying, like, maybe two feet away from him. When he had quickly inspected you for any serious wounds and was satisfied, he whacked Finn on the back of his head, but he gave a small, tight smile too.

Finn helped you stand up, and didn’t let you go until you got to the hospital.

The nurse dabbed at your cuts with a cotton wad dipped in alcohol, and it stung. Sat on the edge of the hospital bed, you didn’t quite know what to do with your hands, so you kept them folded in your lap. You’d gotten mostly cleaned up; your ruined clothes were thrown in the trash, and all the blood had been washed off your face and arms. You had needed stitches for the cut on the back of your head–scalp wounds bled like crazy–but overall you had gotten away mostly unscathed.

Finn was fine, too. Shaken up, but fine. He’d explained to you on the way back how he’d talked Isiah into following Tommy’s car from a distance, and had just made his way through the forest to the mansion when he’d heard you scream.

You watched him subtly on the other side of the room where he sat with his arms crossed. He met your eyes and smiled tightly, and you stuck out your tongue, which caused him to laugh, which he tried to hide with a cough. The nurse gave your cheek a pat and you looked at her again, blushing slightly. She shook her head, but her eyes glittered.

When she was done, she packed up her stuff and said, “There’s nothing that really warrants a stay at the hospital, honestly. The neck will bruise, but you’ll be fine. Go home, get some rest, come back in two weeks to get your stitches removed.” You nodded and she left.

Finn brought you your coat, and together you stepped outside into the gloomy streets.

Though it was grey and overall a pretty sad day, you found you didn’t really care anymore. If anything, the glum weather had started to grow on you, and you were starting to appreciate some of its aspects. Sometimes. It didn’t beat a nice sunny day on the countryside, but for now it would do.

“So what now?” asked Finn after a moment of silence.

“What d'you mean?” Your voice was still hoarse, and the nurse had told you that it would be for a few days.

“You know. Are you–will you leave Birmingham?”

You had the money. The six thousand pounds from Tommy’s first job. But the more you thought about it, the more you found you didn’t really want to leave. Your flat was shit, but you could finally afford a better one. You had your shop. No one wanted to kill you anymore, which was good.

And of course there was Finn.

“Nah,” you said nonchalantly, kicking a pebble from your footpath. “Nah, I think I’ll stay.”

He immediately perked up, and a grin lit his face and you laughed. He was so predictable. “Good,” he said in a valiant effort to conceal his excitement. “That’s good.”

You would later vigorously blame it on your still-woozy brain whenever Finn brought it up, but in reality you had never thought more clearly. Maybe it was a rush of confidence, or just that you were done with the tension always hanging between you and him.

Whatever the case, you tugged Finn into an alleyway out of view from the streets and kissed him.

It was fireworks. It was the clear sunrise after a long, stormy night; it was everything you had not even dare hope for. Above all, it was worth everything it had taken you to get there. You could have done without the almost-dying, but none of it mattered now, temporarily erased from your mind by pure bliss.

“I’m staying,” you whispered against his lips, your arms around his neck.

He laughed, pulling you closer. “For me?”

You rolled your eyes, even though he wasn’t wrong. “Sure. For you.”

“There’s a contract forbidding our contact, Y/N,” he teased. “You demanded it yourself, remember?”

You groaned, throwing your head back. “Oh my god. Fuck the contract.”

“That’s not very professional of you.”

“You know what else isn’t professional? That fucking hideous haircut of yours.”

He laughed, a full-fledged laugh that bubbled from his throat and rang like the sweetest of music to your ears. “You’re never going to let that go, are you.”

“No. Shut up.” Shut up. And you kissed him again.

#finn shelby x reader #finn shelby fanfic #finn shelby fic #peaky blinders fic #finn shelby imagine #peaky blinders imagine #finn shelby peaky blinders #finn shelby peaky blinders x reader #finn shelby one shot

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stusbunker · 5 years ago

Text

He Is, Therefore I Am

A Supernatural Fan-fiction

Featuring: Dean and Sam Winchester

Written for: @impala-dreamer‘s Make Me Feel It Challenge

Beta’d by the amazing: @itmighthavebeenintentional

Inspired by: Brandi Carlile’s The Story

Warnings: Show level violence and angst.

