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tamagochiie · 4 years ago

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happy new year to you

pairing: tsukishima x fem!reader

genre: angst (?), fluff

warning: none

synopsis: Its New Year's Eve and you're all alone. Well, not really.

Tsukishima, the only friend you've managed to make since you've moved from the country side, comes to visit you after work without any particular reason. Whether it's to fill the space during after hours at your work or pester you with his sarcasm and cockiness; he always seems to come back.

a/n: I wanted a brain break from writing the bonus chapter for the Kenma series: Life As We Know It. The more I worked on it, the more I got a headache, so I really dunno when I’ll be able to post it, so please be patient with me :(

The clock strikes upon the final hour before the new year, and the glimmering streets of Shinjuku echo with hearty laughter and drunken cheers of joy.

Standing on the other side of the glass window, you watch as strangers flow past you in groups and in pairs, all seeming to have the time of their lives while you go back to busying yourself by mopping the creaky wooden floors of the barren, dim lit bar you work in.

Nostalgia, rather than jealousy, pours over your thoughts as you imagine what your friends back home could be doing. They’re probably preparing bento boxes together at Yachi’s house to see the hatsuhinode later; and the thought causes your lips as much as your heart to sink.

As much as you wanted to go home for the holidays, you’re the breadwinner and if making money meant working through the holidays, then you would do exactly that.

Ugh, I wanna be home.

It had been another long night spent with you deciphering a string of intricately slurred orders from one borderline drunkard to the next. Truth be told, if it wasn’t a part of your job, you wouldn’t converse with any of the customers or dive head first into a sea of personalities, but out of all eyes you’ve met and smiles you exchanged, the one that mattered to you most had yet to make his appearance.

That is, until you hear a knocking against the glass.

You flinch back to your senses and your attention is no longer settled on the tiny rain droplets sliding down the window, but to Tsukki. He lazily waves at you with a sly smirk painting across his lips. You smile widely, teeth showing and everything; you quickly motion him to come inside.

Any worry of him being later than he already is that weighed heavily on your shoulders suddenly becomes light as a feather and floats away as the wind from outside breezes in.

“You seem extra happy to see me tonight,” Tsukki cooes your name like he has many times before, and you’re usually annoyed. The only difference is, you don’t mind it this time. You let it slide because today has been a bit unkind.

His wavy blonde wisps barely graze against the frame of the door. With one hand buried deep in his jacket pocket and the other carrying a grocery bag, he holds his head up high like his pride. His sunglasses perched proudly on the tip of his nose.

“Sorry I’m a bit late,” He sighs, ambling behind you as you make your way around to the other side of the island. He takes a seat on the stool across from you, shifting in place before setting the grocery bag down next to him. He leans all of his weight onto his elbows, placing his chin in the dip of his palm.

Through the green hue of his sunglasses, Tsukki watches you pull two tall glasses from below the bar and set it between the both of you. You swipe two cans of diet coke from the ice chest and begin to prepare his usual: chilled diet coke with no ice.

It had something to do about his teeth being sensitive.

You pass him his glass and meet his gaze; a smug smile paints across your lips. “What’s with the shades, Tsukki? Were the stars too bright for you?”

He chuckles at your poor attempt of a joke and flips you off before taking a sip. Setting the glass down and keeping his collected disposition, Tsukki slides the shades off his nose.

Your lips sink to a frown and you suck the air between your teeth. A deep, trying sigh escapes you when you see his face sprinkled with fresh cuts and bruises.

“ God, you’re like a teenage boy.” You shake your head, pushing yourself off the counter.

“Hey, just remember that feeling you had when you saw me earlier,” His voice was gruff and croaky like he’d been punched in the throat, and by the looks of his face, it’s possible. “I saw that smile. You missed me.”

“You’re pretty cocky for someone who looks like they’ve been bitched slapped senseless.” You retort, rolling your eyes.

“You should see the other guys,” Tsukki teases, smirking. And though his tone is a bit impish, the fact he fought with more than one guy made you double take.

You relieve yourself with another deep sigh, leaving him behind as you go to the back to grab a first aid kit, a small bucket of ice, and cloth.

You��d only known him for a little while and you weren’t exactly close, but he was the only friend you had managed to make since you moved from the countryside for uni. He wasn’t the best company to have, but he wasn’t the worst either.

He was... good enough.

Since the night you met, it became a common occurrence to have him show up during the peak hours of the night all battered and bruised while you were closing up shop.

The midnight sky wept and the winds were not merciful, so you rushed to haul the chairs into safety before it could be whisked away. And just as you were about to carry in the bar's sign, you found him slumped into a corner, head tilted back.

His face looked like a badly bruised pear. His long, lanky legs stuck out to the narrow pathway, his feet soaked beneath the rain.

You were more curious than you were afraid, so against your better judgement, you inched closer to him, knelt beside him and checked for a pulse. As faint as it was, it was enough for you to gather the little strength you had left to prop him onto his feet and stagger back inside.

Breathless, you sat him in a booth, lulling his head onto the leather backrest of the couch before running to the back for the first aid kit and freezing diet coke because everything like that night, it was unlucky and there wasn’t any more ice.

It took him a while, but he eventually woke up; flustered and drenched in a mixture of rain water and his own sweat. Pupils dilated and full of adrenaline.

You struggled to get him to sit still, swatting away your attempts to help him until all the fight slowly left his body like a light bulb losing its energy. But when he was all able and well, he’d get up and walk out without even a thank you.

The days that passed would smear together like a poorly done Jackson Pollock painting that you would forget the whole thing had even happened.

That is until a familiar tall frame would stride into the bar one night, eyes searching the room till he found you.

Tsukki’s visits were sporadic at first, and it was always during after hours. He wasn’t as kind as he is now. Is he kind? He was like the dead of winter: painfully cold and bitter. At first, he wouldn’t bother a breath to say a single thought or even murmur a word.

Though, he’d trudge in looking tired, stumbling over his feet looking like he came fresh from a fight, or if he was lucky, just tired. He’d take a seat in front of you sometimes burying his head into his arms and take a nap or if you were lucky, he’d ask for a diet coke.

But nevertheless, his eyes are always the same: as light as the sun could gleam, but no sign of life. As far as you were concerned, he was merely a pretty shell.

You never understood why he kept coming back, especially since he pretty much gave you the cold shoulder for the first two months he cycled into his nightly visitations; but you never really bothered to ask.

You even stopped pestering him with any sort of questions about anything he did with his life, knowing full well he’d tell you to mind your own business.

Nevertheless, it doesn’t stop you from worrying.

“You should really stop getting into fights.” You move around the island and take a seat on the stool beside Tsukki, setting the first aid kit onto the table. “You scar more and more every time I see you.”

“Are you worried about me?” He chaffs, cooing your name in mockery. You ignore him and tell him to move a little closer, the fluorescent light flickers above you both, allowing you to see the cuts a little clearer.

He smells like old cigarette buds and cheap store bought soap. It’s a peculiar smell, but it isn’t as peculiar as his lifestyle.

“I’m annoyed by you.” You deadpan, beginning to dab away at the wound marking his forehead.

“Well, aren’t you gonna to ask me?” You grimace at him, harshly pressing the cotton against his wound. He flinches away from you and meets your overt eyes, “S-Sorry…”

“Even if I were to ask you, it’s not like you’d tell me.” Tsukki’s walls stand taller than his pride and are even more guarded than a mother to her own child.

“So, why keep helping me, huh?” He clicks his tongue and inches a little closer to you. He’s testing your sense of boundaries, but you’re unfazed. Instead you rip open a bandaid and slap it on him, causing him to seethe at you like he was a cat you threw into a tub of water. “I could be a serial killer, you know. Or someone really dangerous.”

You chortle, crinkling your nose at Tsukki’s cringe worthy strive to be mystifying. For the umpteenth time since he walked into your life, you bury your eyes into the back of your head.

“I like it better when you don't try so hard to be scary,” You tease, smiling at him and he mirrors you, playfully tilting his head just a little. “If you were gonna kill me, I’m sure you would’ve done it by now.”

You wipe off the dried speckles of blood and dirt sticking to his face. Though, the more you try to wipe it away, you begin to question what exactly he is capable of, and if it's his blood or someone else’s.

Like he usually does, Tsukki ignores you and shifts the conversation by asking you about your week. You tell him about your early morning class and the uncomfortable commute there. You lie about having lunch with your friends because tell him you didn’t have any to spend it with would be too embarrassing for someone as cocky as him to know.

There isn’t much about you to share; your life slides on the average side of the weighing scale of coolness. So, you worry you might be boring him, but as you clean the tiny scratch near the corner of Tsukki’s eye, you realize he’s looking at you like a shiny, lucky penny laying on the ground.

He’s looking at you with softness in his eyes and a subtle smile.

Fluttering. That’s what you feel tickling the pit of your stomach and you choose to yield from it, clearing your throat. You flicker your eyes to the plastic bag sitting behind him. “What’s in the bag?”

Without turning away from you, Tsukki extends his arm and reaches for it. He places it on his lap and you pull back, watching him as he pulls a pink cardboard box like the ones from the bakery; and lets the plastic float down to the floor.

“I don’t know much about you,” Tsukki begins, clearing his throat and wriggling in his seat.

For the first time since you’ve met him, all you saw was a walking brick wall that had the personality of dick. For the first time, you see him nervous and a little fidget-y and you enjoy it.

“But I do remember the things you share with me in true confidence even when I don’t always return the favor.” You bite down on your lip, containing your laughter at the sight of Tsukki with his head hanging low, straying away from your gaze. “In the last six months since you took me in that night, you show me kindness.”

You straighten your back and widen your tired eyes when he opens the little box and pulls out a tiny frosted cupcake with a very small candle standing at the top.

You blink because blinking is all you can manage to do.

You didn’t think he’d remember because you merely shared it in passing through a sea of useless information you exchanged between each other and two glasses of fizzy diet coke.

“No one should have to spend their birthday by themselves, don’t you think?” He finally moves his head to look at you and you swallow thickly, lips dried as you realize that all your hiding had been pointless.

But all you can manage is smile, grateful at the gesture and overwhelmed by soft tickling in your stomach. You want to cry because you’ve finally been met with gentleness even if it came from a stranger.

Tsukki looks at his watch and slowly begins to count the seconds. “Happy birthday,” He says your name quite differently than before. Your name sounds like a tune of your favorite song that you’ll wanna replay again and again. “Make a wish that counts because that damn cupcake was pretty expensive.”

You pout as he quickly falls back to his usual self. Clasping your hands together and closing your eyes, you do as he says and conjure the best wish you can make.

With your teeth tugging at your bottom lip, silencing the leftover thoughts lingering in your mind, you wish for happier memories and more friends, but most importantly, though you find him odd and a little annoying, you wish Tsukki could stay by your side.

But it's too bad that out of the three wishes you confidently offered to the gods, they’d choose to decline the one.

#tsukishima kei #tsukishima x reader #tsukki x reader #tsukki fluff #tsukki imagines #tsukki x y/n #tsukki angst #haikyuu #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu angst #tsukishima x you #tsukishima fluff #tsukishima angst #tsukishima #kei

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lesetoilesfous · 3 years ago

Note

“Sometimes, being a complete nerd comes in handy" + Merrill and Isabela OR Merrill and the character of your choice (bc I feel like this is totally her line :D)

Hey! Thank you so much, I SO agree. Also I had a fun idea for this, I hope you enjoy it!!

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting Pairing: MerriBela

Characters: Merrill, Isabela

Tags: Buffy AU, Isabela is a slayer, Merrill is a witch, I had fun, drabble, strong langauge

Rating: Teen and Up

“So you’re telling me this thing is not, in fact, the result of some profoundly lost creature design student and is actually an obscure monster from Scottish folklore?” As Isabela speaks, she tosses the stake in her hand, narrowing her eyes at the far wall of the magic shop and briefly considering seeing whether her Slayer strength could get it to stick into the wall. She thinks it could.

Merrill, sitting on the counter, swings her bare feet and gives Isabela a smile which is lethally adorable. “Sometimes, being a complete nerd comes in handy.”

Isabela smiles at her, trying to ignore the lurch in her chest as she does so, and slips the stake in her hand back into her belt. She takes Merrill’s hand, examining the perfect blood red polish on her nails before looking up at the beautiful lines tattooed across her face. “And what about being an extraordinarily powerful witch?”

Merrill shrugs, the daisy Isabela had given her earlier still tucked firmly behind her ear. She offers another deceptively adorable smile. “That helps too.”

Isabela huffs half a laugh. Sunlight washes in through the shop windows in watery waves of gold, and outside the roar of traffic echoes the far too distant ocean. One or two customers mill about near the crystal balls, but Isabela doubts they have any intention of spending money. Isabela taps her fingers on the counter next to the cash register. It’s covered with stickers: mostly rainbows and other pride flags, but there are some stickers for Merrill’s clan, and Dalish rights in general. Anders had snuck a witch rights one in there, and Merrill had responded by adding three more.

Isabela stretches, still feeling the bruises from the last night spent on patrol, and pretends not to notice the way Merrill stares and blushes when her shirt rides up. “So I’m guessing this isn’t a one-stake-fits-all scenario.”

Merrill snorts, “Well I’m sure it could be, if you really wanted it too.”

Isabela wrinkles her nose. “With skinless and hexapedal? Miss me.”

Merrill shrugs, and turns to duck beneath the counter, coming back up with a leather bound tome at least as wide and high as her torso and, Isabela suspects, marginally thicker. Merrill drops the tome on the counter with a resounding thump loud enough to startle the customers, who scurry out with a tinkle of the shop bell. Merrill barely spares them a glance, wafting away the clouds of dust that puff out of the tome as they settle.

Isabela covers her nose. “Didn’t you use that yesterday?”

Merrill hums, distracted as she cuts her thumb with a retractable knife and drops a few drips of blood on the cover. “He’s a terrible smoker.”

The tome opens with a long, hoarse groan, and the pages begin to flicker rapidly whilst Merrill wraps a bandaid around her thumb. (It has cartoon daisies on it. Isabela refuses to find this charming.) Finally, the pages stop with another thump of the tome’s cover, revealing a gruesomely accurate wood-cut print of the latest nasty Isabela had found in the Kirkvale cemetery.

“That’s the affront against nature in question.” Isabela confirms, compelled by a perverse curiosity to lean closer and watch the gothic, spiked ink lettering as it shifts up and down the page.

Merrill looks up from where her dark green eyes had been scanning the page faster than Isabela could follow. “Yes, your description was...vivid.” The series of hoops and studs in her ears glitter as the sun falls into golden hour, and it takes Isabela a second longer than she’s willing to admit to tear her eyes away. Finished, or at least as satisfied as she thinks she will be, Merrill makes a short, non-committal hum and fishes a vicious looking obsidian knife from drawer full of paper clips under the counter.

“Well, I don’t think there’s anything specific. Silver is always a good bet, so’s iron, but we probably shouldn’t rely on it. I hate to say but -”

Isabela grins wide enough that her cheek’s hurt, feeling an old, familiar, vicious kind of bloodlust building in her chest like a wave. “We’re going to need to get all Texas Chainsaw Massacre on this bitch?”

Merrill snorts, and walks around the counter to pick up an ‘ornamental’ iron spear from where it’s propped against the wall behind the display cases, swinging it over her back. “Exactly.”

#merribela #dadwc #merrill #isabela #da2 #rusted-pipe-of-wisdom #my fic

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starryknight09 · 4 years ago

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Six feet under

Febuwhump Day 9: buried alive

Read on AO3.

________________________________________________________

“This will teach you to stick your nose in other people’s business.” The boss guy, Marco or Bob or Josh or whatever his name was, said.

Peter rolled his eyes even though they couldn’t see it through his mask. He tugged again at the cuffs holding his wrists together behind his back, but no dice. They must be made out of vibranium or something, which meant this guy had spent a pretty penny to catch him. Peter almost felt flattered. After all, he’d only spent the last couple weeks busting all the guy’s dealers and cleaning up the drug ring that he’d tried to set up in Queens.

“Put him in.” The boss guy commanded.

The two lackeys holding onto each of his arms pushed him forward until they reached the open coffin dangling by pulleys over a dug out grave. Well this looked fun. The men at his sides lifted him up and slammed him into it with a coordination he didn’t think they’d possess.

“Hey!” He protested but the lid snapped shut before he even had a chance to attempt escape. He pushed against the cover with his feet but it didn’t budge. Was this thing lined with vibranium too? That could be problematic. A second later he felt himself falling before his back slammed into the coffin again, presumably having landed at the bottom of the six foot hole dug out under it. Ouch. That had kind of hurt his wrists, which were still trapped behind him by the stupid handcuffs.

“Hey Karen?” He didn’t know why he whispered. There was no way the goons could hear him. But somehow being stuck in a casket made him feel like he owed it some kind of reverence.

“Yes Peter?”

“Uh night vision please.”

His mask switched to the view filter as requested, but it didn’t help. No secret hidden trap doors made themselves known. Not that he’d expected them to. No, now he could just see where the bad guys thought he’d spend his final moments of life. The thudding of dirt hitting the coffin lid made his heart rate increase. He was literally getting buried alive right now. Yep. This situation was definitely not ideal.

“You appear to be in an undesirable position.” Karen said, completely understating it. “Would you like me to call Mr. Stark?”

“Um…” He kicked his feet up against the lid as hard as he could. Over and over. After a handful of times, not so much as a splinter appeared. He knew he probably should be panicking right about now, but he wasn’t because he still had his suit. The bad guys hadn’t even considered that he’d be able to call for help. So, all in all, this was just a minor inconvenience.

“Yeah.” He agreed with a sigh. “Call him.”

“Hey Pete what’s up?” Tony answered on the second ring and the tension that had been building up in his chest unfurled. “Madame Secretary was just asking if you were still planning on coming up for the weekend. You are, right?”

“Ok, so don’t freak out.” He started, not quite sure how to explain his dilemma without Tony going postal.

“You saying that is making me freak out.” Tony replied, voice tense. “What’s going on?”

“Ok so I might be in a bit of a situation.” The rain of dirt thudding above him had slowed. He wondered if they were using some kind of equipment because shoveling by hand definitely would’ve taken a lot longer.

“Uh huh. What kind of situation? Start using your words kid.”

“Ok, first, I just want to let you know that I’m ok. I’m perfectly fine. So when I tell you, don’t go flying off the handle.”

“You’re really not making me feel any better.” Tony interrupted.

“I’m, um, kind of stuck.”

“That’s not an explanation. Start explaining.” Tony said, and Peter could tell he was in the suit now because of the almost imperceptible tinniness of his voice.

“I’m sort of…” He winced before just ripping off the bandaid. “Buried.”

The heavy silence almost weighted him down more than the pounds of dirt on top of him.

“I’m sorry. I think I must’ve misheard you. You’re what now?” Peter could tell he was freaking out.

“I’m buried. As in underground? Pushing daisies? Six feet under? I don’t know how I can make it any clearer.” Peter explained, trying to keep a lightness to his tone.

“The attitude isn’t cute.” Tony snapped and a few seconds later Peter heard him release a long calming breath.

“Seriously Tony I’m ok. Just…I can’t get out of this by myself.”

“You promise? You’re not in any danger of asphyxiating?”

“Um, not imminently.” He answered. For a chemistry class project last year, he and Ned had figured out the amount of time a human could actually survive buried in a coffin, which had seemed a little morbid at the time, but now was turning out to be quite useful. He knew he had at least a few hours before things would start to get dire, so he didn’t have to panic, because he had every confidence that Tony would have him out by then.

“You’re really not helping out my stress levels here kid.” Tony complained.

“Sorry.”

“Just hang in there. I’m tracking your suit. I’m twenty minutes away.” Tony said, then asked in a panic, “You’re in your suit right?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok good.” He heard Tony take another deep breath. “So how did you manage to get yourself in this situation?”

“I’ve been working on busting up a drug ring in Queens the past couple weeks and apparently I really really pissed off the head honcho dude.” He explained, trying to roll into a more comfortable position, so not all his weight was on his wrists. His hands were starting to tingle.

Tony snorted. “So this guy decided to…bury you?”

“Yeah he even put me in a coffin. I think maybe he was trying to be poetic? But I don’t know. Seems like a waste of money. Like, aren’t coffins really expensive?”

Silence met his question.

“Um Tony? Are you still there? You didn’t fly into a power line or something, did you?” He tried not to sound scared, but if something happened to Tony, he was dead. Literally.

“I’m here.” Tony said, but he didn’t sound quite right.

“Are you ok?” He asked. Tony always used to joke about having a weak heart but after he’d barely survived the snap it’d actually become true.

“Am I ok? You’re the one literally stuck in a coffin underground and you’re asking me if I’m ok?” Tony’s voice got more high pitched.

“Um yeah.”

“I’ll be ok when I get you out. How does that sound?”

“Ok.” He mumbled, feeling appropriately chastised.

“Just do me a favor.” Tony requested. “Keep talking to me.”

Peter smiled. That he could do.

“Just no more talk about being buried, underground, or coffins. All right?” Tony added.

“Sure. No problem. So last week at practice, guess what Flash did…”

“You’re making that up. Morgan did not say that.” Peter laughed.

“Yes she did! I swear! If you don’t believe me, ask her.” Tony said.

“Don’t think I won’t.”

“Oh, I know you will.”

Peter made a mental note to do just that.

“I’m here kid.” Tony said, much more solemn than a second earlier.

“Oh thank god.” He said with a desperate exhale. “Because I have to tell you I’ve been trying really hard not to think about it, but it’s starting to get hard not to think about it.”

“I know.”

“Are any of the goons here?” He asked, curious, because if there were, that would be the last mistake any of them would ever make. Tony wasn’t someone you wanted to cross.

“Goons? Who uses that word?”

“I do. I like it.”

“You sound like some 1960’s mobster, but to answer your question, no, none of them are here. Looks like they hightailed it out of here after burying you.” Peter could tell he was disappointed. No doubt Tony wanted to exact his revenge.

“So…what’s the sitch? How long until you can get me out of here?” He tapped his foot anxiously against the end of the coffin.

“The sitch? Seriously kid, what kind of movies have you been watching lately?” Tony joked, which must be good news, because if he was capable of joking around then his situation must not be too dire.

“Good ones.”

“I’m afraid I don’t believe you. I’m going to need a chronological list.”