^*^*^*^

I am struggling here, which is kind of funny when you think about it. In one way or another, my life has been a perpetual struggle. But that’s all Chuck’s fault, isn’t it? Everything I’ve done to push back the tide has only opened another fissure somewhere else. Because that’s what he wanted, he liked to keep us dancing for him. There might be no way out of this now, but there is one thing I know for certain: it’s not going to end on his terms. Sam and I aren’t going to off each other. That’s not Chuck’s call, that one never was.

----

Dean’s tired. I feel it almost as much as I feel my own exhaustion, like a shell around him. He nods as I explain my plans for the day, but he’s not really hearing me. I can’t keep the chuckle from my voice when I tell him I’ll wake him up if I find anything. He hums a response and I raise my voice and shake him a bit to wake him enough to make it the last ten feet from the door jam to the bed. I don’t even taste the coffee once it’s finished brewing.

----

Sam’s been quiet since Eileen’s not around. Sucks; kid had that genuine lightness to him from the moment she had been brought back. And now, it’s fraying. If anybody deserves somebody, it’s Sammy. I know it’s impossible with what we do, hell I’ve proven it is. But he should get some happily ever after crap, even if it’s just happily for as long as possible. Another thing Chuck needs to be punched over, honestly, just fuck that fucking asshole.

I’ve been tryin’ to keep him smiling, or at least out of his head when we’re on the road. Laying on the bad notes more than necessary, he doesn’t need to know I’m doing it on purpose. Some songs were made to be belted out, ‘snot my fault. I catch a glimpse of my eyes in the rearview; shit, when’d the wrinkles start sticking?

But Sammy’s singing along now, and I forget my vanity. Because this is my happily-for-as-long-as-possible.

----

It’s so fucking dark that I close my eyes and listen, silently begging to find them first, to pull myself together, to find a way out. My gun’s in my hand, lightweight and familiar, brick wall biting into my back as I creep around into the next room. Even though I can barely see, I can feel the space expanding out in front of me, gaping with possibility. Somewhere, metal crashes and I stop being cautious.

“DEAN?!” No one answers.

I’m nearing some scaffolding, try to step around it without rocking it, but there’s someone else here now. I can feel their eyes in the dark, but I still can’t see them. They don’t seem to even breathe. Maybe they’re not werewolves. And suddenly I feel very exposed. I turn on the spot, anticipating the ambush. It doesn’t come. Everything goes quiet, then a shot rings out somewhere outside. I give up on quiet and bolt for the industrial sized door at the far end of the warehouse.

Another shot is fired, but I don’t register it because there’s more than two after all.

----

Sam shoulda cleared the building already, it’s practically empty from the remodeling anyhow. The tarps in the windows rustle in the wind high above my head as I keep to the perimeter. I’m banking on it being a bust, but then I hear him scream my name and I’m running. The gravel is loose, so I gotta slow down to keep from biting it. As I round the corner, aiming for the service entrance connecting the two buildings, I spook one of them.

He’s big but fast, and he gets me with his claws as I land a right hook. My shoulder’s screaming as I land on it. I roll and quickly get a shot off. It only slows him down. I kick away and fire again.

----

I sidestep right before reaching the crumbling pavement, throwing the one on my heels out with their own momentum. The one that had been watching me goes for my knees and, I’m already aiming, but all-too-soon missing him.

“Sammy!” Dean’s hollering, but he’s somewhere on the other end of the building and I’m falling.

He’s okay.

It’s going to be okay; keep fighting.

The cement floor gets me hard and I am struggling to get another shot off. But the one I dodged is on me again, and all I can see is the mass of his torso and the floor. I choke on the stench of them. The demon knife bites into my lower back as I twist to reach it. My hand crumbles beneath a heavy boot. I’m screaming in pain and then, almost in slow motion, I see him reach wide, a clawed hand ready to swipe at my throat. My eyes slam shut.

----

Sam musta found the other one because there’s matching shots seconds after I put the big one down. I call for him, but don’t hear anything back. Instantly, I’m booking it to the far end where I am hoping they are. The crunch of gravel is giving me away, but soon I reach a derelict parking lot that gets me to the bend where I can see a stocky wolf stumble back inside a delivery door.

I hit the gas, gun tight in my sweaty hand.