Peter rolled his eyes but the next second he got distracted by a humming scraping noise. “Hey! I hear something. What is that?”

“I’m digging you out. Hopefully it won’t take too long. Just sit tight.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.” He joked.

“What’d I say about being cute?”

“Um, don’t do it?”

“Oh, so you do hear me when I talk. You just don’t listen.” Tony said, but there was no bite to it. Peter could tell he was still stressed, so instead of continuing the banter, he stayed quiet and waited patiently to be freed.

He had no idea how much time had passed but eventually he had the sensation of being lifted and placed back on solid ground. A couple seconds passed and he heard Tony grunt and swear.

“Um, I think they might’ve used vibranium on the coffin. I couldn’t kick through it.” He warned, figuring Tony had tried to open the lid and failed.

“Forgot to mention that little detail, huh?”

“Oops.” Peter smiled. “You didn’t throw your back out did you old man?”

“Here I am saving you and all I’m getting is sass and more sass.” Tony mock complained.

“You can still get me out right?” The nerves hit him again. Wasn’t vibranium impossible to damage? Isn’t that why it’d been used to make Cap’s shield. What if he was still stuck in here and he was going to suffocate and—

“Relax Pete. I’ll get you out.” Tony reassured him. “Contrary to popular belief, vibranium’s not indestructible. You just need a high enough and concentrated enough heat source. And some time.”

“Like a laser?”

“Exactly like a laser.” Tony said and Peter didn’t think he was imaging the pride in his voice.

“Do you have one on the suit?”

“Of course.”

Thank god.

“Hang in there. This might take a little time.”

Peter tried to stay patient, but the closer he got to his release, the more difficult it was to wait. He just wanted out. At least he could follow Tony’s progress. The seal around the coffin lid glowed visibly as Tony lasered away at it. Tony hadn’t been kidding about the time comment. It had to have been close to forty five minutes before the laser finally made it all the way around.

Before the glow from the last bit of lasering had faded, Tony ripped the cover off. Peter squinted from the light, but he could make out Ironman standing over him. The helmet nanobots retracted and Peter gave Tony’s pale face a wide smile. He didn’t get a chance to say anything before Tony grabbed his upper arms and yanked him up and out of the coffin, pulling the mask off his face the second he’d set him on his feet.

Peter smiled. “Oh thank you. That’s so much better. Except…ooo ow!”

“What? What’s wrong?” Tony asked, looking over him frantically for some kind of hidden injury.

“Nothing. Just I was lying on my hands and they fell asleep and now, oh, ow, the feeling’s coming back and they’re all tingly. Ow ow ow.”

Tony let out an audible sigh of relief. “So you’re good?”

“Besides still being handcuffed?” Peter complained at the cuffs still around his wrists. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Tony rolled his eyes but gripped his shoulders and spun him around. “Hold on. I’ll get you free.”

A minute later, his wrists sprang free and he winced, the movement irritating the tingling. Regaining sensation was slightly overrated. He glanced down at them, noticing Tony had left the thick cuffs on but had sliced through the chain that connected them.

“There.” Tony declared and twirled him back around. “You good?”

He nodded.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“In that case…” Tony pulled him into a relieved hug.

Peter hugged him back, squeezing tightly, not needing to worry about controlling his strength since Tony was still in his suit, although hugging the suit wasn’t quite as comforting as hugging the real thing. He kind of wanted to ask Tony to get out of it, but he didn’t want to act like a scared little kid.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled once the normal appropriate amount of time to hug had come and gone. Clearly this had bothered Tony more than he’d let on.

Tony kissed the side of his head and finally released him, but Peter could still see the remnants of tension on his face.

“You scared me kid.” Tony admitted.

“I know. I’m sorry.” He hung his head.

“Let’s just agree this was a one and done.”

“Agreed.” Peter nodded. “I have no plan to end up in a coffin anytime soon.”

“Good. You better not.” Tony said like a stern warning but the hint of fear in his eyes belied it.

“Can we go home now?” He asked, exhaustion hitting him hard as the adrenaline faded.

Tony nodded. “I’ve made the executive decision that we’re moving your weekend visit up by two days.”

Peter let out an amused exhale. “Ok, but when we get back, can you get these things off me?” He held his arms up to show the cuffs still dangling around his wrists.

“I don’t know.” Tony said, the nanotech re-forming the mask around his face. “I think I might leave them on for a day or so as your punishment for getting yourself in this situation and practically scaring me to death.”

“Tony.” He whined in protest. He didn’t think the man was actually serious, but you could never be too sure.

“Or if you want, we can discuss a more suitable punishment.” Tony said, the Ironman armor making his voice sound more serious and intimidating. At this point, though, Peter knew Tony wasn’t completely kidding. Some kind of consequence awaited him. Probably not the cuffs staying on, but something.

“Hm that coffin’s looking better and better.” He joked, pretending to look at it longingly.

“Not funny.” Tony said sternly in what Morgan had coined his ‘dad voice’ before grabbing him around the waist and blasting off into the air.

“Hey can we stop for ice cream on the way? I feel like getting buried alive in a coffin is kind of an ice cream situation.” He said, loud enough so Tony would hear him over the wind.

“No. No ice cream. God, you and Morgan are the reason I have so many grey hairs.”

“I thought that was from old age.”

“You’re really scoring lots of points today Pete.”

Peter grinned. “Are you sure we can’t get ice cream?”

“No!”

“So you’re not sure?”

“No. No ice cream!”

Later that night, after Tony had gotten the cuffs off him, and they’d had some time to emotionally recover, Peter ate his bowl of chocolate cookie dough ice cream while he watched Moana, sandwiched between Morgan and Tony.

#febuwhump2021 #febuwhump #irondad

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snarkwrites · 4 years ago

Text

02| trouble |greg sanders

Notes:

So apparently, I wasn’t done with these two? Yeah.. I thought I’d post another part to their whole /story./ as it were. So, here we are.. I am... honestly lowkey tempted to do this with my Tim Speedle x OC one shots too, because I had this whole ass backstory that I broke down and condensed greatly there that I could rewind and do, too...

So if anybody wants to see it (either of them, Tim or continuing this with Greg), lemme know I guess?

Either way.. Here we are. Part II. Yay! For those who missed part I it is ( here ) I’m off to go brainstorm more on this and create a soundtrack, hehe.

Pairing:

Greg Sanders x Sidle!OFC.

Warnings:

Uhhh... heavy lingering sexual tension. Mutual pining. A whole lotta cute awkward fluffy times.. Eventually, filth. This is non timeline compliant, btw... so if you’re strictly by the timeline posed in the series, I’m sorry? Kinda?

Tagging:

@chasingeverybreakingwave

@twistnet

[ faq | tag list doc | soundtrack ]

TWO. “What the hell are you watching?”

At the sound of Nick’s voice, Greg tried to avert his gaze. Tried to look anywhere but out the window and down into the pool area which happened to be right below the balcony of his apartment. He’d been completely distracted. Forgotten all about Nick still being at his place..

He stepped away from the window, turning his entire body away from it so that his back was facing it.

Nick chuckled and stepped over to the window, peering down.

“Well, I know it’s not the blonde.” Nick mused aloud, fixing a teasing gaze on his friend as he did so.

“What the hell do you mean you know it’s not the blonde?” Greg’s brow raised at Nick’s assumption. Even though it hadn’t been the blonde, he hadn’t even realized there was even a blonde down at the pool until Nick mentioned her just then, he wondered what automatically made Nick rule out the blonde.

Nick chuckled. “You have a type, Greggo.”

“I do not have a type.” Greg argued.

Nick eyed him and after a second or two, he shrugged. Then with a smirk, he went on. “I can tell you exactly which girl you were starin at so hard your eyes were about to pop right outta your skull though.”

Greg rolled his eyes in annoyance, folding his arms over his chest.

“Fine. Go for it.”

“The leggy brunette in the black Ouija board bikini with the top untied and the lime green earbuds in. She was on the red beach towel, layin on her stomach... I think she was reading a horror novel and eating a green apple. Had herself a little garter tattoo… Am I right?”

Greg’s mouth opened and closed quickly because Nick had him dead to rights and he didn’t feel like arguing. “How the hell did you know? And why the hell were you staring so hard anyway, man?”

“She’s cute. Not my type at all, but cute.” Nick was peering out the window of Greg’s apartment now, probably watching the blonde. When Greg asked him the question, he chuckled and spun around, holding his co-worker’s gaze.

“ Because I know you. I know you well enough to know that you’re gonna go for the dark haired girl, every single time.” Nick shrugged. Greg eyed him, waiting on further elaboration. Which Nick gave, a second later.

“You were checkin her out Monday morning too when I dropped you off after work. When she was jogging?”

“I was not.” Greg said it quickly. Defensively. Entirely too quickly and defensively and he knew almost immediately that Nick didn’t buy that for a single second.

“You were, Greggo. Don’t even bother denyin’ it, I pretty much caught you. Both times, buddy.”

The sound of Greg’s apartment door being knocked on had both men sharing a look. “Were you expecting somebody, Greggo?”

“No..” Greg eyed the door, walking over to it and unlatching the locks, peering out the crack in the door when he opened it.

Belle leaned in the doorway lazily, a sheepish look on her face. Cheeks tinted pale pink and hints of a little bit of a sunburn starting to show. “I,uh… Well shit, this is lovely.” she stammered after a few seconds of the two staring at one another again, her hands dragging through her hair.

“What’s up?” Greg opened the door, letting Belle into his apartment and Nick eyed the two, chuckling to himself as he walked to the door and cleared his throat. “I’m goin back to my place, man. Same time tomorrow?”

“Yeah. My car will be out of the shop Friday, I think.” Greg waved him off and the door closed, leaving him alone in his living room with Belle.

His eyes wanted to roam but he didn’t dare. He cleared his throat and tried to swallow down the lump that had formed in it over the space of the minute or two since he’d opened the door to find her standing outside.

“What’s up?” he eyed her in concern.

“I went down to the pool to swim a few laps and tan… And I may or may not have forgotten the key to my sister’s place… She told me if I managed to lose my key somehow or get locked out, you had their other spare?” Belle gazed up at him hopefully, shuffling bare feet against the living room floor.

“Oh shit.” Greg chuckled. “Yeah, they gave me a spare when they got the place and realized I lived across from them. Let me go try to find it.”

He wandered down the hall and into his bedroom, locating where he’d sat the key on top of his dresser. Pocketing that, he called out to her, “How is it so far?”

She wandered down the hall, leaning in the doorway of his room. Biting her lip as she realized that he was taking off his button up shirt. She only barely managed to tear her eyes off of broad shoulders before he turned around to face her.

“It’s peaceful? It’s a lot more peaceful than New Orleans was.” Belle answered, their eyes locking on each other all over again. Greg went to step out of his bedroom and this put the two of them body to body for a second or two and he barely managed to bite back the groan that wanted to come at the way she felt somewhat pressed against him like she was right now.

He found his eyes drifting down and settling on her lips.

She dragged her hand through her hair and his eyes drifted upward, watching the movement. Biting his lip as he did so before remembering the key she’d come to get. He put it into her hand, curling her hand closed around it and maybe he didn’t want to let go. Maybe he held on just a second or two longer. She gave a soft laugh and stepped away, following him back up the hall as he started back towards his living room, falling down onto the couch.

“Hey, if you’re not doing anything.. Nevermind. You’re a graveyard shifter like Sara and Gil.. I need to get goin’ and let you get your sleep…” Belle started, stepping towards his front door. Greg called out, “No, what were you going to ask?”

“Well, I’m not the greatest cook or anything.. But I was going to ask if you wanted to come over? Maybe grab some food with me?”

She shuffled her feet, leaning her back against his door as she gazed at him. Greg got caught up in staring at her and almost forgot that she’d asked a question, finally managing to answer a few seconds later, “Actually, I’d like that…”

“Sweet.. I was gonna throw something together and supposedly, it’ll be ready in an hour?”

“Supposedly?” Greg questioned, smiling at her as their eyes met again at last. “Yeah.. I’m covering my own ass because it’s like I said. I’m not the best cook.. And it may well end in the fire department having to come by.” Belle gave him that little troublemaker smirk as she shrugged and he chuckled, nodding.

“I’ll be over in a few minutes. I’m gonna go grab a shower.”

She smiled at him and nodded, giving him the thumbs up as she closed the door to his apartment behind her.

Greg let out several long and shaky breaths and rose from the couch, heading to take his shower.

XXX

I’m surprised I heard the door being knocked on over the sound of The Artic Monkeys blasting through my sister and Gil’s apartment, just to drive out the heavy and almost oppressive silence.

But as soon as I did, I bit my lip, staring at the door. It probably wasn’t a good idea to do this as I was attempting to cut up vegetables for the stir fry I was going to try to make for Greg and I to eat. I managed to nick my finger and, swearing under my breath, I grabbed one of the paper towels next to the stove, holding it against my finger as I called out to Greg, “Just a second.”

I managed to get the finger situation under control and I slunk over, opening the door and stepping out of the way so Greg could step in.

He eyed my paper towel wrapped finger and I bit my lip, giving a soft laugh and shrugging. “It’s like I said. I can’t actually cook that well. And apparently, kitchen knives hate me.”

“Let me see it.” he was reaching for my hand and to my surprise, before I could stop myself, I was letting him take my hand in his. He unwrapped the paper towel and eyed the very small wound carefully. I spoke up. “It’ll be fine. It doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

“Yeah, but it’s still bleeding a little. Did you at least clean it out?”

I shook my head. Apparently, the running theme here is that every single time I’m around Greg Sanders, my mouth and brain are going to cease all function. I wanted to smack myself in the back of the head for it because it wasn’t me at all.

“Yeah, you need to clean that out.” Greg spoke up again, catching my attention. I nodded. Found myself distracted by his eyes and then his mouth… The strong jawline.

,, Christ, you are ridiculous. Get it together, Belle.” I admonished myself, ,, First you’re cooking and you know not the first fucking thing about cooking beyond ramen and barbecue on a grill.. Or frozen meals. What next, huh?”

I stepped away and slunk towards the bathroom down the hall, finding the bandaids and an alcohol pad.

“Fuck.” I hissed as soon as I’d gotten the alcohol pad out of it’s wrapper and pressed it against the pad of my finger. Greg leaned in the doorway, dragging his hand over his hair. “It smells good. The food, I meant..”

“Thank you.” I glanced up at him, struggling with getting the band-aid around the end of my finger without getting it too tight or having it stick to itself. He stepped into my sister’s bathroom and took my hand in his, biting his lip as he fixed his gaze on the finger and the band-aid, wrapping it around securely before glancing back up at me.

“That should be good.”

The fact that he had to let go of my hand had me pouting a little, then fuming at myself about that internally. I finally managed to bring myself to pull my hand away and slunk up the hallway, into the kitchen. Stopping by my docked phone to change the song from Girls Just Wanna Have Fun to Need You Tonight, dancing over to the stove. Making Greg laugh at me from the doorway.

I stopped mid wiggle and stuck my tongue at him. “What’s so funny, huh? I happen to think INXS fucks.”

Greg shrugged as he stepped into the kitchen. Closer to me. I gulped, staring up at him. Not entirely sure what to say all of a sudden and definitely not sure what to do with my hands. “I mean, you’re not wrong.” he was staring right back down at me. One of us stepped closer and behind me, the shrill cry of the smoke alarm and the smell of my food burning just a little had me biting the inside of my cheek and swearing, pouting as I stepped away abruptly and made my way over to the stove to turn it off and see just how bad the damage to our food was.

“Well fuck.” I whined, turning back. Finding myself close to him all over again. Dangerously close.

Brown eyes seemed to stare straight into my soul before finally breaking away, nodding towards the wok filled with the burnt remains of what I’d been trying to cook.

,, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach my mom said… explain this fiasco, mom…” I gave a soft laugh and shook my head at the thought as it came and I sighed. I didn’t want him to leave.

Him leaving meant that I’d be in this apartment alone again, for one thing. For another, maybe there was just… something about him. A magnetic pull.

The harder I tried to fight it, which I had at first, the harder it was to fight.

“So, uh… do you know anywhere that’s open? I’ll pay.” I offered quickly. Mentally kicking myself because it almost felt clingy.. I hated that I couldn’t control myself more than anything right now. Especially after all that I’d gone through before my arrival in Las Vegas. That alone should have taught me a huge lesson.

But here I went again.

Greg chuckled, rubbing his chin in thought.

“I do have food at my place. And I can throw something together.” he said it and immediately did the same as I had when I’d asked if there were anywhere to go. Tensing slightly, almost as if he expected me to say no. “Forget it, it’s late.. That was probably dumb to ask..” he trailed off after a second or two, but I shook my head no, giving a smile.

“Actually, I’d like that. I love my sister and Gil but this place is a little… creepy… at night. Maybe it’s because it’s so quiet and I’m not used to that yet.”

“It’s not so bad once you get used to it.” he gave me that lazy grin and raked his hand over his hair. “If you want to come over, Belle… I wouldn’t mind at all. I never actually go to sleep when I get in for an hour or two anyway.”

“Oh, I want to.” I replied, slipping on my favorite boots, grabbing the key to my sister’s place and following him out into the hallway, pausing to lock the door. I turned around and found myself kind of pressed against him in the doorway. “Ready when you are.” I smiled, my eyes getting lost in his all over again…

#greg sanders fanfiction #greg sanders fanfic #greg sanders fic #greg sanders imagine #greg sanders imagines #my writing ; greg sanders #my fanfiction ; greg sanders #my fics ; greg sanders #// hope ya'll enjoy agonizingly SLOW burn.#because oof. this is that.

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frangipanidownunder · 5 years ago

Note

Would you consider a prompt? I have been home from a unexpected and long hospital stay for just a couple of days. The news is all good, but I am tired and it's freezing and gray and rainy here. I am amazed at the level of loving support from my husband and I feel so loved. So I am thinking of Scully, home from the hospital after Tithonus or Redux II or FTF and wondering how that "coming home" goes for her - and Mulder of course. Fic is Medicine Anon

And prompt 39 from the cliché list for @edierone ‘Having a bad day and the other noticing’. Thank you to @chekcough for your excellent betaing.

Living Better: fic

There’s a newness about everything. A sheen of hope. The sun is bright, the sky open, the world seems wider. The furniture in her apartment gleams, her plants are healthier, lush. Her mother must have been in, cleaning and tidying as though hygiene and order could turn around the march of the cancer invading her daughter’s body.

Scully is grateful. She is. Whatever quiet miracle took place over the last few days, she’s been given a second chance and this homecoming, however unremarkable (I’ll be fine, mom), is a new start.

Before. After.

Still, everything feels Herculean. Where there should be wings of freedom, she’s weighted down by invisible cargo. There’s a roiling mass of ingratitude inside her. A fist of anger or shame or bitterness. During her fight against the disease, her mind had accepted her fate and now it’s like her spirit is pissed that she’s having to live again. There’s a nagging voice in her head. You should be doing more, Dana. You should be out there living. Life rushed by once before, don’t let it disappear into the rearview mirror again.

She should be free. Free to feel. She knows she should feel more. People have revealed themselves, their true selves, to her these past months. And Mulder. There’s Mulder. A hero who went in to battle. Who won. And now? Happily ever after is a load too heavy to bear.

With late afternoon shadows playing over the floor of her living room, she’s sitting on her couch, knees tucked under her seat, robe pulled around her frame, still bony and paper-skinned, prone to the cold. Aromatic steam wafts from her cup. Peppermint tea helps with the lingering nausea. There’s a romantic comedy playing in the background and she’s trying to read the novel that Tara presented to her with a ‘I’m sure you’ll love it because I did and we’re related…’ smile. It’s not really her thing, but she has time, once a luxury, to read, to rest, to do nothing.

After a while, the words blur together and the movie’s credit rolls. Her stomach is empty and she knows she should eat. Her mother insisted on leaving cooked meals in the freezer but she has little appetite and her sense of smell has all but disappeared anyway. Where is the joy of food when it’s been reduced to just a necessary fuel?

As the plastic tub of pasta revolves on the plate in time with the drone of the microwave, she remembers the slop from her night in prison, and gags. Not just at the memory of the soggy grey mess of that stew, but at her resolve to be strong for Mulder, to protect him. She fears that resolve has disappeared, along with the cancer. Back then, when he walked into the senate hearing and smiled at her, she’d felt something more than relief. She could admit that now. At her bedside one night recently, he’d collapsed in tears, clinging to her hand like a child. She’d kept her eyes closed for fear of humiliating him further. He was hanging on to life by the same spidery thread she was.

And now they have to move on with life as though nothing has happened.

She throws the dinner in the garbage bin.

Sleep evades her again that night, nightmares swirling around her mind, shadowy figures clawing at her as she tries to run, her feet mired in a squelching, sucking bog. The flash of a bullet. Mulder’s temple exploding. His hot blood splattering over her face.

She shoots up, the beating of her own pulse too loud in the predawn stillness.

Something outside of her control demands to hear his gravelled voice. Calling his number is an impulse. He answers, fear edging his voice. She remembers telling him she’s okay, but the rest of the conversation is lost to the void of her memory. A symptom she hopes is only temporary. Now, Scully pads from her bedroom, drawing her forefinger and thumb along the edges of her cheekbones. Hollow. She rests her hand over her stomach, concave. The points of her hips jutting out. Gaps and sharp edges everywhere.

There’s a hazy film of dawn across the kitchen. As she waits for the tea kettle to boil, she’s lost in the mist frosting the window, the ragged edges of it blooming out before receding to nothingness. Just a dot on the glass. She presses the pad of her finger to it and breathes, leaving a trace of herself on the pane. A sharp rap at the door makes her startle, her elbow knocking over the vase her mother gave her when she bought this place. She meant to put it back in the cupboard. She meant to keep it safe.

Mulder’s inside before she can move to find the dustpan, weapon in his hand, yelling her name. If she had the energy, she’d laugh. Instead, she sinks to her knees, feels the gritty shards of porcelain digging into her skin. Her sigh is ragged, the exhalation physically painful.

“Are you okay?” he says, kneeling next to her. She can sense his hand hovering over her shoulders and she wills him to lower it, to feel the warmth of his touch. Instead, he starts to pick up the broken vase.

She heaves herself up and takes a bag from the tidy under the sink to dispose of the pieces. As Mulder places the larger pieces carefully inside, he looks down at her but by now she’s unable to meet his gaze. His scrutiny will crack her open just like the vase and if she falls apart, she’ll never be put back together.

“You’re bleeding,” he says, without alarm, but he takes the bag and leaves it in the sink before bracing her shoulders, turning her into him and leading her to the couch. “Sit.”

It’s strangely comforting to be ordered about by him. She obeys, exhausted. It’s then that she sees the pearls of blood dotting her legs, collecting in the longer threads of her robe. A sharp diamond of porcelain is sticking out from the skin of her knee.

“Where do you keep your Bandaids?” Mulder’s voice floats over her as she watches the blood ribbon down her shin. She’s no longer shocked by its crimson brightness, having seen it leach from her body so often. But for Mulder, she realises, it’s a cruel reminder of past months.

“In the bathroom,” she says, nodding in the direction. She tries to say ‘thank you’ as he walks away, but the words dry in her throat.

Mulder returns with a first aid kit, unwraps the scissors from their plastic shield and removes the offending shard. She watches his lips form a silent ‘sorry’ as he dabs antiseptic lotion on her, but the sting is refreshing. She can feel it. He holds a cotton pad against her knee and she looks at his strong fingers across her skin. She sees her unshaven legs, her blue veins, her crumpled socks.

“I’m such a mess.”

No response. He dabs at her knee, lifting the pad to see if the bleeding has stopped. He disappears to the kitchen and returns with a glass of water.

“Sorry about the vase,” he says, sinking into the seat next to her.

“It was a gift from my mother. She’ll probably buy two more. She’s…just so grateful, you know?”

He nods. “I am, too,” he says softly. “Very much so.”

Tears burn the corners of her eyes and she presses a finger under her nose to stop the flow but it’s impossible. He lets her weep until she’s wrung dry. Exhaustion leaves her body trembling. He finds a blanket, God knows from where, and covers her.

“You need to give yourself time, Scully. You’ve been through…”

“Don’t say ‘an ordeal’,” she says wearily. She’s heard it from her mother, brother, Father McCue, doctors, nurses. She survived. Life shouldn’t be a trial.

“I was going to say ‘a lot’. It’s not just the cancer, Scully. Your work with me…the abduction, your sister. It all adds up. This disease…how close it came to…” He stops, taking a shallow breath and rubbing at his stubbled chin. “In a funny way it made me reassess everything. That sounds selfish…it’s not what I mean. I…guess that you…not being here would change... everything. You mean more to me that you know, than even I knew.” He looks at her, eyes wet, and laughs in surprise at his own admission.

“Mulder…”

“It’s true! It took your death sentence to stop me suffocating up my own ass.”

A giggle wells up in her throat, along with more tears. Her chest hurts. And she’s not sure if it’s pain or a coming back to life of sorts. His face lights up.

“What I’m trying to say is that this is a second chance. For you, for us, for the work…if you still want it.” His voice lowers and he presses a hand over her arm. “Scully, your health is the most important thing to me. And you need to take some time, as much time as you need.”

The silence of the night is heavy in her head. There were times in the hospital where the midnight hours would stretch elastically until she felt she were forever walking towards an elusive dawn. Time really was a construct. The hours on the clock held no meaning, yet they marked her life in increments – for treatments, for food, for visits.

“I do want to come back,” she says, finally. “I thought I would already be back. Recovery has been…more difficult than I expected.”

He chuckles. “Why does that not surprise me?” He taps her elbow with two fingers. “You are the strongest person I know but you’re also the worst at cutting yourself some slack.” His forehead crinkles, his voice barely above a whisper. “You have nothing to prove that you haven’t already, Scully. Especially not to me.”

“Mom keeps coming by and she’s so cheery and happy and it’s hard, you know? That sounds so selfish, but I keep thinking that I have a duty, some kind of moral obligation to live a better life now that I’ve…survived. It’s like the pressure of life has doubled, tripled, and I can’t even make myself dinner.” Her nails dig into her palms. How can she make him understand? She’s alive. She should be grateful, not bitching about her mom. She shrugs off the blanket, runs her hands down her frame. “I can’t even decide what clothes to wear so I just wear this. I brush my hair, put my earrings in, look at my make-up and all I think is ‘why?’. What’s the point? I’ve already beaten this disease. Isn’t that enough?” He pulls her into a hug and presses his lips to the top of her head. “Shouldn’t it be enough?”

His breath ruffles her hair. His chest moves up and down as he breathes and she listens to the solid, steady beat of his heart.

Releasing her, he takes both hands into his, holding them gently, bringing them to his mouth to press a soft kiss against her knuckles. There’s such reverence in his action. A kind of benediction for them both. “I think...I think you’ve put yourself under this pressure, Dana. Nobody, least of all your mother, expects you to leap back into work or life straightaway. I...I don’t want that. We all want you strong and healthy. And your mother, she knows you. Knows you’ll cut her off, give her a hand wave and an ‘I’m fine’.” He smiles. Gets her smiling too. “How many of those have you given out over the last few months, hey, Miss Scully?” He bounces their clasped hands between them. “I’ve heard more ‘I’m fines’ than I’ve seen aliens.”

She laughs at that. Mulder and his ridiculous puns are like the sun finally rising after an eternity in the dark.

He pulls the blanket over her lap and his, squashes a cushion behind his head, points the remote control at the television. “There’s a movie on that I know you’re going to love.”

Leaning against him as he chuckles at the scene playing on the screen, she looks around. There’s a newness about everything. A sheen of hope and the itch of wings forming on her back.

#txf fanfic #my fanfiction #msr #cancer arc #living better

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kinkykinard · 5 years ago

Text

Doctoring December - Day 19

For @tellmeoflegends.

Fandom: MCU. Pairing: Stephen Strange x Reader. Prompt: Injection. Word Count: 1623. Rating: 13+. Warning(s): mentions of needles, nothing overly graphic.

You tap your foot impatiently, glancing at your watch as you wait for Stephen. He’s more than ten minutes late for your lunch date and if he doesn’t show up soon, you’re going to miss lunch entirely. He’d promised to let you know if something came up and he couldn’t make it to meet you, but you figure he’s probably forgotten or left his phone in his office when he was paged somewhere.

Plucking up the two vials of flu vaccine, you stash them back in the med fridge and set the two sets of needles and syringes aside, giving up on waiting. You’ll just have to stick each other later. It’s kind of a blessing, really; you hate shots and you’re content to put one off for a little longer, even if the prospect of it looming over you is somewhat disquieting. You slip quietly out of the med room, the door swinging closed in your wake, and hurry off to the cafeteria to enjoy what’s left of your break.

An hour later the doors to the emergency room swing open as you’re busy pulling on gloves and a gown. You watch Stephen stride in, a no-nonsense, determined expression firmly in place as he joins you. He starts to gown up in preparation of receiving a critically injured patient with an unstable skull fracture, barely even glancing at you.

“I missed you at lunch,” you comment softly, stepping behind him to tie his gown at the neck for him.

“Sorry, I got called into the OR to assist a colleague,” he explains.

You shrug, moving on to the waist tie.

“I figured.”

He’s spared from replying as the ambulance bay doors slide open, admitting the patient you’ve been preparing for. He’s laser-focused in an instant and you push all thoughts of being stood up earlier aside, jumping into the fray.

The work is fast-paced and you’ve got your hands full enough that you forget about everything but your patient for a while, letting all thoughts of the flu shots slide until the patient gets whisked off to radiology for some urgent scans. You glance around the empty trauma room as you strip off your gloves, and through its open doors you watch Stephen stride quickly off toward the OR elevators. You won’t let him get away that easily. Breaking into a sprint, you chase after him as he presses the elevator button, stopping on a dime beside him as the doors slide open.

“Wait for me in your office after you’re done in the OR?” You say breathlessly.

“It could be a long procedure,” Stephen says briskly. “If I’m not done by the time your shift ends, don’t wait up.”

You frown as he steps into the elevator, scarcely sparing you a glance as he presses a button and the door slides closed. You sigh and turn, heading back to the trauma room to help with the clean up, trying not to ruminate too much on why Stephen’s been so cold all day. He’s never been the warmest person, but you usually feel more affection from him than you’re feeling now.

Your heart aches a little as the rest of the shift ticks by, a constant reminder of Stephen’s brusqueness. Even a steady stream of patients fails to distract you entirely, and by the time the end of your shift rolls around you find yourself considering just heading straight home without stopping by Stephen’s office all together. As you head toward the locker room, however, a poster encouraging all staff to get their flu shots catches your eye and you heave a resigned sigh, deciding against your impulsive first choice.

You change out of your scrubs and sling your bag over your shoulder before heading back out to the hospital proper. You make a quick stop by the med room to grab two doses of flu vaccine and all of the paraphernalia you’ll need for your shots and then make your way toward the elevators, pressing the button for the neurology unit.

The elevator ride is short and soon you step out of the elevator, turning toward the administrative wing. You smile at a few familiar faces as you make your way toward the surgeons’ offices and wave at the secretary as you approach her desk.

“Is Dr. Strange out of surgery yet?” You ask.

She looks pensive for a moment.

“I think I saw him dart in here a little while ago, but he left again shortly after.”

You frown.

“Did he look like he was headed home for the night?”

She shakes her head.

“He didn’t have his coat or briefcase,” she replies. “Do you want me to let you in so you can wait for him?”

You smile.

“Please. That would be great.”

She pushes away from the desk and reaches for a ring of keys in a nearby drawer. You follow her down the hall to Stephen’s office and thank her again as she lets you in. She leaves you to make yourself comfortable as you flick the lights on, and you find yourself moving over to the small sofa at the far side of the room.

You glance out at the city beyond the window behind Stephen’s desk, watching lights slowly turn off, one by one, in distant buildings. Itching for a way to pass the time, you take out the two vaccines you’d stashed in your lunch bag to keep them cold, palming the injection supplies with your free hand. You draw up both doses, setting the syringes on the couch next to you.

A voice outside the door garners your attention and you turn your head just in time to watch Stephen walk into the office. His expression falls just the slightest bit before recovering, settling into the stoic mask you’re used to.

“I told you not to wait up,” he says lightly.

You frown a little, shrugging your shoulders.

“I got off a little late anyway,” you explain. “I’ve only been here for a few minutes.”

Stephen makes a noise of acknowledgement as he moves toward his desk, reaching for his briefcase and popping it open.

“I’ll be ready to go in just a minute,” he says without looking at you, shuffling some papers into his briefcase.

You pick up the two syringes and a couple of bandaids and alcohol swabs, rising and heading toward where Stephen is hurriedly packing. You prop yourself on the edge of his desk and watch him closely as he eyes you out of the periphery of his vision. His gaze lingers on the flu shots and you find yourself hit with a revelation. As you reflect on the day’s events, from the time he’d first blown you off at lunch right up to the prickly state he seemed to be in now, you realize something.

“It’s the needle, isn’t it?” You ask softly. “You don’t like shots.”

Stephen quickly averts his gaze.

“Well, who does?” He deadpans.

You smile, setting the syringes down and putting yourself in his line of sight.

“I’m really good,” you reassure him. “I promise you won’t feel a thing. And if it makes you feel better, I’ll let you stab me first.”

Stephen glances up to meet your eyes, his expression somewhat withering.

“How could I possibly say no to the prospect of being stabbed?” He says sarcastically.

You roll your eyes, reaching over to roll up your sleeve and turning a little so your side is facing Stephen. You glance over your shoulder at him.

“Come on,” you urge. “I don’t like shots much, either, so the sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can forget all about it.”

Stephen sighs and closes his briefcase, reaching for one of the syringes and an alcohol swab. You turn your head away as he tears it open, the scent of the antiseptic making you cringe a little. It’s cool against your skin and in stark contrast to the warmth of Stephen’s touch a moment later as he steadies your arm with his free hand.

“Little pinch,” he warns just moments before the needle enters your skin.

You grit your teeth at the slight sting and close your eyes tightly against the uncomfortable sensation of the liquid entering your muscle. It’s over as quickly as it began, though, and within seconds Stephen is pressing a bandaid into place. He massages the area gently for a few moments and finally pulls away to recap the needle.

“Thank you,” you murmur softly, rolling your sleeve back down. “Now it’s your turn.”

He rolls his eyes and grumbles a little but obediently turns an arm to you. You reach up and push his sleeve out of the way, gently stroking your fingers over his shoulder a moment before reaching for the alcohol swab. You repeat the same procedure he’d used with you, watching him closely for any signs of discomfort. It’s all over in a blink, though, and Stephen doesn’t so much as twitch as you inject the vaccine. You recap the needle and reach out to take his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“You got through it like a trooper,” you tease lovingly.

“How did you get so good at that?” Stephen asks.

You roll your eyes.

“I’ll take that as a thank you and a compliment,” you say, swatting him gently.

He turns to face you, reaching for your hands and pulling you in closer.

“Thank you,” he says genuinely.

You’re spared the need to reply as he leans in, gently pressing his lips to yours in a soft, chaste kiss. You lean into him, smiling against his lips and reveling in his warmth, the slight ache in your arm already long forgotten.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Doctoring December Masterlist

#Doctoring December 2.0 #MCU #Stephen Strange #reader insert #fanfiction

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salutmonmec · 5 years ago

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BOY, WHATCHA GONNA DO, WHATCHA GONNA DO WHEN I SMILE AT YOU

@choupichoups BITCH THIS IS FOR YOU GIRL

This is a little short oneshot for the ridiculously amazing Percy Jackson AU choups and I have been giddily fleshing out over the last couple days, I apologize in advance guys LMAOO, I COULDN’T RESIST

Eliott feels a bead of sweat slide slowly down his neck, tickling on its way down to the collar of his orange camp t-shirt. He ripped off his white coat an hour ago, throwing it in the corner, unable to bear the extra heat that it insulated against his body. Who the hell needs it anyway. It’s not like he’s an actual trained medical professional. He’s just a boy with a God parent who happens to specialize in medicine, who knows every first aid basic without ever having opened a textbook. Totally normal.

It’s the middle of July, and it’s hot as all hell. So hot, in fact, that some kid of Hermes fried an egg on the basketball court. He came in for a stomach ache, and Eliott sent him off with a bottle of Pepto Bismol. Fucking idiot. It had been a busy morning, with some of the older counselors leading weapons training sessions. He could see the edge of the arena from the open med bay window, and every fifteen minutes some camper would limp or stumble their way out, holding a hand over a bloody cut. Forty-seven stitches this morning alone, and one dislocated shoulder. Just your typical Tuesday.

He sits on the counter in the back room, eating a warm ham sandwich that tastes like absolute shit. He tries to choke it down, somewhat successfully. He peeks out the window, catching a glimpse of a familiar head of dark brown hair, but it’s gone in an instant. Maybe he’s imagining things. It’s too hot to think straight.

“Eliott!”

His assistant Celia pops her head around the doorframe, scaring the living shit out of him. His hand flings what’s left of his sandwich at the opposite wall, where it slides unceremoniously down, leaving a gross mustard streak. Celia laughs, clutching her stomach. “Gods, I’m sorry.”

Eliott turns to her, pouting. “What’s up?”

“We got another one.”

“Ah fuck me, I’ll grab the gauze.”

He slumps against the medicine cupboard, lifting the front of his shirt to try and air himself out. It doesn’t work. He’s sure he looks like a melted popsicle. Gods, that sounds good right now. He hops off the counter, hoping it’s not another crier. He doesn’t know how much calming energy he can muster up at this point. He rounds the corner to see who it is, and he can’t help the giant grin that splits across his face. Of course.

Lucas is sitting with his back to him, legs swinging under the padded table, tapping his fingers against the blue vinyl. His camp t-shirt, two sizes too big for him, sticks slightly to his back, soaked with sweat around the collar. Lucas doesn’t just sweat though, he glistens. It just adds to his allure, a fact that Lucas himself would scoff at. He was gifted with his mother’s beauty, like all Aphrodite kids, which makes it slightly difficult to keep your eyes off him, even though Lucas would be more likely to punch you in the face than go on a date with you. He’s quiet, reserved, and grumpy with everyone. Everyone except Eliott, anyway. This doesn’t exactly help the fact that Eliott’s ridiculously in love with him.

He leans against the back room doorframe, admiring for a tiny bit longer. “What are you in for, lover boy?”

Lucas startles slightly, turning to look at him over his shoulder, a tiny smirk on his face. Eliott’s breath catches in his throat at the sight. Lucas holds up his pointer finger, a tiny red line visible across the pad. He speaks, smooth and surprisingly deep, considering his angelic features and child-like blue eyes. “Fell into a sword. Didn’t want to catch an infection, ya know?”

Eliott raises an eyebrow at him, grinning despite himself.

“Must have hurt like a bitch.”

“Oh, it did. Almost died, actually.”

“Wow.”

Eliott chuckles as he walks over to one of the cupboards, grabbing an antiseptic wipe and a bandaid. They always fall into an easy banter, like they’ve known each other forever. It makes him smile, the stress of the morning forgotten. It was only Lucas’ second summer at camp, and he stays with his Dad in NYC during the school year, still going to high school. Eliott was a year-rounder, his parents out of the picture for a long time, and at eighteen, he had already earned 6 years worth of camp beads. Lucas picked fights constantly during his first summer, and he ended up in the med bay at least twice a week. He didn’t really talk to Eliott at first, but after a while, he managed to crack through his hard exterior. He would even go as far as to say that they are pretty damn good friends. Lucas had been back at camp for 6 weeks now, and they fell right back into their rhythm.

He had become a much better fighter though over the past year, so he started just showing up at the med bay with random excuses, no matter how ridiculous. It always made Eliott’s day significantly less horrible.

He rips open the wipe, taking Lucas’ outstretched hand and cleaning around the tip of his finger. Lucas looks down at their touching hands, a piece of his hair falling softly over his forehead. Eliott reaches out absentmindedly to push it back, and Lucas sighs, reaching out with his other hand to poke Eliott gently in the collarbone.

His big eyes flicker across Eliott’s face, soft despite the slight grimace on his lips. “You look tired.”

Eliott lets out a breathy chuckle, holding the wipe to Luca’s finger with one hand as he reaches over to grab the bandaid off the counter.

“Fourteen bleeders in the morning will do that to you.” Eliott opens the bandaid with his teeth, glancing at Lucas, narrowing his eyes playfully. “I assume you and Yann had something to do with that.”

Lucas shrugs, a tiny smirk pulling up the corner of his lips. “You know how the Ares kids get.”

Eliott snorts, wrapping the band-aid around Lucas’ finger with a flourish. “Ta-da! You’re cured.”

“You’re the best, doc.”

He rolls his eyes as Lucas holds up his finger to examine the bandaid, a hideous yellow with neon pink hearts. He purses his lips, raising a single eyebrow at Eliott, whose leaning against the counter, grinning like a fool. “These new?”

“Let’s call it the ‘Lucas special’.” He holds up the bandaid box, the words “FOR LUCAS USE ONLY” scribbled across the front in sharpie. He wiggles his fingers around the box, like he’s showing off a game show prize.

Lucas stares, bug-eyed, lips pressed together. Slowly, his whole face lights up with the most beautiful smile Eliott has ever seen in his entire life. It changes his whole face, and Eliott could swear that Lucas is actually glowing.

Before Eliott can return the grin, his vision suddenly goes fuzzy at the edges, the room spinning wildly, Lucas’ gorgeous face at the center, like the eye of a hurricane. What the fuck is happening. Lucas grin is gone as quickly as it came, expression morphing into wide-eyed horror. Eliott tries to grip onto the counter for support, but his palms are slick from the heat of the room. He falls gracelessly to the floor, head slamming into the lower cupboards on the way down. His ears ring, and through his darkening vision he can see Lucas bending down next to him, tugging rough hands through his own hair, making it stick up in tufts.

Eliott thinks he looks adorable.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT!”

Lucas flutters his hands over him, eventually placing one on his cheek, patting gently. Eliott’s eyes refuse to blink, and he screams internally at himself, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. He can’t speak yet, and his mind is replaying the last 30 seconds over and over again. He keeps seeing Lucas’ devastating grin, and Eliott realizes that he has never seen him smile with his teeth before. Lucas always keeps up a carefully placed indifferent expression, the only hint of amusement showing through tiny smirks and voice inflection. He tries to put two and two together, and he can almost grasp at it, but his neurons feel like they are firing through molasses.

“CELIA, GO GET CHIRON!”

Lucas frantically turns back to Eliott, blue eyes wild and slightly watery. “Shit Eliott I’m so sorry, you caught me off guard. You’re gonna be fine, I promise.”

Something in Eliott’s heart tugs, and he feels a slight tingle in his limbs, finally gaining some movement back. He slowly rolls his body so he’s completely on his back against the cool tile, reaching up to poke a finger into the dimple in Lucas’ cheek, prominent due to his worried frown. His lips feel numb, but they finally move, and all of a sudden he giggles like a 12-year-old girl.

“Y-you’re so f-fucking cute.”

Why did I just say that?

“CELIA, HURRYYY THE FUCK UP!!”

#i was just so in love with this headcanon #i had to write something #skam france #skamfr #skam fr #elu #eliott demaury #lucas lallemant #elu fic #my fic #percy jackson au

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wild3flow3r · 5 years ago

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Epilogue

2021

Two years. Two years amounted to numerous missed calls, a handful of visits, three consecutive weeks of not knowing whether the relationship would make it, one pregnancy scare, an engagement (because not even Harry could stick to his own plan), and a reunion of the lifetime.

Mister Cunningham, Lorelai’s boss, decided to expand his business to the United Kingdom at the end of last year and he was looking for a new CFO for that office. Lorelai applied for the position, Brian did not. Brian was so sure that the current CFO would retire, like he’d told her he would after two more years. The CFO didn’t retire, Brian didn’t get a new position, Lorelai did. There were many tears shed by both Lorelai and Harry the night she found out.

Now Lorelai’s stood in her new living room holding a paintbrush. Harry bought them a house just like he said he would. Lorelai’s only condition was that it would need a little work done. She wanted them to do it together and make the house their own. Harry comes up from behind her and wraps his arms around her waist and leans his chin on her shoulder.

“Well, you’re not an artist.”

Lorelai playfully swings a punch backwards to land on his shoulder. “Shut up.”

In theory, Lorelai’s idea was nice, but neither she nor Harry really knew what they were doing. Somehow, Lorelai had messed up painting the wall in front of her, and she doesn’t understand how when she’s only been using one shade of blue.

“We can still make the house our own without actually having to do all the work.”