When I reach the door, I scream at the heap that is half my brother. The guy flinches enough for me to get three in his chest. But then I’m on my ass, again! Wrestling the third one Sam had insisted existed. I pin an arm behind his back, but he’s getting too close with his fangs now. I roll and try and get him in a leg lock, his free hand nearly gutting me. I hear Sam behind me, so I roll again, presenting his back for a clear shot. Like a fucking meat shield.

I can’t help but laugh, Sam shot lefty and we still got ‘em.

“Anymore?” I’m riding the high that only comes from almost biting it.

“Not that I’ve seen,” Sam groans, shaking out his right hand. My victory is short lived as I internally panic over his injury. ‘What the hell happened’ screams in my head, a voice that I won’t ever completely lose berating me.

“You alright?” I check, but don’t get all mother hen about it. He’s standing for god’s sake.

“Think it’s broken,” Sam huffed. Fucking hospitals.

We make it back to my baby and I try, “you think Jack could---?”

Sam shakes his head and grimaces, it’s bad. I stop asking questions and high tail it back to town.

----

Newly minted insurance cards from the juice we got from Fortuna ended up saving us a lot of time and energy. I swear I’m the only one who gets their hands taken from them; Dean’s playing at trying not to gloat. But if he wasn’t so smug, I know he’d be internalizing it as his fault, so I shake my head at him and give him the finger behind the nurse’s back as I wait. Finally, I can dole out the information for the pharmacy closest to the bunker to the woman at the desk.

My hand’s plastered and I dry swallow the first round of painkillers before we make it home. All I want is to pass the fuck out, but I’ve got wolf guts in my hair and I can smell my own dried sweat as I haul myself out of the Impala. This night will never end.

Dean beat me to the shower, but he doesn’t turn on the water. I give him five minutes until I can barely stand upright and pound with the side of my cast and immediately regret it.

“Dude! Hurry up already!”

He pulls the door open, fully clothed with a plastic shopping bag strung through one fist.

“Took you long enough, come here.” He beckons me in, takes my bum wrist and threads my hand through the bag until he can tie it off. Dean whips a roll of first aid tape out of his back pocket and proceeds to seal off the bag while ensuring that I lose the most amount of arm hair when unraveling it. He slaps the closure and I groan without looking at him.

I thank him before he leaves me alone, but he just waves it off, heads to his room and gives me the first shower. Tonight could have been so much worse and I try not to overanalyze it as I let the hot water add to my wooziness. I keep afloat until I pass as clean. I fall into bed not five minutes later, safe and sound once again because my brother had my back. How the fuck can Chuck think that is going to change?

-----

I gotta drag Sam’s fucking goldy locks out of the drain before I can even start my shower. Gross. But the water pressure does its magic. I almost pass out standing up, I feel so relaxed. Glad I sucked down that second coffee over dinner, it was a bitch driving in. I glance in Sammy’s room as I pass, he’s already snoring. Drugs must be workin’.

Cas and Jack are on some trail and at this point I don’t know if I want to know. Between Billie and the hearts, it’s just another fucking ordeal. Another flaming hoop. But, at least the kid’s alive, and Cas has eyes on him this go ‘round. My shirt feels tight around the collar, so I pull it off. I bury myself in my sheets, fighting to get comfortable.

The hunt flashes before my eyes, everything over with in the blink of an eye. Just like yesterday and tomorrow. And every miserable fucking day of my entire life. Except we pulled it off. We keep pulling it off, and with whatever Chuck’s got comin’ I’m lucky because I’ve got Sam in my corner. Because without him, I’d be dead. Without me? He’d probably hit another dog, at the very least.

It’s quiet, I eye the light creepin’ beneath the door. Exhaustion burrows into my memories, but instead of darkness, it surfaces with only the steady echo of Sam’s heavy breathing in some motel room, every motel room. The familiar rhythm settles something inside me, finally letting me sleep.

^*^*^

Tags: @flamencodiva @dolphincliffs @dontshootmespence @thoughtslikeaminefield @fangirlxwritesx67 @dawnie1988 @mrswhozeewhatsis @cosicas-cuquis @foxyjwls007 @tumbler-tidbits @defenderrosetyler @ericaprice2008 @princessofthefandomrealm @awesomesusiebstuff @wingedcatninja

#supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfic #dean angst #sam angst #sam and dean #soulmates #brotp #song insired

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