She knew Harry’s been meaning to bring this up to her for the last few days. He was smart to wait until now, when she was at her wits end. “Alright.” Lorelai finally gives in.

Harry presses kisses against her shoulder and up to her neck. “We’ve also got a wedding to plan.”

“Hmm,” Lorelai murmurs while leaning her head back so that she can stare at Harry. She’s been back home for a month now, and she still can’t believe it. Every morning she wakes up feeling like the luckiest girl in the world, and every night she goes to sleep scared that she’ll wake up in the morning only to find out it was all just a dream. “I’ve got a dress fitting this weekend. The workers are probably going to hate me, I’m bringing everybody.”

“Everybody?” Harry asks with an eyebrow raised and a teasing smile. “I wasn’t invited.”

Lorelai rolls her eyes. “I can’t invite one sister and not the other four. Plus my sister-in-law wants to come along too. And of course my mother, along with your mother and Gem. And I think my three oldest nieces are coming as well. That’s twelve people Harry. You get to go to your suit fitting during your lunch break by yourself.”

Harry shakes his head. “My mum’s asked to come to that as well.”

“And?”

“I told her I’d let her know.”

There were no truer words than time heals all wounds. A year after everything had happened, Harry called his mother. He asked her to attend one of his therapy sessions with him, that way his therapist was able to mediate the chat. They’ve been continuously making amends since. Harry’s said before, he loves his mother, he always will, and he can learn to forgive her for her past mistakes, but that doesn’t mean their relationship will ever go back to the way it once was. Xavier has had less luck with Harry, but Lorelai knew that he wanted to reach out to his uncle before the wedding ceremony.

From upstairs, a small yip is heard before there’s some pounding against the stairs. A four month old tan pitbull barrels his way into the living room and face plants against Lorelai’s leg. She can’t help the laugh as she bends over to pick him up.

“Got scared when no one was there after you woke up from your nap, huh Waffles?” Lorelai cradles the puppy against her chest. He only licks her chin in response.

Lorelai can practically hear Harry roll his eyes, from both the puppy's name and from how she’s babying him. As if Harry didn’t do it all the time when he didn’t think Lorelai was watching him.

“You got daddy wrapped around your little paw too, right? I saw him sneak you some of the bacon off of his plate this morning.”

“Because he wouldn’t stop whining.”

“Because daddy likes to spoil his baby, hmm?” Lorelai coos while scratching Waffles behind one of his ears. “Daddy’s got such a soft spot for you. Maybe even more for you than me.”

“I’m going to bed.”

Harry takes two steps back, and at the movement Waffles practically leaps from Lorelai’s arms to Harry’s. He catches him right before the puppy would have fallen into a can of paint. Harry sets Waffles down carefully and starts to walk away again. Waffles follows right on his heels, even nipping at the ends of Harry’s pants.

“Unbelievable. Both of you will be the death of me.”

Lorelai laughs until Harry exits the room with Waffles hot on his tail, and even more when Waffles barks for Harry to carry him up the stairs and Harry groans (because for some reason going down the stairs was okay, but going up them was a tricky task). Harry tries to act like he only tolerates the dog for Lorelai’s sake, but of all the puppies they looked at together Harry was the one to pick Waffles out. And every day Lorelai could see his act slipping away.

“Lorelai! Come get your son! He’s peeing all over the bath mat!”

Well, most days she can see the act slipping away.

2023

Lorelai thought she’d only be able to fall in love with one boy with bright green eyes and soft brown hair, but she was very very wrong. Wyatt Styles would also steal her heart. Born on May twelfth, after seven hours of labor, Lorelai and Harry welcomed a baby boy into their small family. Four months later, they couldn’t be more sleep deprived or happy.

Although Harry hadn’t really wanted to be the one to work on the house, he was keen to set up the nursery and build everything himself for the baby. Lets just say, there were lots of bandaids and even a hospital visit when Harry accidentally hit the hammer against his thumb. And he stood with Lorelai every step of the way through the pregnancy. He went to every appointment, every class, and would get up in the middle of the night to find whatever weird craving she was having.

Watching Harry with Wyatt is Lorelai’s new favorite scene. Some nights she’ll wake up to hear Harry humming quietly through the baby monitor, sometimes even whispering sleepy nonsense to the baby while feeding him a bottle. Some nights when she comes home from work, Harry and Wyatt will be napping on the couch together, drool coming from the both of them.

“What’re you three doing?”

Harry and Lorelai alternated in the mornings on who would be awake with Wyatt. This was Harry’s morning, and Wyatt was being particularly quiet, which was abnormal to say the least. Wyatt seemed to love the sound of his own voice, or more the sound of his cry.

Harry snaps his head up at Lorelai’s voice, his eyes frantic as he waves his hand as if to tell her to be quiet. He’s kneeling in front of the couch, Waffles and Wyatt lying together in front of him. Lorelai rounds the couch to kneel next to him.

“I thought you said Waffles isn’t allowed on any of the furniture?” Harry had come up with that rule when they first got Waffles, and while Lorelai didn’t particularly care where Waffles relaxed, she enforced the rule.

“That was before I found out Waffles was the best nanny in the world. Look!” Harry whispers, exasperated but also excited by his new findings.

And he wasn’t wrong. Waffles laid curled up, and against his stomach sat Wyatt. The dog's head was pressed against the baby's stomach. Wyatt pressed his hands all around the dog's face before he looked up at his parents with wide eyes. Waffles stayed there and took Wyatt’s grabby hands like a champ. And for once, Wyatt wasn’t crying.

“Waffles has secret powers.”

Lorelai stares at Harry, her face giving off an ‘are you serious’ look, but Harry was still too busy looking at Waffles with amazement.

“Or our son loves dogs.”

“I’m going to stick with my theory.”

Then Waffles licked Wyatt’s hand, and a sound that sounded awfully like a laugh, his first laugh, passed his mouth. Both parents' jaws drop, before forming into large smiles.

“Waffles has secret powers,” Lorelai finally agrees.

2025

“No, don’t want.” Wyatt shakes his head over and over again. He pulls his hand hard enough that Harry is forced to let go of the toddler's hand, and then he runs out into the hallway. Two seconds later he comes back, but he’s tossed over Jones's shoulder and giggling. A ten year old Rebecca enters the room right after them.

Jones and Rebecca moved to London about a year ago. Jones was offered a new job, and Rebecca enjoyed spending time with Lorelai and helping to watch Wyatt, and now Lauren.

“You don’t want what?” Jones asked as he set Wyatt back down on the ground.

“A sister! Asked for a brother!”

The night before, Lauren Styles was born. Now she’s wrapped up in a blanket, being held by her mother. Harry sits on the hospital bed next to his girls, carefully running his fingertips against her face. Blue eyes blink slowly, before closing completely and drifting off for a nap. Rebecca comes up on the other side of Lorelai.

“Why’s she bald? Wyatt had hair when he was born.”

“Some babies are just born bald,” Lorelai explains. “She’ll grow hair soon enough.”

“What’s her name?”

Lorelai pauses before looking up to Jones who is now holding Wyatt on his hip and is standing behind Rebecca. “Lauren,” Lorelai responds. Jones's eyes snap to hers.

“Like my mother?” Rebecca gasps, leaning over the bed to get a better look at her new cousin.

“Exactly like your mother.”

“Daddy used to call my mom Ren, can I call her that?”

“Of course.”

Lorelai shifts so that Harry can hold Lauren. “Do you want to hold her?” He asks Rebecca, who nods enthusiastically. They move to a chair nearby.

“Mummy,” Wyatt whines and reaches out for her, not liking no longer having all of the attention on him. Lorelai opens her arms and Wyatt presses his head against her neck.

“I don’t know what to say,” Jones mumbles, trying to hold back tears.

Lorelai shakes her head. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Jones leans down and presses a kiss against Lorelai’s cheek. “I love you.”

Lorelai playfully pats his cheek. “Love you too.”

“Daddy! Look! I’m holding the baby! All by myself!” Rebecca shout whispers as to not to disturb Lauren.

Even Wyatt looks over at this. He’d been given the option to hold her, but immediately refused. He’d entered the room earlier this morning demanding to see his brother, and was rudely shocked to find Lauren instead. Then he proceeded to run around the hospital, Harry having to chase him up and down the hall.

Rebecca was in fact holding Lauren herself, but with a pillow on her lap to help support her arms. Harry kneeled in front of them just in case, his smile wide. Wyatt scrambles out of Lorelai’s arms and Jones sets him back on the ground. Everyone knew what he was about to do. He seems to copy everything Rebecca does.

“I wanna do,” Wyatt pouts, pulling at his father’s sleeve.

“You want to hold your sister?”

“Please?” He stands on his tiptoes and spreads his arms out. “All by myself.”

“Daddy will have to help a little bit, alright?”

Wyatt pouts, but still he nods. Harry takes Lauren back from Rebecca, who now goes to sit next to Lorelai, and then he takes a seat on the chair. Wyatt crawls into his lap and sticks his arms out again, and Harry places Lauren down in front of them. Wyatt’s arms wrap around the baby but he still looks unsure about her.

“Next time give me a brother please,” Wyatt mutters.

2028

Two kids had been the plan, a boy and a girl just like Harry had said eight years ago. But this year they started it with three kids. Now that it’s three months into the year, Lorelai and Harry feel like they’ve been dragged through the mud, but the smiles and laughter make it completely worth it.

Wyatt’s four now, or if you ask him, four years and seven months. He’s a spitting image of his father, but he takes to his mother’s more kind nature. Lauren, now two, has brown curls that fall down her back, and has taken her mother’s brown eyes. She prefers to be the boss, much like her father. Sarah Styles, aged eight months, was born with blonde hair that still hasn’t darkened, and eyes still the color blue.

“Daddy! Wyatt pinched me!”

“I did not! She’s lying!”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Please, can you guys be a little more quiet. Sarah’s down for a nap,” Harry begs his children as soon as he enters the living room. “Now, what’s happened?”

“Wyatt pinched me!” Lauren responds, although she does lower the volume of her voice.

“Daddy, I didn’t I promise. She’s only saying that because I don’t want to let her play with my truck.”

Harry kneels in front of both of them. He looks between the two of them, and he knows who is most likely telling the truth. It wasn’t the first time Lauren lied about being hurt, and if she really was then she would have started crying by now.

“Did he actually pinch you, Lauren?”

Lauren stares at her father, but then looks away on the ground. “He wouldn’t let me play with his truck, daddy. My Barbies wanna go to the beach, and his truck can fit all of them.”

“Lauren, we talked about lying and about respecting your brother’s toys. That’s going to be two minutes on the naughty step.”

“Sarah gets to grab at my toys and she doesn’t have to sit on the step!” Lauren pouts and stomps her foot.

“Sarah’s only a baby. If she’s still doing it when she’s a little older then she’ll get punished as well. Now go on.”

Wyatt goes back to playing with his truck gleefully, and Harry stands out of view of the step counting down the time. With his job, most days he’s allowed to work from home. Typically, he has a nanny help him with the kids while Lorelai is at work, but she was taking her vacation this week. Finally, he gets Lauren to apologize to both him and her brother. Then Sarah starts crying, and Harry’s jogging back upstairs.

“Hello? I’m home!”

“Mummy!” Both Wyatt and Lauren scream. They leave their toys forgotten on the ground and race to go to Lorelai.

Lorelai drops the bags of takeout on the ground and kneels to hug both of the children at once. “Oh my, I missed you guys so much.”

“Don’t go then, mummy! Stay home with us.” Lauren whines while pressing her lips against her mother’s cheek. “Want to have a tea party tomorrow.”

Lorelai smiles sympathetically. “I’m sure daddy can have a tea party with you tomorrow, and you can pick any teapot from my collection alright?”

Lauren nodded reluctantly. When Lorelai stands, Wyatt tugs her hand towards the kitchen. “Mummy look what I made in preschool today. Daddy hung it up on the fridge already!”

Lorelai places the bags on the counter now before being dragged to the fridge. Wyatt drew stick figures of both of his parents, himself, Lauren, a really small one of Sarah, and Waffles, although he was drawn to be as big as Harry.

“Good job baby, that’s so pretty.” Lorelai kisses his nose and Wyatt giggles while playfully swatting her away.

“Mummy, me and daddy went to the park today with Sarah and I went down the big curly slide all by myself.”

Lorelai ruffles her hair. “Oh my, you’re so brave baby.”

Harry enters the room then, holding a wiggling Sarah in his arms, and Waffles following close behind them. Both parents are anxiously waiting for the day their youngest finally learns how to walk, knowing she’ll be getting into everything much like the older two.

“Hey Skipper,” Harry murmurs while he’s pressing a kiss against her lips. Wyatt and Lauren both yell in disgust before trotting back into the living room to their toys.

“How was today?” They both know from experience, single parenting for a day with three kids is one of the hardest things any human can endure.

“Alright. No one had to go to the hospital, so I’ll call that a success.” He hands her Sarah so that he can start unloading the food.

Sarah coos at her mother and reaches to play with the teapot charm around her neck. Lorelai blows a raspberry against her cheek, surrounding the room in giggles.

“Zachary’s going to pick Wyatt up from school tomorrow, and Xavier’s coming by my office tomorrow for Lauren and Sarah, and then both of them will drop the kids off by dinner.” Harry tells her as he starts setting the table.

“Your mum’s going to call me tomorrow about the family vacation she wants to plan this summer.” Lorelai says. She puts Sarah in her high chair and begins separating the food onto plates.

Harry comes from behind her and places both of his hands on her hips. He presses his forehead against her neck. Lorelai reaches back and runs her fingers through his hair. He’s come so far these last years redeveloping his relationships with his mother, Zachary, and Xavier. He’s trusting them to help take care of the kids, is willing to go away for a few weeks for a family vacation, and he can have actual conversations with all three of them, even Zachary.

“Thank you,” Harry mutters.

“For what?” Lorelai hums.

“For everything.”

“Like?”

“For the kids. For marrying me. For loving me back. And…”

“And?”

“For letting me catch you. I’d be lost if you hadn’t.”

Fin.

#1dff #cmiyc #cmiycepilogue #harry styles #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #one direction fic #one direction fanfiction #IM SOBBING #I CAN'T BELIEVE!!!#IT'S FINALLY OVER #im feeling very tender rn #but please let me know your thoughts!! <3

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sawyer-saucee · 6 years ago

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If You Had The Chance To Change Your Fate...

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Words: 3,992

Genre: Hurt/comfort

Pairings: Rociet, fatherly logince, fatherly lociet, platonic anxciet, brief brotherly mociet (blink and you miss it)

Warnings: Crying, self-doubt, panic (but no panic attacks), mentions of breakups/divorce, a good hearty dose of Deceit’s potty mouth (swearing), arguing, mentions of Nazis (as in, our boys hate them)

Summary: Devon Lee, a hopeless romantic who would never admit to it, and Roman Adelio, a man who’s long since given up on love, are destined to be together. Will fate do its job correctly, or will the pair defy the ides of fortune?

A/N: This is a story I wrote for @quoth-the-sparrow!!!! It took longer than I intended because it ended up being a monster of a story (originally it was only going to be around 1,000 words of pure fluff, but we can all see how that turned out), so dad, I hope you like it! (And I hope everyone else likes it too!) <3

10 years, 4 months, 13 days, 11 hours, and 58 minutes. That was how long Devon Lee had been waiting for his soulmate. As a child, he’d always assumed the world was colorless, and that everyone saw it the way that he did. But, as it had been explained to him by his older brother Patton when he was nine years old, eventually, when you found that one person who was destined to be your perfect match, your world would change. It was hard to explain how when Dee couldn’t even begin to visualize what this “color” Patton spoke of looked like, but his brother made it sound so appealing. “Dee,” He’d said, “You know that feeling you feel when your favorite TV show comes on at just the right time? Or… oh! Or that feeling when someone gets you the perfect gift?” And Dee had nodded as Patton grinned and said, “That’s what the world looks like when you find your soulmate.”

So, ever since that moment 10 years, 4 months, 13 days 12 hours, and 2 minutes ago now, Devon had been waiting. And waiting. And waiting. At a certain point he quite honestly had become sick of waiting and had renounced the prospect of soulmates as a whole, but deep inside his chest there had always been a longing that he would never admit to - a secret timer keeping track of the 10 years, 4 months, 13 days 12 hours, and 2 minutes that he’d been waiting. Not that he was counting or anything.

Roman Adelio, on the other hand, didn’t believe in soulmates, not one bit. He hadn’t since the moment his mother had walked out the scuffed front door of the house he’d grown up in, leaving him behind with only a father with the words, “Have you seen a pair of blue ballet slippers anywhere?” tattooed on his chest and the knowledge that even though the first words of his mother were permanently etched onto his father’s skin, that hadn’t stopped them from falling apart. He never wanted to be like them. So, he took the whole theory if Occam’s razor to heart and decided that the simplest explanation was that love was simply a fraud that he would never participate in.

…12 years, 6 months, 24 days 12 hours, and 9 minutes.

That was how long it had been since Roman had given up on love.

His skin was devoid of cheesy first word tattoos, and he was determined to keep it that way.

— — — — —

“Dee, come on, you’re 5 minutes late for your meet-and-greet already!” Virgil, Dee’s ever-so-irritable manager called from ten feet in front of the tardy YouTuber. Devon sighed and propelled himself forward with slightly more urgency, the tires of his wheelchair squeaking over the tiled floor.

“We’re not late, we’re simply rebelling against the society-imposed definition of punctuality,” he deadpanned, rolling past Virgil through to the outside of the building. “I, for one, think it’s an inspiring display of anarchy.”

“You know, it’s real funny to see you playing hard to get when you’re already hard enough to like.” Virgil huffed in response, giving the back of Dee’s chair a playful shove to get him going faster. The man laughed and deliberately slowed down, thereby causing Virgil to let out a sort of half distressed croak/half irritated groan. It was terribly amusing, to say the least. After a moment of tense silence broken only by Virgil’s incessant nerve-amplified echolalia, (“An- anarch- anarchy- anarchy- fuck…”), the manager finally snapped.

“That’s it, I’m going ahead. I’ll let the fans know you’re gonna be late, but you’d better hurry your ass up and get over there, okay? You have five minutes before I flip my fucking lid, Dee.”

“That sounds entertaining, maybe I’ll take my time just for that!”

“You have a goddamn death wish, I swear to god!” Virgil yelled as he took off sprinting towards the building they were overdue at. Dee chuckled and kept rolling along, enjoying how warm the sun was that day. His friends often joked that he was cold-blooded for how intolerant he was to the cold and… in truth, he wouldn’t deny it. It fit his aesthetic.

“I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream…” As the wind picked up, Dee noticed the voice that it was carrying with it. He didn’t believe in magical creatures like sirens, and yet his first thought upon hearing that voice was that no human could possibly sing so beautifully. The song was meant for a high voice, like the princess in the movie, but somehow the rich bass tones of the voice he was hearing brought the melody new life. In other words, he would allow this man to step on him, no questions asked. Dee’s vivid gray eyes - well, he had no idea if they were actually gray, because everything else was, too, but regardless - scanned the grassy courtyard he was going past and eventually landed on the shape of a man twirling around in the center of the yard. He was just as attractive as his voice was, further solidifying Devon’s resolve to allow this man to step on him. The wheels on his chair protested as he rolled into the grass, but Dee was so mesmerized by the image of this tall, lanky - was that a dress he was wearing? - unabashedly effeminate man that he hardly noticed the barrage of bumps.

Dee blinked, finding his vision going a bit blurry all of a sudden. Dots began flashing in front of his vision as he drew closer to the man, and he shook his head, absently dismissing it as an effect of jet lag. As he neared the man, getting close enough to make out details like the spattering of freckles all over his body, the light streak in his otherwise dark hair, even the collection of bandaids scattered all over his body, a sure indicator that he was either clumsy (he had so much limb for just one man, after all) or just plain reckless, Dee noticed something that he wasn’t sure how to explain. A change in the man’s face. The grays he’d spent his whole life staring at were morphing into something unrecognizable, and-

“Holy goddamn motherfucking shit…”

— — — — —

Roman clamped his mouth shut and turned to face whoever had just ever-so-rudely thrown off his groove. The courtyard had been blissfully empty for the first time that day and though he loved his fans as much as they loved him, a moment alone to sing had been a welcome intermission. Especially since he’d been around so many people bragging about their soulmates all day.

It was to be expected, of course, since Roman’s YouTube channel was dedicated to music and he sang love songs almost exclusively, but people introducing their soulmates to him still made him uneasy. All of the “We met because we were both fans of you!” And “Our first words were lyrics from your song, look!” Were sweet, of course, but still…unnerving. Every time he saw those tattoos he was that eight-year-old kid again, watching everything he loved slip away.

And now that his moment of solitude had been interrupted, he wasn’t gonna lie - he was more than a little irritated

“Excuse me, I was singing here!” He protested, placing his hands on his hips and sticking out his bottom lip in an indignant pout. Foot tapping fervently on the grass, he waited for the man’s response - a man who, Roman noted, was far more attractive than he had any right to be. His eyes were the most beautiful shade of green, though one had flecks of gold ringing the pupil. Roman hadn’t even known that was possible, he’d only ever seen characters in his favorite books described that way. Aside from that, his hair was an array of sloppily dyed and removed colors, with gray fading into yellow and then into purple and pink and blue and bleached-out blonde… it was like the guy had just grabbed whatever random boxes of dye he could reach and went nuts. It was cute, though. A large wine-stain birthmark made his fairytale-esque golden eye stand out even more and wow was Roman gay. That didn’t change the fact that he was tempted to go full Kuzco on this guy. He felt a pinch on his neck and winced, bringing his hand up to rub at it while he continued, “It’s not very polite to interrupt a man in the middle of a serenade!”

The man’s face remained blank and he blinked a few times, his hands tap-tap-tapping on the rubber wheels of his wheelchair.

“…I’m going to be real here, a moment ago I was annoyed but now I’m a little creeped-”

“You’re my soulmate,” The man whispered, so quietly that Roman wasn’t sure he’d heard him right. He hoped he hadn’t heard him right.

“…What? You-”

“You’re my soulmate!” The man shouted, eyes lighting up. “My brother once told me that seeing color was beautiful, but I never quite understood what he meant until now!” A moment of silence passed between them, and just as Roman was about to open his mouth to say that no, there must be a mistake, he didn’t even have a tattoo- “I’d apologize for the tattoo, but I find it rather funny that you have “holy goddamn motherfucking shit” permanently etched into your skin.”

Roman let out a fearful squeak as he fumbled to pull out his phone and check his face in the camera. His cheeks and forehead were clear, nothing on his arms…he was almost ready to berate the man for lying when he noticed the dark words written in clunky, nearly illegible cursive on his neck. ‘Holy goddamn motherfucking shit.’

“…What?” This made no sense at all. He didn’t even know what to say. This man seemed nice and all, but Roman had promised himself he would never let this happen to him. There must have been some kind of mistake. “I don’t… I don’t have a soulmate!” He blurted stupidly, rubbing at the writing on his neck.

Dee squinted, confused. “…Right, of course you don’t. It isn’t like the first words I said to you just appeared on your neck and I can see color now, something that only happens once you find your soulmate or anything. But you know. Of course I’m not your soulmate.”

“No, I-” Roman stammered, falling back a step. “I-I- I don’t have a soulmate. And even if I do, I don’t want one!”

“Don’t…” Dee blinked, trying to process what this man, his soulmate, had just said to him. After all this time… he’d waited 10 years, 4 months, 13 days 12 hours, and 24 minutes for this? A guy who wanted nothing to do with him? “Are you serious?”

“Yes! Look, you seem nice and all, but I-”

“No no no, I did not wait ten years for this-“

“Oh, so you expected your soulmate to just fall all over you the moment you met him? To sweep you away and live out a happily ever after with you? Is that it? Well, I’m sorry to destroy your fantasy, but I don’t do love, okay?”

A sigh broke past Devon’s lips as he crossed his arms, leaning forward to catch Roman’s eyes. “Geez, who the hell hurt you?” He asked flippantly, somehow missing the way the man’s face paled. “The universe matched us at birth and you’re not even going to speak to me?”

“The universe is bullshit!” Roman yelled, catching Devon off guard. “It’s all a fucked-up system that I don’t want to be a part of! I’m not letting some metaphysical Tinder ruin my life again!”

Among all of that dramatic ranting, one word stood out to Dee. “…Again?”

Roman blinked, mentally running back through everything he’d said. “I…” Dee noticed how hard his voice was shaking. “Just leave me alone. Please.” He whispered desperately, turning on his heel and sprinting away.

Dee watched the man run, the heeled boots he was wearing clacking against the smooth concrete like a heartbeat.

Ba-dum, ba-dum.

That man was his soulmate.

Ba-dum, ba-dum.

He wanted nothing to do with Dee… and there was a reason why. Something that man hadn’t been able to say. He knew it.

Ba-dum, ba-dum.

But most importantly…

Ba-dum, ba-dum, creaaaak- the door of the nearest building opened and shut, the man’s face appearing once through the glass and then disappearing down a long hallway.

Someone had hurt him, and under no circumstances would Devon stand for that. With new resolve, he started painstakingly wheeling himself across the grass to follow his strange, sad new soulmate.

— — — — —

The moment Roman heard the door he’d run through shut behind him, he pushed into the closest bathroom and collapsed under the sinks. This was not possible by any stretch of the imagination. He’d come here to this goddamn con to have a good time and meet his fans and now he was, about to cry in a bathroom because some excited, well-meaning guy had come up to him and told him something that anyone else would be happy about. He let out a choked sob and covered his eyes, employing his fingers as little dams to keep the waterworks in. Going back out there with swollen eyes and a red nose was not an option.

What were his options, then? Avoid this guy for the rest of his life, not only subjecting himself to the constant fear of running into him again but the guilt of knowing that he’d deprived this guy of his (supposedly) one true partner, or accept it and live in constant fear of it all falling apart? He couldn’t do this right now. Hell, he couldn’t do this ever, what was meant to be the happiest moment of his life was making him feel things he hadn’t felt in years, things he’d never wanted to feel again.

“Anyone in here?” A voice called out, muffled through the flimsy wooden door of the bathroom.

“No!” Roman called back, mentally kicking himself for that stupid move.

“Good to know,” The voice replied, growing clearer as whoever it was pushed the door open. Roman heard the couple grunts and the squeak of rubber on tile, looking up for not even half a second to see his soulmate struggling to get the heavy wooden door open while his wheelchair kept rolling backward from the force of him pushing. “Stupid broken brakes…”

“What are you doing here?” Roman snarled, hastily wiping his eyes and retreating back further into the corner.

His soulmate shrugged as nonchalantly as a person could while fighting with a door, saying, “You seemed upset.”

“Yeah, because of you.” What was this guy’s problem? “I told you to leave me alone!”

“Well, I once told my brother that I wouldn’t come home from school until Aladdin came to pick me up on his magic carpet. We can’t all have what we want- a-ha!” He finally won the battle with the door, letting it shut behind him with a triumphant click! “Now, I believe we skipped some pleasantries. I’m Devon Lee. Or Dee, if you’d prefer. I didn’t catch your name.”

The bathroom went silent save for the shaky breathing of someone trying to stop crying and water echoing through the pipes overhead. Exchanging names would mean this man knew him. This man, with his mismatched eyes and crazy hair and obnoxiously bright yellow-and-green wheelchair (and people thought Roman was extra), would have a name to associate with his face. That would not do.

“I didn’t throw it.”

The excitement that flickered to life in Devon’s eyes was unexpected, and Roman nearly flinched when the man burst out, “Oh my god, that was not a Heathers reference!”

He got that? Most people only understood when he quoted the songs, not the script. “You know Heathers?”

“No, sweetheart, it’s not like I’m a die-hard musical theatre fan or anything.” Dee laughed, a sound that made Roman think of bubbles. “Heathers, Waitress, Hamilton, Rent, Sound of Music, you name it, I know-”

“You like the Sound of Music?” Roman gasped. He pushed himself up off the floor, forgetting for a moment why he was so upset. “Most people I bring it up to tell me it’s a girl’s show.”

Dee grinned. His smile was pearly white, though Roman didn’t miss the shiny gold teeth in place of his incisors. A brilliant smile, shiny gold fangs, a love of musical theatre almost as obsessive as Roman’s… what didn’t this guys have?

“Girl’s show?” He scoffed. “Please, gender is meaningless and Julie Andrews’s voice is a spiritual experience anyone would be blessed to hear.”

“Yes! Finally!” His hands twitched as he resisted the urge to happy-flap them. “I must know, though, who’s your favorite character?”

Dee pursed his lips, tugging thoughtfully at his hair for a moment before answering, “Leisl. I admire her capacity for deception.”

“Oh? You’re a fan of deception?” Roman’s eyebrows rose, and the fear that he’d forgotten about in the wave of that’s-my-hyperfixaiton joy bobbed back up to the surface like a shell being tossed around in the sea. “…why not Rolf, then? He was a classic liar, and a talented one too.”

“Rolf?” Dee folded over cackling, clutching his stomach as he fought to speak through incredulous giggles. “He was a Nazi! Not to mention that he betrayed Leisl, the girl who loved him, by trying to get her family murdered. You must think so little of me to even imagine that I could admire him!”

Though Dee kept laughing, Roman had long since fallen silent. This wasn’t okay. He wasn’t supposed to connect with Devon - or… well, technically he was supposed to, but he didn’t want to, even if the guy liked the Sound of Music and understood his Heather’s reference and had come after him when he was upset, even if Dee was attractive and seemed funny and kind… even if he appeared to be everything Roman had ever wished for, there was too much of a risk. Maybe Devon would expect too much or they’d have a long relationship until one day Roman’s heart was broken.

‘And I call myself brave,’ Roman’s mind scolded him. ‘Roman ‘Never Runs From a Challenge’ Adelio, a coward since the year of his birth, 1999.’

“Look, Devon…” he began. Dee stopped laughing immediately, turning to face Roman with a kind of intensity he’d never seen before. “I… you seem nice, but… I don’t… the rest of my life can’t be dictated by this,” his nails trailed over the tattoo. “I’ve seen the aftermath. It… it’s not good.”

Now, it was Devon’s turn to go quiet. Or it would have been, if he weren’t such a loudmouth. “Alright, I can’t say I don’t understand where you’re coming from,” Carefully, he rolled forward. “And I… while I want a soulmate, it wouldn’t be right for me to force you to have me. All I ask is this.”

Roman cowered at those words. Something bad always came after ‘all I ask.’ What would he want? His number? Sex? Something worse?

“Would you like to go on a date with me sometime?”

“…What?”

Devon smiled, repeating clearly, “Would you like to go on a date sometime?”

“I-” Had Devon not heard anything he’d just said? “I said I don’t… s-soulmates aren’t something I-”

“No, no, no, you misunderstand. Ignore the tattoo, ignore the colors thing, that never happened. I like you, no-name kid. You seem kind and genuine, not to mention that you’re a thespian and seem to be haunted by the ghosts of your past-” Roman laughed despite himself. “-all things I find incredibly attractive. Soulmate or not, I’d like to get to know you better. So, that said,” Devon folded his hands in his lap, sitting back and smiling that million-watt, gold-fanged smile. “Would you like to go on a date with me?”

And in that moment, that 15 seconds where he was faced with a choice he’d always dreaded having to make, Roman felt his racing heartbeat begin to slow. The panic-induced adrenaline drained from his system and he let out a heaving sigh. He still had two choices, but those choices had changed now. It was no longer a matter of fate. No longer a choice between being guilty or trapped. It was now option A) Go on a date with this cool guy who he kind of liked, or B) Turn down a date with this cool guy who he kind of liked. Well, Roman may have been a stubborn ass sometimes, but he was also incredibly gay.

“…You know what? Okay. One date.” Roman huffed, bouncing a red converse-clad foot on the tile floor.

“Excellent! I only need one more thing from you.”

“Oh?” Roman smirked, “Well, ask away.”

“Would you mind tossing your name now?”

Roman opened his mouth to acquiesce before promptly snapping it shut with a sly little smile and pulling a paper towel from the dispenser over the sink. “Sure thing.” A moment later, a slightly-crumpled tissue landed on Dee’s lap as Roman walked past. “I’ll see you around, Devon.”

Dee hastily smoothed out the paper, finding two lines of text written in broad, loopy block letters.

Roman Adelio

+1 618-0339-8875

“I can’t wait, Roman.”

— — — — —

“And that, my son, is how I met your father!” Roman finished with a flourish, wrapping his arms around Dee’s neck from his place on his husband’s lap. Logan, the ever-curious 7-year-old that he was, clung to Devon’s leg and asked,

“But why did you accept Pa’s date if you didn’t want a soulmate?”

Roman smiled, pulling his son up onto his and Dee’s lap (and chuckling as Devon shoved the pair of them off). “Well, your father was against nazis, so how could I say no?”

“…Daddy, that can’t be where the bar is.”

“It isn’t!” Devon was quick to cut in, playfully smacking Roman on the arm. “What are you teaching our small, impressionable child, Roman?”

“Alright, alright, calm down,” Roman yielded. His teasing expression softening as he gazed at Devon. “In truth, I still think soulmates are complete bullsh-” One glare from Devon washed his mouth out. “-I mean, completely fake. Logan, my little piece of stardust, listen to me.” He gathered the small boy in his arms, feeling his tiny heartbeat against his chest. “It is you and you alone who decides who you’re meant to be with. If that person is your soulmate, then that’s beautiful. If not, it’s just as beautiful to love someone else. Do you understand?”

Logan looked up into his father’s eyes, letting a small smile spread across his face before nodding. “Yeah. I understand.”

“Good,” With a sigh, Roman stood, planting a tender kiss on Devon’s lips as he did so. “You know, my dear,” He whispered, leaning his forehead against Devon’s. “I may not believe in soulmates, but perhaps, to some extent, I believe in fate.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, my darling, that soulmates or not…I know I was meant to be with you.”

“Daddy! Pa! Gross!” Logan whined, wedging himself in between his fathers in a truly archaic act of rebellion.

Devon laughed, pushing himself off of his chair to make a wiggly little cuddle pile on the floor. The three of them fit together like long-lost puzzle pieces, each from different puzzles but all cut from the same mold. They may not have been what they were “supposed” to be, but they were still able to make something truly beautiful.

And that was enough.

156 notes · View notes

neo-culture-taste · 6 years ago

Text

Abeilles au Printemps - Ch 5b

Alternate Title: Bees in Spring

Genre: AU, romance, drama, comedy, smut, who’s the daddy

Pairing: NCT x Y/N (fem)

Rating: Mostly mature themes/ language. Smutty chapters will be labeled 🐝.

Word Count: 8800+

For other chapters, see the masterlist.

Okay it’s here! The second half! And it’s heavy. A lot of emotions being thrown around in this one.

Due to the receptionist not being able to stay after hours for the testing party, Ten was tasked with the last minute paperwork, leaving Jaemin to do the majority of the tests. After leading Taeil to the examination room, Ten kept walking further down the hall. Once he was out of sight, you found yourself lifting away from the wall, your legs automatically taking you to the room to see Taeil.

From where he sat, Jaehyun was able to see you walk across the hall. And for that split second his mask of indifference wavered. Not pregnant you were quick to trigger but you held in most of your emotions. Now that you were pregnant, he was worried you would completely erupt and cause damage amongst the three of you that he'd be unable to restore.

You stopped once you made it in the doorway and saw Jaemin gloving up before getting the vial and needle ready. You didn’t think ahead about what you would do once you stood in front of Taeil again. But you were so ill at ease about the rising animosity between the two of you that you were functioning entirely on impulse.

“Would it be okay if I sat in?” you managed to ask, though barely above a whisper.

Jaemin smiled at you after tying the rubber band tourniquet around Taeil’s arm, and a nice blue vein rose to the surface. “Go ahead, sweetheart. I’m sure they’d all love some alone time with you.” You couldn’t tell if his statement was his usual snark or if he was being genuine. And the two of you wouldn't technically be alone with the nosy nurse doing his business on Taeil’s arm. But you didn’t really care at this point. You would take whatever you could get.

Taeil didn’t look up from his arm, nor did he acknowledge your presence as you went to sit in the chair in the corner of the room. You fumbled with the hem of your floral maternity sundress, a gift from your mom after you threw a fit about not being able to fit your clothing anymore. You couldn’t even come up with the words you wanted to say to him. Honestly, what could you say to him? Should you say anything at all? Maybe he shouldn’t talk you--allowing him time to calm down a bit. You didn’t know if you could bear the pain in his eyes any longer and you just wanted to make things right before it spiraled even more out of control.

“When you told me you were Jaehyun’s cousin I panicked,” you explained, hoping he would accept your apology. “I should have admitted everything right then and there, but I didn’t know how. I’m sorry.” He remained silent as Jaemin removed the sterile needle from its packaging. “Taeil...please talk to me,” you pleaded, your voice beginning to shake. “Say some--“

Taeil finally looked at you, and only because he didn’t want to look at the needle about to pierce his skin. His eyes were swollen and red and just plain fed up. Looking into his eyes like that, you could feel your heart cracking.

“Are you going to marry him?” he asked suddenly. Although his voice was quivering out of hurt and fear, there was a clear edge to his words.

Your eyes widening, it felt as if time itself had stopped. His question was notably unexpected and had shaken you completely out of reality. “What?” you asked breathlessly.

“All done,” said Jaemin, dressing Taeil’s arm with gauze and a bandaid.

“Why do you think--“ you began, but Taeil cut you off.

“Nothing. Never mind.” Taeil quickly got up to leave before pausing in the doorway with his back facing you, turning his head slightly to speak. “Don’t call me. Don’t text me. And if you see me in your office building, please walk the other way.” And with that he was gone.

One of your hands flew to your chest and gripped at your skin. It was an attempt to hold your broken heart together from the outside. Instead, your hand was holding a different heart. Adorned on your chest was a specially customized heart shaped locket. You had worn it every day since receiving it, and it was gifted to you almost six months ago by none other than the man whose feelings you had just unintentionally ground into dust. When you realized what your hand was doing, you squeezed it tighter around the piece of jewelry as if it was actually going to break into pieces as well.

Jaemin expressed his sentiment with a look of pity as he sanitized the room and began setting up for his next patient. “I‘ll go get the next one,” he said once he was done. “Clean yourself up.” He handed you a box of tissues before walking out.

You hadn't noticed when you started crying. Hopefully the tears didn't fall until after Taeil had walked out. You dabbed your eyes carefully, making sure not to get any mascara in them, but then hurriedly wiped the rest of your face when you heard Jaemin's voice reapproaching.

“Right this way, Mr. Kim.” The attorney entered the room behind the nurse, immediately spotting you sitting in the corner. His face was set in a scowl, as per usual, but it wasn’t his regular stick up his ass expression. He was just as pissed as Taeil, if not more, stacked on top of years of bitterness and contempt for you. You could tell by the way his broad shoulders were locked with tension that he was ready to spit out the first damaging thing he could think to say to you. Obviously he didn’t notice the wreckage of your puffy eyes and mascara stained cheeks, otherwise he wouldn't have started his bullshit as soon as he walked in.

“Your face says you didn’t expect me to show up today,” Doyoung began. “But we both know I’m a thorough individual. Unlike some of the other people here today.” You couldn’t believe you ever loved this guy. He was never this mean or spiteful when you dated him. But if Taeil’s unprecedented attitude told you anything, it was that maybe you did have a way of ruining people. Maybe Doyoung acted the way he did towards you because you really did hurt him in the past. Maybe your brain had somehow manipulated your thinking that Doyoung pushed you away towards Taeyong--that actually you were the one distancing yourself away from him because you were too scared to commit. You did it to Taeil already, as well as Taeyong. You did it to Kun in the worst possible way, and you even tried to do it to Jaehyun. Were you actually the problem? Or were you all just idiots who needed to get over yourselves?

You shoved your thoughts to the side and dealt with the direct address from the rabbit in the room. Out of habit, you answered him with the same amount of venom he spat at you on the regular. “No. This is my ‘I hate your guts’ face reserved specifically for you. I knew you’d show up despite me revoking your invitation.” He scoffed while aggressively folding his sleeve upwards and exposing the perfectly pronounced vein. “Look, at this Jaemin. I have a nice, thick blue vein already waiting for you right here at the surface.” He swiveled his head back to you, a cocky grin plastered on his face. “Yeah? And what made you so sure?” You didn't have the energy to hate him to your full capacity at the moment, so you decided to mess with him a little bit. “Because you love me.” “What-OW!” He turned to Jaemin who looked back at him with a deadpan expression. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Jaemin said monotoned. “I seem to have missed the vein.” He gripped Doyoung’s arm tighter and angled his gaze at the older man as a warning to curb his attitude. “Hold still. And let me try again.” You pretended to scratch your nose to hide your smirk. Jaemin was turning out to be a good ally.

Doyoung rolled his eyes in irritation before speaking to you again. “As if. I can't fathom how you win so many cases when you can’t even read me right. Trust me, Y/N. Loving you again will never be something I’m guilty of.” He then turned to Jaemin who was still looking for a place to draw blood. “Why aren’t you done yet? I have places to be and clients to take care of.” “You won’t keep still like I asked—“ “Fine. Just hurry up. This place is stressing me out.” Both you and Jaemin exchanged a quick glance. His eyes read ‘I gotchu, girl’ and you gripped the armrests of your chair in anticipation of what the nurse was about to do. Jaemin then purposefully stabbed Doyoung roughly with the needle, causing a shrill yelp to emanate from his chest cavity. “Oh, you meant this large vein!” Doyoung was seething now as his blood quickly filled up the vial. Once Jaemin removed the needle, the rabbit quickly rolled down his sleeve and threw on his jacket, all while sputtering nonsense about sueing and having Jaemin permanently out of a job. You rolled your lips inward as you tried your hardest not to smile, and also by pretending the pattern on your sundress was the most interesting thing you’d ever seen in your life.

“You forgot your band aid--“ Doyoung quickly dismissed him. “I don’t need one. I’m out of here. Tell Ten he’ll be hearing from my law firm.” After he stormed out, Jaemin turned to you in bewilderment. “Did he have that stick up his ass when you slept with him?” Hm. So Jaemin could see the stick, too? You couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yeah. But it didn’t reach up as high in his ass as it does now.” You then let out a sigh. “That probably wasn't a good idea. He actually will sue this place.” “No he won't,” said Jaemin matter-of-factly as he sanitized the room once again. “Because he definitely still loves you.” Well shit, you weren’t expecting him to say that. You had only meant what you said as a joke. Was Jaemin lying or did this outsider see something you couldn’t?

Before you could ask him why he thought that, Yuta waltzed in like he hung out in the clinic every other weekend. Despite all the verbal showdowns that had transpired in that evening already, he looked pleasantly unaffected.

“Alright! Stick me!” Yuta held out his arm as if he was already a pro at this mess. “As you know this isn’t my first paternity test. I’ve been through this four times already. You and the ex-wife are the only ones to have the test done this way instead of having the mouth swabbed.” “Well, she needs peace of mind of who the father is before the baby is born, which is why we’re doing it this way. And sit down!” Jaemin shoved Yuta into the chair by the shoulders. “You know I can’t do this standing up!” “Are you this rough with your normal female clientele?” Yuta asked pointedly, watching as Jaemin attached the needle to the vial. “Nope. Just clowns like you. Now hold still.”

Yuta let the nurse’s comment slide and turned to you. “How are you doing?”

That was a bit surprising. You only expected Jaehyun to care enough to ask you how you were feeling, but Yuta wasn’t like him or the others. He was more reliable than you often gave him credit for, and you didn’t want to admit that you were beginning to consider him as a top candidate in the baby daddy race.

“As one would expect me to be doing,” you answered him.

“You know, you remind me of my ex-wife.”

You took back every nice thing your brain had just said about him.

“Apparently when the results came in, she was so mad I was the father that she lied to me about it, and then didn’t tell me until my mini me was about to be born. And then we got married like a month later.” “I knew this already, Yuta.” “I know. But nosy rosy over here didn’t. And I sense he loves gossip.”

Taking the comment, Jaemin feigned innocence by smiling sweetly at Yuta as he drew his blood.

Yuta’s nose scrunched up as he watched the last bit of blood flow into the vial. “Anyway, Y/N. Once you find out, you don’t have to marry the guy right away. You don’t have to marry him at all. But if you do decide to marry him, make sure you love him first and that he’s ready to commit to being your husband and a father. Otherwise, you’ll end up like me who didn’t sign a prenup and he takes half your money.” Even thought you knew all of that already, you still had to give him a little more credit. He actually did make sense sometimes. “Thank you, Yuta. I’ll keep that in mind. Good talk.” “My pleasure.” Once finished and bandaged, Yuta stood up to leave before turning to Jaemin. “Is that it?” “For now.” Jaemin pursed his lips and pointed toward a spot on the attorney’s neck. “But you got a lil’ funny looking mole right here.” “Oh, no. Is it bad?” Yuta asked as he reached for the spot frantically. Jaemin was about to respond with a smartass remark, but Ten walked in and shut down his playtime. “Will you stop diagnosing people?” He grabbed Yuta by the face to look at his neck before shaking his head. “He doesn’t even have anything there!” “I just wanted to have a little fun.” “Bye Yuta,” said Ten, practically pushing him out of the room. “Although I do have a feeling I’ll need to draw your blood again really soon.”

“Ha! Probably. Later, Y/N.” Yuta gave you a lazy backhanded wave. “Text me if you need anything. I might do it for you.” Calling him reliable was still definitely a stretch.

Walking out into the hall, Yuta was faced with Johnny standing right beside the door. “In a rush, bro?” “Yeah, I just want to get out of here really quickly. Don't know if I have a bad feeling or if I just feel bad.” It was probably both. Closing the door behind him, Yuta paused with his hand still on the knob. “Be gentle. She’s visibly upset even though she’s trying to hide it.” “Noted.” “Johnny, you can come in now,” called Ten from within the room. Yuta's warning of being nice to you escaped Johnny's hippocampus as soon as he laid eyes on you. He stood in the doorway, his frame taking up all the space as he gazed at your sullen form. Your face was a little puffy, as Yuta lead on, and your back was hunched into a slouch.And much like you earlier, even if he wanted to plan out what he was going to say, his mouth went ahead of his thoughts anyway. “How did you manage to sleep with all of us in the same time period to possibly impregnate you? You even slept with our accountant and...your brother’s friend?” “Johnny, sit.” Ten was annoyed. No one had anymore time for this foolishness. He pointed to the chair and tapped his foot as Johnny took a seat and rolled up his sleeve.

After a loud complaint from Doyoung, Ten was going to monitor Jaemin getting the rest of the samples from the remaining men, but Yuta popped his head back in and asked where the bathroom was. So Ten left the room once again to go show him where it was located.

After doing some thinking about the way he greeted you when you arrived at the clinic, you gave Johnny a pass to express himself in whatever way he needed to, whether it was nasty or nice. You hadn't had a true conversation with him since the day you told him you were pregnant. You noticed Johnny was like a pot of water on a stove. It took him awhile to process everything before he reached his boiling point and everything bubbled to the surface. And it seemed he was finally ready to talk to you now.

“I know it looks bad but…” “Looks bad?! I thought I was the player!” He appeared to be back to his normal self. That was a bit reassuring. You shook your head in disagreement. ”No, no. That’s still very much Yuta on a weekly basis. I simply went on a bender with old flames in a two week time period. And you messing around with me when you and your girlfriend are broken up doesn’t necessarily make you a player.”

Johnny looked away from you as he ran his free hand through his hair. “I guess you’re right.” He watched as Jaemin readied the needle then looked back at you in confusion. “So, why am I horny right now? Why does all this turn me on?”

Holy crap...you broke Johnny. Your mouth fell open in shock at the absolute absurdity of his words. He hadn’t talked to you properly for three whole months and after being an asshole for a few minutes, that was what he said to you? Jaemin chuckled and spoke under his breath, “I love my job.” “I’m sorry,” Johnny looked down at his lap as he apologized. “I’m just...I don't know. This is all just…a lot to deal with.”

You rubbed your hand down your face and took a deep breath, suddenly saddened all over again. If you couldn't already tell by the first few people that had their blood drawn, this whole situation had everyone involved messed up in some sort of way. Feelings were being muddled all across the board and you were at the center of it. Unfortunately you couldn’t control how everyone would react. No one could. Johnny peered over at Jaemin who was still snickering when a light bulb went off in his pretty head. “Do I know you from somewhere?” He asked the nurse. His eyes narrowed to get a better look at the young man's face. “I don’t know,” answered Jaemin. “Do you?” He smiled. There was something sinister about the way his lips curved at their corners. “You might.” Not being able to remember where he'd seen him, Johnny shook his head and got up right after Jaemin pulled the needle from his arm.

“At least let me put pressure on where I stuck you,” Jaemin half-wined.

Although unsanitary, Johnny took his thumb and did it himself. “I'm good. Bye Y/N. We’ll talk later. I think I'm okay now.” No he wasn't. Realizing he couldn’t quite open the door with one arm, Jaemin rolled his eyes and went over to do it for him. But before Jaemin could grasp the handle, the door swung open in front of them. “This is despicable,” said the shrill female voice opposite them at the door.

The color in Johnny’s face quickly drained away, the area from where he was stuck with the needle long forgotten as his hand fell to his side. “Babe?! What are you--“ “Shut it.” Jaemin leaned in close behind Johnny and whispered in his ear. “I guess you did recognize me after all.” Johnny's eyes grew wide in realization as Jaemin lifted his hand to point at Johnny’s girlfriend in the doorway. “Her best friend is my cousin. We met at her wedding. The wedding you were also at.”

You felt the hairs on your back stand up when she appeared. You had never formally met this woman. You had only seen pictures of her in Johnny’s phone and in a frame on his desk that you had occasionally knocked onto the floor as Johnny took you from behind. You never expected to meet her like this--or even meet her at all. She stomped forward, pushing Johnny further back into the room as she stabbed his chest with her finger. “Jaemin texted me as soon as your stupid ass entered the waiting room. I didn’t say anything when I found out you had slept with her again. We agreed on giving each other space, but I never agreed that you could go and knock her up, Johnny!” Getting the urge to defend your case in the matter, you felt your body standing up and wobbling to your feet. “Excuse me. But what exactly was the agreement?” His girlfriend’s eyes snapped on you like a viper that had just spotted its prey. “Oh. There’s the woman of the hour! If you weren’t pregnant I’d—” “Let’s go!” Johnny barked as he grabbed his girlfriend’s arm and yanked her out the room. Furious, you found yourself moving toward Jaemin then gripping the collar of his scrubs with both your hands. “What in the actual fuck?” And here you thought he was on your side! He had stabbed you in the back before you even had a chance to let your guard down. “I’m not sorry. She had the right to know,” he said with the nerve to roll his eyes at you. “Plus I’m a man of the theater. I live for drama!” Before you could verbally (or physically) assault him anymore, you felt a pair of cold hands pry you away from Jaemin's throat. “Y/n, stop.”

You peered at the face of the person not wanting you to commit murder. Oddly enough it was Taeyong's strong arms stopping you from doing it.

“No one knew who she was except Yuta, and she was already in the hallway by the time he and Ten saw her,” he answered before you could ask. “I’m sorry she got you so worked up.”

Taeyong helped you sit back down before taking his seat in the other chair. Jaemin, a little afraid for his life now, stood up and straightened out his clothing, then put on the professional demeanor that he had been lacking since this party started. “Put out your arm for me, sir.” Taeyong did as he was told. Although silent, you noticed the muscles in his cheek contracting as if he was dying to ask you something. You didn’t want to talk to anyone anymore about anything. So you hoped he would remain silent until he was finished.

Originally you had been against Taeyong possibly being the father of your child. However, after speaking with him, your opinion of him had changed in his favor. He had gotten his life together, started a business, and was no longer involved in the types of things that could possibly put you and your daughter in danger. Sure he was quick to temper and had a tendency to speak with his fists rather than words, but he would never do anything to hurt you. And you trusted that he would rid himself of all his bad habits in order to give you and your daughter a happy life.

“All done.” Jaemin applied the band aid and Taeyong stood up. But like Taeil, the silent ones always had to stop at the door. This made you very uneasy.

“I guess I was right this whole time. I really am not good enough for you.” You heard the loud shattering of glass but didn’t see any on the floor, which only meant it was your heart breaking into a million pieces once again. You hadn’t seen him walk away but there was no longer a sulking figure standing in the doorway. You deserved to feel more than heartbroken with the way you had denied his feelings for you for so long, but still used them against him for your own selfish desires. Wasn't this what you originally wanted? For him to finally give up on you? Had you expected it to feel any less shittier? Jaemin couldn’t resist himself and gave his unwanted opinion. “Aww. Why don’t you love him?” You turned your head to the side and bit your cheek to stifle any tears that threatened to fall before snapping back to Jaemin. ”It's complicated. Just mind your damn business and do your damn job. Actually. Ten?!” You shouted for the doctor, wanting your best friend to come and save you from his messy nurse. “Love, this is after hours and I’m not even getting paid for this. So, you’ll be done with me soon enough. I’ll go get him for you.” He cleaned up the room once again before heading out to find his boss.

The last person to get tested was ushered in by Ten, who was beyond annoyed he had to babysit his nurse for bad behavior. But boy were you glad to see the man he brought with him. Jaehyun looked just as chipper as he did when you first arrived. You found it hard to believe he was unaffected by the other gentleman present today, especially Taeil, but you assumed he kept up the facade just for you. It had to be is amazing acting skills at work, and in actuality he was a huge wreck on the inside. Leave it to Jaehyun to be strong for you even when you couldn’t do it for yourself. If anyone who didn't know you saw the two of you on the street (and not in a disguise), they would think he was your husband. That was the way he treated you, constantly and always in front of others. The way he acted towards you in private was the same but maybe even more affectionate if that was even possible. Had the thought ever crossed your mind...to be Mrs. Jung? Yes. But you would never tell him that. You'd never tell anyone that. Walking passed the chair he was supposed to sit in, he crouched down in front of you and grabbed your hands. “How are you feeling?” His heartening visage quickly turned into one of urgency as he reached up to swipe a tear that had fallen down the side of your cheek. “You’ve been crying. Hey, Ten. Can we have a minute?” “Umm, yeah. C’mon Jaemin.” The two of them stepped out leaving you and Jaehyun alone. But before he was completely out of the room, you heard Ten whisper, “Did he just kick me out of my own examination room?” before shutting the door. Jaehyun stood to give you a gentle kiss on the cheek he had just wiped before grabbing the chair and positioning it in front of you. “Talk to me, baby. Everything okay? And don’t bother lying, because your face says it all.” You bit your lip and sat up straight, trying to be confident in the lie you were indeed about to tell despite his warning. “Yeah...” “Y/N...” “What?” He cupped your cheeks in his hands and softly brushed his thumbs back and forth upon them. “No, really. How are you? It was pretty intense out there. I’ll admit it was intense even for me.” You fumbled with the hem of your dress again, shying your eyes away from his as you sighed. “It went as I expected it to go. Lots of words thrown back and forth and borderline physical fights. Except I didn’t expect Johnny’s girlfriend to show up. That was unpredictable.” “Well, she walked in and threw her purse down on a chair before confidently asking for John’s whereabouts. Hands or her hips and everything. She didn’t even wait for a response before finding the hallway. I knew right then it was about to be a huge mess.” He then mimicked the way she did her grand entrance which made you laugh a little. “Is that a smile?” You reverted but not completely. “Stop, Jaehyun.” “Alright, alright.” He reached for you hands again and hesitated on whether he should tell you the next thing. “Y/N. I don’t mean to be another thorn in your side, but I met several heartbroken, betrayed, and confused gentlemen today.” You squeezed his hands before letting your head fall back roughly against the wall behind you. “Yeah, I know. And you’re one of them. “In some sort of fashion I am. But I’m still here aren’t I? How many times do I have to keep telling you that I’m here for you no matter what?” Ugh. You had had enough. You had had enough of everything that happened to you today, enough of your freaking pregnancy hormones and symptoms, and enough of Jaehyun constantly reminding you how good of a person he was even when he didn't intend to do so.

“I know Jaehyun. Can we not do this today though?” You didn't mean to get snippy with him, but you were tired. You were tired and you just wanted to go home and go to bed. “I know you’re here for me through thick and thin, and you want to buy me any and everything, and take care of me forever and whatnot. But you can’t undo the pain I just inflicted on a lifelong friend or the damage I caused to someone’s self worth.” Jaehyun raised his eyebrow. “Are you talking about Taeil?” You didn’t answer him. He didn’t need to know your heart was swayed by two people today you had originally thought were deemed as non factors. And you didn’t have to, because he immediately dropped the subject and nodded his head. “I’ll go get Ten now.” He gently let go of your hands and opened the door to find Ten and Jaemin standing closely to it, most likely having eavesdropped on your entire conversation. Jaemin went to glove up when he excitedly turned to you and pointed to his ring finger, silently asking you if wedding bells were in the near future. Jaehyun felt the wind from Jaemin’s movements as he was returning the chair to its original place, and the nurse quickly put his hands down like a child who was trying not to get caught for sticking his hands in the cookie jar when the actor turned to look at him. “Can you roll up your sleeve for me please?” asked Jaemin as he approached Jaehyun with the alcohol swab. “Actually, I would prefer if Dr. Lee drew my blood.” A little offended, Jaemin pulled back. “May I ask why? The doc already said I have the best tech--“ “I have a really good lawyer,” he nodded towards you, “who would sue both you and Dr. Lee if my blood ended up anywhere besides the designated place for DNA testing. It’s nothing personal.” Jaemin mulled it over for a moment. He had already proven himself to be a snake. He was indeed the type of person to do that. “Very well then.” He stepped aside while Ten begrudgingly washed his hands in the room's sink. He had hoped he was done working for the day. Ten got everything ready and soon had the needle positioned close to Jaehyun’s vein. “Listen here, movie star. I don’t care who you are, but you will not threaten me in my own office.” He pierced Jaehyun’s skin and they both watched as the blood started to fill the vial. “Your lawyer may be sitting right there, but she’s also the reason your blood is now in my custody.” “Ten!” you cried. Literally everyone was taking shots at you today. Jaehyun glared at the blood flowing from his arm and into the vile. “Touché.”

Once Ten was finished, Jaemin administered the gauze and band aid. Jaehyun got up from the chair to help you out of yours, and he held your hand as he led you back towards the lobby. Surprisingly, but not completely unexpected, Yuta was still sitting there talking to your brother and Lucas, the latter of whom looked like he was eager to take notes from the casanova. “My son had soccer practice at his school today. He’s in the league for little kids. Man does he love that sport. He gets it from me. I was sort of an athletic legend back in the day.” Yuta paused briefly to look at his wristwatch. “I should get going to pick him up, though. One time I completely forgot about him because I was too busy getting it on with your sis—“ “YUTA!” You couldn’t have come out at the worst possible second. You remembered that day and was very upset that you had kept him away from his son. That was one of the reasons why you only hooked up with him a couple of times. He had a more pressing obligation than getting his dick wet.

Your brother just stared at you, his soul seemingly gone from his eyes.

Damn, you really wanted this day to be over. “Everyone please leave,” said Ten before whispering in your ear. “I’ll have your results in three weeks. Stay strong until then.” You took a deep breath and nodded your head and let Jaehyun guide you the rest of the way outside. “Do you want me to take you home?” asked the actor. “Or do you want to relax at my house? I’ll rub your feet and cook you dinner. Well, I’ll cook you dinner first and then rub your feet.” You both chuckled, but then your smile waned when you felt Mark come to stand next to you with a different aura than when he first met Jaehyun earlier that evening. He too was done with today, and just wanted to regroup at home. You didn’t deserve your little brother sometimes. “My brother can handle it.” “Awesome,” Jaehyun said a little disappointed. “I’ll call you tonight. Get her home safely, Mark.” You saw him hesitate, and after reading his mind you grabbed his cheek and lowered his face to give him what he wanted. He got on your nerves towards the end, but he still wanted to respect your space. You were about to plant the kiss on his lips when you heard the loud slam of a car door resonate throughout the lot. “WHERE IS SHE?!”

Oh? You thought the evening couldn't get anymore worse? Ha! Who were you to be so lucky? You would have already left the parking lot if it weren’t for Jaehyun and his dumb lips.

Your head snapped to the area of where the voice was coming and you felt your blood begin to simmer.

It was freaking Kun of all people. Yuta barely said a coherent goodbye as he ran for his car and got the hell out of Dodge, nearly side swiping the taxi Kun just stumbled out of.

Mark leapt from your side to walk towards Kun, his, hands coming into contact with the older man's chest. “Calm down, man. Now is not the time—Dude, how much did you have to drink?! The whole bar?! You reek!”

Jaemin tapped Ten on his arm. “I know that look. Is that the one she cheated on?” Ten shook him off to join Lucas and Mark as the three of them tried to form a barrier between you and Kun. Frustrated with no answer, the nurse yelled, “Is that a yes?” ”Jaemin, go home!” commanded ten. “This does not concern you!” Jaemin rolled his eyes and turned on his heels to go back inside the clinic. Kun lurched forward trying to break through the human barricade and caused you to flinch. How the hell did he even find out about the testings? You hadn’t seen or talked to him since he and Taeyong were arrested. His face now was just as angry as that night but worse in his drunken stupor. You quickly began to feel awful again, blaming yourself for being the type of person to drive someone like Kun to get shitfaced before the sun even had a chance to go down. You seemed to drive all your ex's into insanity.

“Y/N, I’ll take you to my place after all.” You felt Jaehyun wrap his arm around your waist and pulled to guide you to his car.

“No!” yelled Kun. “Don't run away! I have something to say!” “Jaehyun...” Your hand immediately went to your belly, a silent apology to your little girl for the stress you had caused her all evening. The faster you got away from Kun, the faster you could put this whole fiasco out of your mind.

Finally making it to Jaehyun’s shiny black, and terribly expensive vehicle, you heard the frantic steps of someone running towards the mess you were running away from. Jaehyun opened the passenger side door beckoning you to get in when you turned to see WinWin trying to catch his breath while bent over with both hands on his knees. “Y/N...” warned Jaehyun. “Hush for a minute!”

Jaehyun threw his head back in exasperation. “Woman, if you stay this is only going stress you out even more, and I’m just trying to be patient with you.” Oh? Was Mr. Calm and Collected finally losing his cool? You just simply shushed him again. “I tried to stop him!” cried WinWin as he panted. Since when was he so out of shape? “I really--Ahuurgh Urgh ack--did!” Ten kicked Kun in the shin to knock him down to the ground, allowing Mark and Lucas to apprehend him better, before getting close to WinWin's face. “But you didn't try to stop your mouth from telling him, now did you?” Ten kicked Kun again for good measure. “OW! Stop! Stop kicking me! Let me go! I want to speak to her!” Ten kicked Kun again anyway. “That one’s for showing up to my practice drunk and uninvited!” He turned back to WinWin. “I’m about to kick your ass, too!” Shoes scratching against the concrete, WinWin quickly scooted backwards with his hands up in surrender. “I thought he had the right to know!” Ten’s eyes tripled their size in his head. “For what?! He didn’t father her child!” Kun, arrested and unable to wiggle under Mark and Lucas’s grip, let his head fall to the pavement. “No, I didn’t! But that’s because she told me we couldn’t have sex!” You felt your blood full on boiling now. Kun had the audacity to show up uninvited and talk about the nonexistent sex life shared between the two of you? Oh hell no. The pent up aggression for Kun you pushed aside for so long had finally come up, and it guided your feet towards him. Shoving Jaehyun to the side, you were ready to pounce, but he quickly grabbed your arm to slow you down. You gave him one look and he let go, quickly deciding to let you do whatever it was you needed to do. Mark and Lucas pulled Kun up into a sitting position so you could talk to him properly without Lucas’ knee in his back. “How dare you! You’re actually upset because we never had sex?” You sneered. “Do you actually want to be a part of this commotion? You want to be lucky number seven, hm? Is that it?” “No! I don't want to be your kid’s father! I’m mad because I didn’t even get the chance--“ “The chance?! You have got to be kidding me.” You were mad mad now. “We agreed from the beginning that our relationship would not be based on just sex. But towards the end, I needed that intimacy. I craved it. And I know you did, too. So I tried to move our relationship to the next level. But how’d you respond? By doing absolutely nothing! Even when I actively baited you by buying expensive lingerie in your three favorite colors. Not one, but three colors. And other stuff I don't feel like listing. But you still didn’t want me!” Kun gawked at you in disbelief. “Are you hearing yourself right now, Y/N? Because it’s absolutely fucked up! Why would I turn you away? You’re gorgeous! I have a dental degree, so I’m not stupid enough to do that. I thought you were just testing me!” Your nostrils flared as you inhaled. “Well I wasn’t! Why would I waste my time putting in the effort and energy of seducing you just to test you? You’re insane!” Kun scowled and huffed out an angry laugh. “I’m insane? Oh, darling please. Look at what’s going on right now. Your brother and his roommate are holding me down like a criminal because they think I might hurt you. That’s offensive, yet ironic because you were the one that actually hurt me. And how did you hurt me? By sleeping with six other dudes while I was away at a conference. Who the hell had I been dating for 18 months? Because you are not the woman I fell in love with!” Oof, all of that stung. It was all of your wrong doings being thrown in your face by the person you hurt with your wrongdoings. It hurt you to hear it. But you weren't going to let this loser know that and have the upper hand in this petty argument.

You lifted your chin in opposition. “News flash, Dr. Qian! You were dating a lawyer. I turn cutthroat in a heartbeat.” “Don’t use that as an excuse,” he spat. “There are plenty of lawyers out there who are decent human beings. But you, Ms. Y/N, are far from one of them.” “Fuck you,” you hissed. “I wouldn’t now even if you paid me.” Absolutely infuriated by your ex-boyfriend’s words, you began to breath in and out rapidly, your face turning a ferocious in your fury. Jaehyun grabbed you by both your shoulders and held you from behind. “Y/N. You’ve said enough now let’s go.” So now he wanted to show up by your side? Even though you pushed him away, maybe you wouldn't feel as homicidal as you did now if he would have decided to step in sooner. “Get off me, Jaehyun. I’m not done with this asshole.”

“Y/N, please--” Ignoring Jaehyun, you continued to quarrel with your ex-boyfriend. “If I’m so gorgeous, why could you never get it up for me? Even when I wore extremely revealing outfits, you never had any type of carnal reaction.” Kun’s face fell a little when your face darkened in realization and you started to laugh incredulously. “Oh, this is golden! Were you even remotely attracted to me!?” A gasp was heard coming from the direction of the clinic's doors followed by the harsh whispering of the same voice saying, “The plot thickens!” Apparently, Jaemin had never left.

Ten whipped around from where he stood and shot daggers at his out of line employee. “Jaemin if you don’t go the fuck home!” Conversationally backed into a corner, Kun began to stammer. “N-Now look here--“ “No, you look here, Kun,” you demanded. You were never sexually attracted to me. We shared your apartment for all that time and you never once thought about having sex with me, did you?” He looked at the ground as if the words he was searching for were scattered at his feet. His silent confirmation floored you, your pride taking a massive amount of damage. “I saw it as you simply respecting my wishes to not do it so early on in the relationship, but it was actually because you didn't want to have sex with me at all. Me trying to test you was a lie, too! I get it now! You were only dating me because of my social status!” Realization suddenly hitting him with your statement, Ten shook his head in anger. “You asswipe! That’s why you were so adamant about me introducing her to you! You were trying to build your clientele!”

You faltered a bit in your stance, leaning back into Jaehyun as he held you steady. Despite your attitude with him the past twenty minutes you were grateful he was still there. Kun was still floundering for words and looked to WinWin for support. WinWin turned away from him and looked off into the distance. “Were you ever really in love with me?” Kun opened his mouth to answer, but you cut him off. “Don’t lie to me.” Feeling Kun's shoulders slump, your brother and Lucas loosened their grip on him, and he was able to relax his arms at his sides. “Yes...in theory.” Kun sounded reluctant in his answer, and his face showed obstinance amongst the anger. “But were you ever truly in love with me?” His question made you snap. This dumbass just asked you this dumbass question and made all of your emotions boil over at once. “Yes! I was! I wanted it to work! I wanted it to work with you! I just wanted something to work for once!” You felt Jaehyun embrace your shoulders. You let yourself completely be held up by him as your own legs were too shaky to hold up you and your unborn passenger anymore.

“I changed my entire way of life just to be with you all because I wanted something functional!” No, no, no. Fuck. Your voice cracked. You didn't want to cry again, especially in front of Kun. You didn't want cry in front of anyone standing there with you. “I wanted something real. Something stable. No doubts about each other’s feelings or disagreements about our future. Just love and understanding all across the board. But all this time you were the one playing games.”

You then felt Jaehyun enclose his arms around your bump and place his head in the crook of your neck. The sensation was incredibly odd. You were admitting your deepest and most kept feelings and desires to your past partner while your current partner gave it to you with a simple touch. It felt all kinds of wrong. You knew Jaehyun was holding you to calm you down. And you knew he had his hands on your belly to remind you of exactly why you needed to calm down. But it just didn't feel fair because of the turn of events that brought you into this position.

You paused to catch your breath and choke back a sob. “Tell me, Kun. Did you really go to a conference for those two months you were away?” Before Kun could answer WinWin spoke up. “No. He wasn’t.” Everyone was the pikachu meme.

Kun managed to escape to his feet while his captors were in a stupor. “Why would you say that?! You’re supposed to be on my side!” Ten rolled his eyes at Kun's ridiculous statement. “Spill it WinWin.” The man addressed shook his head and ran a hand through his hair with a heavy sigh. “Kun. I can’t lie for you anymore. It’s too hard to be friends with people on opposite sides. Especially if they just keep hurting one another. I can’t do this anymore.” Without another word WinWin turned on his heels and walked away and out of the parking lot. The quick escalation and brute conclusion of this whole episode angered Mark to the point that he shoved Kun up against the side of your car. “Mark!” you cried, but your reaction fell on deaf ears. You had never seen your brother this upset. He shouldn't be involved in all this. You didn't know how much more your heart could take, but you know seeing Mark like that brought you close to the end. “You show up unannounced, drunk off your ass, upset my sister, and we find out you were a liar this whole time, too? Where the hell were you then, Kun?” Averting his eyes, Kun answered him. “I don’t have to answer that question.” Ten saw you about to protest, but the look of exhaustion wearing heavy on your visage made him throw his hands in the air. “That’s it! Enough! Kun! Get off my property before I call the cops and have you arrested for trespassing. Lucas, walk with him to the corner and call him a taxi.”

Giving you another heated glance, Kun pushed Mark off him and begrudgingly followed Lucas to the street. Watching them walk away, Ten stepped in front of you authoritatively and ripped Jaehyun’s arms from around you. “Hey!” cried Jaehyun, stumbling backwards. “Shut it, pretty boy.” Ten grabbed your shoulders and forced you to look at him. “By doctors orders, I hereby forbid you to see any of these men for three weeks. I’m going to tell them not to talk to you, not to text you, they’re not even allowed to think about you!” “Ten, that’s unnecessary,” you retorted. But he wasn't having any more of your shit. “Shut up! I’m the doctor! Mark! Take your sister away!” Mark soared to your side in a second and grabbed your hand, leading you to the passenger side of your car. “Lucas is dealing with Kun, Ten will take care of Jaehyun, and we need to go home and take care of each other. Now, get in the car.”

“I’ll call you!” Jaehyun yelled after you. After being shoved into the passenger seat, you watched Ten yank Jaehyun all the way back to the front door of the clinic. You knew he was about to get scolded by Ten. But there was nothing you could do to save him as Mark pulled out of the parking lot and began the drive back to his apartment.

“You will not call her.” Ten chided the movie star. “I’m the only one she can rely--“ “No! She can rely on Mark, myself, and Haechan. Even Lucas if he can stop undressing her with his eyes for one second. But you? No. Your dreamy eyes, beautiful hair, tall stature, and fat wallet are a terrible distraction to her right now.” “The last thing I want to do is distract her.” “I know you mean well, Jaehyun. But you have been glued to her side ever since you found out she was pregnant. It's no secret to me that you love her. It’s evident in every manner you interact with her. But from what I can tell, you are also suffocating her! But she’s so messed up right now that she won’t tell you.” Jaehyun was silent and a slight pout made itself present on his face. “She’s doesn’t need the perfect boyfriend right now. She needs alone time without you buffoons spitting fire at her and one another. Now, I’m team Jaehyun.” The actor perked up at the revelation of having an ally. “But I’m first and foremost team Y/N. So, If you want to give her the world, which I know you so badly want to, then start by giving her space.” Not satisfied with Ten’s lecture, Jaehyun pleaded his case. “I have given her nothing but space for almost two years!” “Goodbye, Jaehyun! Get off my property or I’ll call the police on you, too.” Ten turned to go back inside the clinic only to find Jaemin still standing there. “Dammit, Jaemin!” The young nurse responded with a chuckle. “Sorry.” Before Ten could go inside, the three gentlemen heard a rustling in the bushes by the fence at the edge of the lot. “What was that?” asked Jaehyun, particularly alarmed. “It was the wind telling you to go home!” yelled Ten. “Right...” Jaehyun cocked his eyebrow not convinced, but his one-track mind prevented him from checking. “Before I leave though, Jaemin, I have a stack of non disclosure agreements here with your name on it.” He pulled the rolled up papers out of his back pocket and held them out towards the nurse. Ten rolled his eyes. “Don’t forget to pick up the ones from the other gentlemen. Doyoung almost didn’t sign his.”

“Doyoung is a tool.” Forgetting that he had just told Jaehyun to get off his property, Ten held the door open and ushered him and his nurse inside the clinic. There was more rustling in the bushes and the sound of rocks being stepped on, as well as a loud slurp through a straw in a plastic cup. “That was the worse verbal disagreement I have ever witnessed in my entire life. I just wanted my umbrella--“ The voice heard an additional noise to their rustling and saw a figure quickly dart across the parking lot. Curious, they followed to see a dark vehicle quickly drive away from the other side of the street.

“License plate TCN721.” They recorded the plate in their photographic memory. Turning to leave, there was a crunch under their feet that didn't have the distinct sound that leaves normally would. Instead, it was a print of a photograph. “What do we have here?” They said as they picked it up and turned it over, gasping at the picture in their hands and noticing the time stamp in the corner. “Well, well, well, Kun. I didn't know a dental conference required you to put your tongue in another woman’s mouth.”

For other chapters, see the masterlist.

Whoo~ That was a lot to take in. Next chapter is more light-hearted. But until then...how about some 🐝?

- C&D

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sambergscott · 6 years ago

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‘cause you’ll be safe in these arms of mine

Summary: Jake and Amy asking people to be godparents, inspired by a convo with @capnperaltiago who asked for me to write this <3

She asks Rosa two minutes after the plastic stick says pregnant.

Jake and Holt are out working a case and Terry’s taken the day off to be with his girls, leaving Amy in charge of the Nine-Nine. Hitchcock and Scully have already started a small fire, one of the uniformed officers lost a piece of evidence and there was a fight amongst two perps in the holding cell. And Amy can’t stop throwing up.

At first she blames it on work-related stress and then she thinks it must have been the Chinese she ate last night while watching re-runs of Friends. It’s not until Rosa pulls out a pregnancy test she picked up from the store that she realises it could be morning sickness.

They’re not even properly trying yet. Sure, she’s come off her birth control because she’s done enough research to know that it could take months to get pregnant after coming off them and they still can’t take their hands off each other, even after over a year of marriage, but neither of them were expecting anything to happen this soon.

She pees on the stick and, several anxiety-ridden minutes later, it comes back positive.

She’s pregnant.

And she panics.

This is what she wanted, what she’s always wanted, but what if Jake’s still not quite ready yet and what if one of them dies on the job and what if they can’t actually afford this and-.

“Santiago,” comes Rosa’s gruff voice, her hands steadying Amy’s quivering shoulders, “you two have got this. You’re gonna be the best parents I know.”

“Even better than Terry and Sharon?” She snivels.

“Yeah.” Then, quickly, “don’t tell them I said that.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Amy promises, zipping her mouth shut.

“Yours too.” Rosa mimics her zipping action, throwing the imaginary key into the toilet like she’s Steph Curry.

Amy laughs, a sudden idea popping into her head. It seems weird to ask before consulting Jake, before Jake even knows there’s a baby inside her, but it also feels right. She rips off the bandaid. “Will you be the godmother?”

The detective freezes, her mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. “Me?”

“Mm-hmm.” Amy smiles at Rosa’s surprise. They are complete opposites — Rosa likes motorbikes, Amy likes binders, Rosa likes leather jackets and big boots, Amy likes sensible pantsuits — yet they’ve become sisters, sleuth sisters, over the past nine years. There’s nobody else Amy would consider for the job. “You’ve always had my back and I think you’d have our baby’s back, too. Plus, if our baby turns out like Jake, you’ve always known how to handle him.”

Rosa snorts, then smiles back at her. Amy thinks she detects a few tears in Rosa’s eyes, but doesn’t say a word, not wanting to ruin the moment. Rosa eventually nods. “Yeah. I’m in.”

“C’mere,” Amy cries, the damn pregnancy hormones already making her emotions crazy as she pulls Rosa into a tight hug.

It’s Jake’s idea to make Charles godfather.

Amy’s a little… apprehensive at first, to say the least, considering Charles’ track record of being totally obsessed with every aspect of their personal lives. He’s sent her 75 emails about birthing tips, offering his doula services at the end of each one, in the last week alone. He came round their apartment one night to get rid of all coffee, alcohol, shame cigarettes and any other No-No foods during pregnancy. He’s already suggested the names Charles Peralta if it’s a boy and Charlotte if it’s a girl, which Amy vetoed immediately. Making Charles godfather would only allow him into their lives further. And she loves her husband’s best friend, she really does, but she doesn’t want their kid becoming obsessed with weird milk and beige-coloured clothes and the TV show Bunheads.

When Jake argues that nobody else is gonna love their kid more than Charles, Amy finally agrees. Charles will shower their baby with all the love in the world. And if Charles has any influence at all on his godchild, it will be that their kid will be just as big a fan of Jake as Charles is.

Unlike Rosa, they both agree that they can’t just ask Charles. It needs to be an event — like when Jake asked him to be his best man with sparklers and a big ol’ banner. Amy suggests they ask him on Halloween and they spend a full evening planning how it’s going to go down.

“This year’s object is this t-shirt,” Jake announces to the squad on the biggest night of the year, holding up a plain white t-shirt with the words “Amazing Human/Genius” printed in gold foiling. “Whoever has it in their possession at midnight will be declared the winner.”

Like Halloween V, Jake has the real prize waiting in the evidence lock-up. But he doesn’t tell anyone that.

When The Tramps (with Rosa in on Jake and Amy’s secret) barge into the evidence lock-up at two minutes before midnight, thinking they’re finally the champions, Charles is the first to lift the t-shirt out of the storage box.

(It was the one with the uneven dust pattern, just like when Jake proposed to Amy, just like he’d heard a million times over when he asked to hear the story on a bi-weekly basis).

He furrows his brow when he realises the words don’t say what they’re supposed to.

Jake and Amy jump out from behind a stack of evidence boxes and Charles shrieks. For a second they think they’ve caused yet another colleague to die from a heart attack, but he somehow stays on his feet.

“Amazing Godfather/Genius,” he reads the adapted text, trembling like a leaf. His eyes meet Jake’s, who nods, confirming that, yes, his wildest dreams have indeed come true.

“What do you say, bud?” Jake prompts.

“Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes!”

Amy laughs happily as she watches her husband and his best friend embrace, exchanging wide grins with Terry and Rosa. Their kid is a lucky guy or girl with their entire Nine-Nine family looking out for them.

There’s only one last thing to do.

They arrange to have dinner with Holt and Kevin to ask them if they will be the “god-grandfathers” of their unborn child.

(“God-grandfathers are not a thing, Peralta,” Amy had said when he first proposed the word, rolling her eyes.

“Who says?”

“The Merriam-Webster Dictionary, for starters.”

“Well, it’s a thing now,” Jake decided. He’d never cared for the Merriam-Webster Dictionary before, so why should he now? No use changing the habit of a lifetime. “It’s our thing. Because they’re our #Dads. I wouldn’t feel comfortable raising our kid without them.”

Her face softened, tears pricking at her eyes — those damn pregnancy hormones again — and she finally agreed. “God-grandfathers it is.”)

She’s incredibly nervous by the time they’re at the front door of the Holt-Cozner home, her fingers twisting the ends of her hair into a messy braid.

Jake places his hand atop hers, stilling her fingers. He gives her hand a supportive squeeze. “It’s gonna be great, Ames.”

They don’t bring it up until there’s a lull in conversation mid-way through the casserole Kevin prepared for them, unable to wait any longer. Even Jake is a little anxious, his leg bouncing beneath the table, when he broaches the subject.

“You know how Charles and Rosa are going to be our baby’s godparents?”

“Yes, I recall Raymond mentioning the fact,” Kevin responds. “Apparently it is all Detective Boyle talks about.”

“He’s very excited,” Amy says, amused. She finds herself less annoyed and more touched by Charles’ antics when they’re directed at others and not her or her email inbox.

“Well, Ames and I would love it if you two would have an important role in our kid’s life because, I don’t know if you’ve noticed because we’re super subtle about it, but we kind of consider you both as father figures.”

“We have noticed.”

“You are not subtle at all,” Holt assures them.

“Cool, cool, cool. No doubt. No doubt. No doubt. What do you say? Would you like to be the god-grandfathers to Nakatomi Peralta?”

“Please tell me you’re not naming your child after a building from your favourite movie,” Holt says disapprovingly.

“No,” Jake scoffs, then, under his breath, “Nakatomi is a character, too.”

“We would be honoured.” Kevin smiles lovingly at his husband, then at Jake and Amy. After a few seconds, his smile falls. “Although you are aware god-grandfathers are not a real thing, yes?”

“It’s our thing,” Amy repeats Jake’s words from earlier, beaming from ear to ear.

When their baby arrives, seven point five pounds of perfection, they have a lot of visitors, all wanting to feast their eyes on the precious addition to the family. The grandparents get first hold (apparently Victor and Roger had another arm wrestling match in the hospital waiting room to decide who got the very first hold), then Amy’s brothers that live in the city, then the godparents and god-grandparents.

Charles starts crying the moment he’s in the same room as her, only stopping when Amy threatens to make him leave.

Rosa smiles more than either Jake and Amy have ever seen her smile.

Captain Holt is quite simply enamoured with the little bundle of blankets, unable to mask his emotions in his usual robotic way when his god-granddaughter grips his pinky finger.

Jake and Amy exchange proud parent smiles as they watch their hours-old daughter with four of the people they trust most, knowing she will always be safe, loved and happy when in their arms.

#my writing #peraltiago fics #b99 fics #jake x amy #the end is corny but!!!!#i've been thinking about this fic for weeks

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heartofsnark · 5 years ago

Text

Cooking with Tsuneko (Custom MC) Headcanons

Notes: This was a Ko-fi request by @otomemonogatari , she specifically wanted Tsuneko and Mamoru cooking together, but for the sake of headcanon format and ‘cause I thought it’d be fun, I decided to do them all. If you don’t know Tsuneko is my mc in my series Black Market Wonderland. She is my baby and I adore her. And if you’re not reading that series and like her character here, why not give it a chance…..?

Also, I’m still getting a feel for writing Luke and Shuichi, they aren’t in the fic at this point and I haven’t written much for them. So, if it sucks I apologize. Also, no Hikaru cause I haven’t played him yet and I have no how he’d interact with Tsuneko at this point. So.

Eisuke and Tsuneko can surprisingly work pretty well together, when they want to, they just usually do not want to. They’re both similar in a lot of ways, not that either of them would ever admit this fact. They’re both perfectionist and efficient workers, there will be a lot of snide comments along the way though. Tsuneko and Eisuke cooking together would start with her giving him shit.

“Can you even cook? I mean, you’ve probably had chefs your whole life, so I doubt you can.”

“There’s nothing I can’t do.”

“You can’t pet cats or eat peas, but go off my dude.”

He’s scowling as he makes his way over to the kitchen where Tsuneko is, she’s grinning that it worked. Eisuke washes his hands and ties a white apron over his expensive designer clothes. She’s snickering at how stupid it looks, she’d try to hide it, but she doesn’t care if she hurts his feelings.

“I’ll sift the cake flour, you get the parchment paper and pan ready; trace the pan on the parchment paper, cut it out then grease the paper and pan.”

“Because you can’t draw or cut straight.”

“Draw on the fucking paper.”

Once she’s sifted through the cake flour enough, she looks over to see Eisuke has finished greasing the pan with shortening, glaring at what sticks to his fingers, like it’s personally offended him.

“It’s not gonna apologize to you.”

His glare switches to her and he wipes his hand off on the apron. It continues to go well, both taking tasks and easily able to follow directions, though neither misses a chance to make a snide comment.

By the end of it the two perfectionists have crafted a downright beautiful looking strawberry sponge cake. They then proceed to destroy it fighting over the strawberry on top. This is why we can’t have nice things.

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“Why don’t you just learn to make your own omelets?”

The look of concern on Soryu’s face makes Tsuneko laugh. She just figures it’s a practical skill, everyone should know how to cook for themselves and rolled omelets aren’t that hard. Soryu isn’t a stupid guy, so, what’s the worst that can happen?

He looks beyond awkward and clumsy as he ties on an apron. Tsuneko is trying her best not to snicker; he’s a complete fish out of water.

“First, we just need to crack some eggs, very simple,” she says as she cracks one of the eggs into the bowl then gestures at the rest of them.

Soryu reluctantly grabs an egg; he cracks it and promptly drops about half the shell into the bowl. She stifles a laugh as he awkwardly apologizes and picks out the shell. His cheeks are tinted red and a part of her feels bad, but not enough to stop her from insisting he cracks another.

He tries to crack it against the counter before dropping the egg into the bowl, maybe he thinks it’ll help. Instead, the egg falls onto the counter instead. She bursts into laughter and his face turns about three shades darker of red. She takes care of cracking the rest then adding in the mirin, soy sauce, and salt.

“Okay,” she brushes oil over the pan and pours about a third of the eggs in, “now just let that cook about a minute then we’ll roll it, ‘kay?”

Soryu takes over the pan while Tsuneko goes to get the spatula; her back is turned for a second before she hear Soryu yell. The kitchen is suddenly hotter.

She turns around to see flames shooting up from the pan, Soryu’s hand thrown up in defeat as he backs away. Tsuneko grabs a pan lid and covers it, smothering the fire.

“What the actual fuck happened?!”

“I don’t know.”

“My back was turned for less than a second.”

“This always happens or it explodes.”

“Explodes?!”

Soryu awkwardly scratches the back of his head, cheeks red and avoiding eye contact.

“You know what, how about you just go read,” she offers, taking off the lid to look at the burnt egg remains.

He nods in understanding before making a beeline out of the kitchen.

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Cooking with Baba, did you mean an hour of him flirting with her and then there’s food at the end?

They’re both good cooks, Baba more so than Tsuneko. In true gentleman fashion, he keeps offering to do some of the more manual stuff for Tsuneko which while sweet can also be irksome.

“Want me to dice those tomatoes for you, pretty lady?”

“Don’t annoy me when I have a knife.”

It’s also worth noting that Baba tends to just know how to cook, he doesn’t need to recheck or look over recipes. This does nothing but stress Tsuneko out as she is someone who triple checks what to do next before she does it.

“Now to add in the peppers and shallots.”

“Wait, let me double check, we might need to do,” Baba is already adding them in as she checks the recipe, “and that’s exactly the next step, how do you do that?”

“Have I managed to impress you?”

“If I say yes, will you stop winking at me, you fucking weirdo.”

Eventually, the dish comes out virtually perfect and mouth wateringly good.

“Made with love.”

“Don’t make me puke.”

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Ota was not invited into the kitchen, he just showed up, to the absolute dismay of Tsuneko. Being the grade A little shit that Ota is, he just continuously gets in the way and annoys her. It’s a constant battle of her batting his hands away from throwing random things into the batter.

“No, the cookies do not need tomatoes.”

“Don’t be boring, Koro.”

“Mustard is not a part of the recipe!”

“It might be good, you don’t know.”

“I most certainly do know.”

“I swear to fuck, if you put one pickle in there I’m smothering you!”

It’s a constant struggle of smacking away his gremlin hands and making sure he’s not ruining something. The process of making cookies takes about an hour longer than necessary thanks to Ota’s shenanigans.

Then comes time to decorate them, Tsuneko is suddenly out of her league.

“What is that?”

“Depends….what does it look like?”

“That’s not how that works, Koro.”

“It’s…supposed to be a bunny…”

“Pfffft, it looks like a sick plant.”

“Shut up, what did you make, art boy?”

“Look, I drew you.”

The frosting decoration on the cookie is a floppy eared dog and she promptly smacks it out of his hand.

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“Are you gonna help?” She asks as Mamoru is loitering around the kitchen and grazing, instead of making himself useful.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he grumbles as he starts to pop something in his mouth, she smacks his chest, not that it stops him.

“Either help or leave.”

“Ugh, I’ll try not to get in the way.”

She rolls her eyes, not quite sure why he isn’t just leaving. He expects her to cook him food, but won’t leave so she can do so in peace, maybe he just likes being an irritant.

“Wash your hands and you’ll need an apron.”

“Why do I need an apron?” He grumbles, half-assedly washing his hands.

“Actually wash them, don’t just run water over them, you gross fuck.”

She squirts soap over his hands and then goes to find an apron. There’s a couple aprons tucked away in her kitchen, there’s a few that are plain and more that are cutesy. She decides on a pink ruffly My Melody apron, he wants to be an irritant; she’ll be one right back.

“There, my hands are- what is that?”

“An apron.” She tries to keep her tone even, but the way his eyes widen at the apron cracks her up.

“I’m not wearing that.”

“Seriously, it’s just an apron, so you don’t stain your clothes.”

“I don’t care that much about these clothes.”

“That’s like, your one suit that doesn’t have stains, wear the apron.’

“Why does it have to be that one?” He glares at it like the pink ruffles have personally hurt him.

“It’s the only other apron I have.”

“Why can I wear that one?” He points at the apron she’s wearing, dark blue with just a simple black cat, Jiji, peeking out of the pocket.

“I’m wearing it.”

“This is ridiculous, I don’t even wanna cook-”

“Too late, put on the apron.”

He groans and rubs a hand over his face.

“C’mon, I’m literally the only person who’ll see it; your masculinity can’t be that fragile.”

Another groan and he yanks the apron from her hands, tying it on. She presses a hand to her mouth and sputters out a laugh; the feminine apron looks so goofy against his gray rumpled suit.

“Shut up, brat.”

“Okay, now would you strain the noodles for me,” she finally manages to get focused after a few more giggles at his expense.

“Fine,” Mamoru grabs the pot by the handles and carries it to the sink with the strainer to pour, “FUCK!”

The pot clatters and topples over, splashing boiling water over Mamoru.

“Shit, quick!” She grabs turns on the faucet and runs cold water, getting Mamoru’s hands under it.

“How did you even manage to drop that?” she chastises as Mamoru groans in pain as the water cools his red skin.

“I don’t know, just happened, fuck.”

“Come on, the food can wait.”

Tsuneko gets a cold compress, burn ointment, and bandaids before leading him to the couch. She gently rubs the ointment over his burned skin, earning winces and whines from him. Once that’s done, she carefully places some pink bandaids with My Melody on them over his blisters.

“They match your apron,” she teases.

“Haha, hilarious,” he grumbles as she puts the cold compress on his hand.

“I had no idea you were so accident prone, maybe we should keep you out of the kitchen.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

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Rhion would be so excited to help Tsuneko in the kitchen, but his eagerness doesn’t translate to being skilled at cooking. Thankfully, while a disaster on his own, he follows Tsuneko’s directions well enough to avoid absolute catastrophe. Though, Tsuneko babies him a bit, not letting him take over the more dangerous or important things.

“Add in a cup of flour.”

“Got it!”

“A pinch of nutmeg.”

“Done!”

“I’ll take care of the mincing and the oven.”

He nods in understanding, humming along to the radio as they cook. Occasionally, when there’s a wait time he spins and twirls to the music. He’ll pull at Tsuneko’s hand and try to convince her to dance along.

“No way, not happening.”

“Coooooome on Alice,” he says with a pout.

“Even your puppy dog eyes can’t make me dance, sweetie.”

He whines when she pinches at his cheek, before continuing his antics. She watches and laughs each time he nearly falls over.

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Tsuneko groans, a pain going through her hand. She’s trying to chop up chicken and vegetables to cook.

“What’s wrong Sexy Bones?”

“Holy fuck,” Tsuneko practically jumps out of her skin and turns to see Luke suddenly looming over her shoulder, “we need to put a bell on you or something.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Oh, I fell and hurt my hand earlier, so it’s hard to cut everything up.”

“You should relax it.”

“Yeah, well, I’m trying to cook.”

Luke steps towards the counter, blocking Tsuneko from moving back towards it. He produces a scalpel from his pocket then uses it to quickly and efficiently cut everything up. It can’t take him more than a minute or two.

“Is that all you needed cut, Sexy Bones?”

“Uhhh, yeah, thanks.”

The eccentric doctor wanders off, properly to read some medical text book and Tsuneko is left confused but thankful.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Shuichi has a tendency to micro-manage and Tsuneko has a tendency to hate that. While they both do well following instructions or recipe to absolute perfection, Shuichi tends to be more prone to breathing down someone’s neck.

“Do you think you’re chopping that thin enough?”

“The pieces are practically see through.”

“Did you preheat the oven to the right temperature?”

“Check it yourself, if you don’t believe me.”

“You managed to do it right.”

“Yes, I’ve been cooking for years and I’m also capable of following basic instructions.”

“I wasn’t aware.”

“I’m this close,” she nearly presses her fingers together, “to stabbing you.”

“This is basic supervising, if you can’t handle someone looking over your work, that’s not my fault.”

“Firstly, this isn’t work, you aren’t paying me. Secondly, you’re not just looking over it, you’re micro-managing. No one would put up with this.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Fine, let’s see how you like it, you take over the rest of the sides and I’ll supervise.”

“Fine.”

“I don’t think you chopped that enough.”

“Are you sure you added enough sugar?”

“Maybe you should stir that more.”

She continues nagging him the same exact way he did to her, looking for any chance to criticize or correct him. He stays calm mostly, just giving an annoyed sigh.

“Did you spray that with nonstick stuff?”

“You just saw me do that,” he finally snaps and glares at her.

“Awww, do you not like having someone breathing down your neck.”

“Fine, I understand, I’ll relax.”

“About damn time.”

~Did you like this set of headcanons? Wanna request something similar? Just wanna support me? Consider buying me a Ko-Fi!~

#kissed by the baddest bidder #kbtbb #eisuke ichinomiya #Soryu Oh #Mitsunari Baba #ota kisaki #mamoru kishi #rhion hatter #shuichi hishikura #Luke Foster #black market wonderland #tsuneko tomori

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pengychan · 5 years ago

Text

[Coco] Mind the Gap, Pt. 14

Title: Mind the Gap Summary: Modern Day AU. Tired of Ernesto’s snide remarks, Imelda decides to put him in his place and her husband is more than happy to help. It was supposed to be a one-night deal. Things quickly get out of hand. [OT3, mostly porn and humor. Plenty of instances of Ernesto being Dramatic, Imelda getting Sick Of His Shit, and Héctor trying to be the peacekeeper. Don’t expect anything serious.] Pairings: Ernesto/Héctor/Imelda Rating: Explicit.

Art by Dara.

[All chapters are tagged as ‘mind the gap’ on my blog.]

A/N: Aaaand shit hits the fan. You knew it was coming.

***

“I honestly cannot figure out if they’re dancing or fighting.”

“A bit of both, really. Brings out their best, through. You know, makes it more, er… passionate?”

“Oh, it does,” Armando agrees, staring at the scene through the glass. “Absolutely.”

Héctor smiles a little and follows his gaze. In the next room over, Imelda and Ernesto are singing - more to keep the tempo than for any other reason, they already recorded their cover of La Llorona with Héctor playing and that will be the audio - and dancing in front of a green screen, several cameras recording every move. Ernesto looks dashing in his best white charro and oh, Imelda is a dream in purple.

It was Armando’s idea to involve her in the music video, really, soon after the three of them had recorded the cover. He hadn’t been so keen on the idea of having Imelda sing with them as a guest - he had a couple of big names in mind - but after listening to the less-than-professional recording Héctor had on his phone, he was willing to give it a chance... and loved the result.

Truth be told, convincing Imelda to star in the video as well wasn’t easy; she was uncomfortable at the idea and honestly, Héctor was ready to drop it at the first ‘no’. Ernesto seemingly dropped it as well, but made a few sly remarks on how he couldn’t blame her for being worried she couldn’t keep up with him and his dancing.

Which gained him, of course, a raised eyebrow from Imelda.

“You do realize, I hope, that this attempt at goading me into it is about as transparent as it gets.”

“Is it working?” Ernesto asked, only for her to roll her eyes.

“No. I have no interest in humiliating you in front of your agent.”

“Oh?”

“You’re the one who wouldn’t be able to keep up.”

“Then prove it.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Chickening out, I see.”

“This isn’t going to work.”

“So you’re just going to pass on a chance to show me up in front of our manager?”

“...”

And… that was it, really, and here they are now, going through the routine time and time again, each refusing to give ground and dancing at their absolute best. It is the last thing that still needs doing - everything else is done, their debut album ready - and Armando wants to wrap up the filming within the day. If Ernesto and Imelda keep going like this, which Héctor is fairly sure they will do, they’re going to be exhausted by evening, but that’s not going to be a problem.

Héctor will very gladly take care of both of them.

***

“Don’t tell me you’re tired, Ernesto.”

“Absolutely not. Are you?”

“Not at all.”

Héctor bites his lower lip not to laugh at the conversation, which they’re carrying out sprawled at the opposite ends of the couch in a way that belies their words - both of them laying back, boneless and so obviously, utterly exhausted. Ernesto’s hair is dishevelled, whatever product he put on it clearly having given in, while Imelda’s hair is loose on her shoulders in dark waves. Even tired, she is beautiful. Ernesto is… not quite as much, but Héctor doesn’t mention it.

Instead, he grins and picks up his guitar. “So, who’s up for another round?” he asks, and barely ducks under two pillows thrown at him at the exact same time. Dante leaps to catch one, only to miss and crash against a chair while Pepita takes possession of it, to sit on it with the dignity of a queen. The other pillow is snatched by the Chihuahua pack; it takes all of them to carry it across the room, and they disappear beneath an armchair.

Normally, Imelda wouldn’t tolerate any pets but Pepita to take possession of those pillows; now, she seems very much beyond caring. As for Ernesto, he really never gave a damn.

“... I take it we’re not going out to celebrate wrapping this up?” Héctor pushes his luck again.

“No,” Imelda drones just as Ernesto mutters, “Tomorrow.”

Héctor’s grin widens. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re tired-- ouch!” He yelps, in surprise rather than pain, when something - Imelda’s slipper - smacks against his thigh.

Still sprawled on the other end of the couch, Ernesto nods. “Good shot.”

“Thanks. And I have another one.”

“Just kidding, just kidding!” Héctor protests with a laugh, holding the guitar up and almost hiding behind it. “But there is a fun activity I can suggest. One where I do all the work!” he almost shrieks when Imelda’s hand reaches for her other slipper.

The hand pauses in mid-air, and her eyebrows go up. “All the work?”

“Yes!”

She glances at Ernesto. He tilts his head. “Am I included in the fun activity?”

“Oh, like you would accept any answer but yes,” Héctor laughs, finally putting down the guitar. “All right, step one - you get your clothes off.”

“That sounds like work to me.”

“And you said you’d be doing all of it.”

“Ay, since when are you so laz--” Héctor ducks suddenly, and Imelda’s remaining slipper through the air. He jumps aside, and gives a victory grito. “Hah! Missed-- ouch! Ow! Seriously?”

Now missing a shoe, Ernesto gives him a satisfied smirk. “My aim is better,” he tells Imelda.

“I didn’t go for the head,” she points out.

“See, that’s the problem. You don’t aim high enough.”

Héctor rolls his eyes. “... Is either of you interested in what I’m suggesting?”

As it turns out they are very, very interested. But also very, very tired.

Half an hour later, buried beneath their snoozing forms - they stayed awake through the process of taking off their clothes and getting to the bedroom, but not much longer - Héctor sighs, trying to will his erection into going away, as he’s clearly not getting to use it at all tonight.

Ah well, there will be time to make up for it in the morning. Then maybe they’ll go out for a late breakfast someplace fancy, to celebrate the fact the album is done - their first step into proper stardom, as Ernesto calls it. Not that stardom matters much to Héctor, but it will be nice to have some extra income. So that Imelda can get a proper shop soon, and maybe they can start thinking… maybe…

Above him, Ernesto shifts sleepily and yawns. Héctor finds himself yawning as well, and the thought stays incomplete. He shuts his eyes, smiles at the tickle of Imelda’s breath against his neck, and lets sleep claim him as well. The future may hold a lot for them as Ernesto says but, for now, Héctor is happy to simply enjoy the present as long as it lasts.

It doesn’t last.

***

“Mierda.”

That is far from the most original thing to say; probably the very same word countless women found themselves uttering in various languages in the privacy of their bathroom, staring at two small lines on a pregnancy test stick - but at the moment, Imelda is unable to think of anything else to say. She can only lean back, heart in her throat, trying to think through the buzzing sound suddenly filling her ears.

No. No, no, no, no, no. It can’t be - it just cannot be - she’s on the pill, has been taking it religiously for the past several years, every day at the same time without fail. And she was lucky, too, never had any complications or side effects. Take the pill every day, stop a few days - cue period - and then on with the pill again. Nothing has ever gone wrong… until now.

Because she stopped taking it as usual, and there was no period to speak of. She tried not to worry, because sometimes human bodies are odd like that, and picked up the pregnancy test as an afterthought, thinking a negative result it would give her some peace of mind before she booked an appointment with her doctor to figure out if she needed to change brand of birth control.

Looks like I’ll have to call her for entirely different reasons.

Despite the voice in the back of her mind telling her that pregnancy tests are not infallible, Imelda can feel panic beginning to tighten her throat - because she knows that neither is birth control. But the pill is supposed to be effective in… over ninety-nine percent of cases. It worked until now, how can this be happening? What has changed in the past month? She can think of nothing, no big changes other than adopting a hyperactive and particularly stupid stray dog, full of ticks and with an infection--

… Wait. Wait just a moment.

Mind in turmoil, Imelda stands and throws open the medicine cabinet. There are some blisters of painkillers ‘just in case’, disinfectant, bandaids, some tampons, hair products she had told Ernesto to store somewhere else - and something else, the open box of the medication they all had to take after taking in Dante to find out he had a contagious fungal infection. Imelda tears it out of the cabined, pulls out the instruction booklet, and reads through it.

As it turns out, she should have done it much earlier.

Caution: when taken alongside birth control pills, it reduces the level of the hormone--

The booklet falls off Imelda’s fingers, floating slowly down on the tiles. She stares down at it for a few moments, then a few minutes, her ears buzzing. Now she knows what went wrong; later, once she shock has worn off, she will kick herself for being so careless. But right now, the one big question in her mind is what is she going to do about it.

It shouldn’t make her feel gutted. She and Héctor do want children; they agreed to wait until her business properly took off - and it has - and he got a foot firmly in the music industry - and he just did. This is... earlier than they planned, but it is what they wanted.

Except that, when they made plans, Ernesto was not yet in the picture. Not the way he is now.

At least… yes, at least there isn’t the issue of not knowing who the father is; in all the nights they have spent together, Ernesto has never been in her. At first because she didn’t want him to be - she considered that something for her husband only - and then… it had simply not happened. It almost did last week after they finally went out to celebrate the wrapping up of the album and oh, thank God, thank God he was too tipsy for it.

The father is Héctor, it can only be him, and it spares her the ordeal of not knowing and all the mess that would come out of it - because what would they even do, if it was Ernesto’s? Tell the truth, and force a child to deal with the stigma for the arrangement the three of them were in? They could decided to lie about it, pretend otherwise, but what if the truth got out? What if the child grew up to look far too much like their good family friend? Someone would find out, and… ah, she can’t imagine anything good coming out of it. It is a relief to know it will never happen.

But along with the relief, there is a burning sense of shame. Did she truly nearly get herself in the position of getting pregnant without even being certain who the father would be? That was… irresponsible of her. It had been meant to be a one-night deal, but it got well out of control and now it’s been… God, almost a year. How could she let it get this far?

Much, much too far. It cannot continue.

No, it really cannot, with a baby on the way. She will be a mother, Héctor will be a father, and Ernesto… he needs to be only a family friend again. She won’t object to Héctor and him being something more than that, as long as it is done discreetly and away from their home, but the three of them sharing a bed… that needs to end. The third wheel - she ignores the thought that Ernesto has come to be more than that, she must, if she’s to carry this out - needs to come off.

It would be far too dangerous with a child at home, asking questions. A child who would take the fall if word got out that their mother and father share a bed with another man, because it would be delusional to think their arrangement would simply be quietly accepted. Imelda could face the disapproval with her head held high if need be, but how could she ask that of a child? What kind of mother would let that happen?

It had to end, eventually. He’ll understand, he must. It is for the best. For everyone’s sake.

By the time she leaves the bathroom, the positive pregnancy test in her hand, Imelda has her mind made up. It hurts more than she ever thought it possibly might - a dull ache in her chest - but that’s not relevant right now. There is a baby coming, and she needs to do the right thing.

Even if Ernesto doesn’t agree, he must come to accept it. He’ll bounce back, Imelda tells herself, and she can believe that. Maybe she’s overestimating how attached Ernesto actually got. He’ll probably go back to his flings and one-night stands, if those ever really did stop.

Maybe he’ll throw a tantrum, as he often does when he doesn’t get his way, but she’s sure he’ll eventually be glad to have bailed out once the realities and responsibilities of having a child in the house become clear; he’ll mock them over the lack of nights out as he used to do only last year. She’ll get annoyed, and he’ll laugh it off. Like old times - arguably better than old times, because she refuses to think the understanding they have reached can simply vanish like that.

He’ll still be welcome in their home, just not in their bedroom. If she and Héctor are to be parents, it is time to put childish things behind them. She understands that and, she’s sure, so will her husband. Anyone with an ounce of common sense would see it is the only way forward.

“Héctor.”

Her voice is flat when she calls out, still somewhat numb, from the door of the living room. It causes Héctor - who is sprawled on the couch, song book in his hands and a foot braced against Dante to keep him from taking over - to look up, a pen in his mouth and another behind his ear. The one in his mouth falls off when he sees her expression and opens his mouth to speak; the other is dislodged when he sits up, putting the songbook aside.

“Imelda? What is it? Are you all right?” he asks, concern plain in her voice. Imelda draws in a deep breath, grip on the positive test tightening, and speaks quietly.

“We need to talk.”

***

“We need to talk.”

Héctor hears Imelda’s words through the loud blaring of an alarm. Or at least, that’s what it feels like: ‘we need to talk’ is very firmly among the top ten sentences that can make people question their every life choice, from the womb up to the second those words reach their ears.

We need to talk.

All right, all right. Time to keep his cool. Maybe he did something wrong - he probably did something wrong - and now they will talk it through. It is all right. Time to act as any reasonable adult would. Or not.

Nuh-uh, no. Nope. Nope nope nope. Abort mission, abort, abort.

“Great! We will! Soon! Soon-ish,” Héctor blurts out, and goes to grab his guitar, which is resting against the wall. His panicked brain fails to pick up the fact he’s holding it sideways. “I just thought up a song - I mean, I was thinking up a song - the words are giving me some trouble but I got most of the melody down, want to hear--”

“Héctor,” Imelda speaks up, putting a hand on the guitar. She looks… ay, she looks pale, and Héctor’s dumb panic immediately turns into concern. He puts down the guitar, almost dropping it on the only part of the couch not occupied by Dante, and cups her cheek.

“What… what is it? Are you feeling ill?”

“No, I--”

“Do you need to see a doctor?”

“Possibly later, but--”

Héctor’s brain somehow freezes and starts working twice the normal speed, simultaneously. The result is that he only gets stupid thoughts, but in much quicker succession than normal. She’s seriously ill, she has cancer, she’s the calmest person ever to experience a heart attack and oh God when was last time either of them did a full health check-up?

“Oh my God, you’re ill!”

“No!”

“You’re pale!”

“Héctor--”

“You said we need to talk, and you were using That Voice, it has got to be something serious!”

“Well, it is something serious--”

“I’ll call an ambulance!”

“No, you will not-- Héctor, put the phone down-- por Dios-- I’m pregnant, Héctor!”

Héctor’s neurological functions skid to to nearly a full stop, leaving enough electrical activity to keep him breathing, but just barely. He stammers. He drops the phone. He stares. His brains sputters back into activity.

“Pregnant,” he repeats, as though trying out a foreign word. Imelda bites her lower lip, nods, and holds up something - a stick. A pregnancy test with two tiny lines showing on the screen. Héctor blinks at it. “... How?”

That gains him a look that’s somewhere between stunned, pitying, and ‘oh God who did I marry’. “... The usual way?”

Ah. Right. That was… no, wait. It wasn’t that stupid a question, she’s supposed to be on the pill, and-- and--

I’m going to be a papá.

The realization hits him like a ton of bricks, kickstarting his brain into a semi-functional status again. He blinks at her, his face beginning to open up in what’s probably the biggest, dumbest smile since… their wedding, maybe. Probably since ever.

“A baby? You’re having a baby? We’re having a baby?”

Imelda seems to hesitate a moment, then her own expression opens up in a smile. It is somewhat tentative, but there is no mistaking the sheer joy of it; it’s like it occurred to her just now that she ought to be, and is, happy. “Sí. We’re having a baby.”

Héctor’s grito is loud enough to make Pepita shoot from the chair she was napping to the ceiling, while Dante flops off the couch with a yelp and runs to hide under a table. Imelda may also be trying to say something about her eardrums, but it’s lost in gales of laughter when he grabs her, kisses her, and twirls her around - improvising a silly, very uncoordinated dance across their living room.

Imelda laughs, too; she kisses him back, throws her arms around his neck, dances with him as he sings - “What color's the sky? ¡Ay mi amor, ay mi amor!” - and eventually they both stumble back on the couch, laughing, holding onto each other as the notion sinks in that they’re going to be parents.

It’s... a little earlier than they imagined it would happen, but it’s all right. They can make it work, Héctor knows they will, and-- ah, he can’t wait. He only just knew they have a baby on the way and he can’t wait to meet them.

“Imagine your parents’ face when we tell them-- and your brothers-- they're going to be tíos!”

“And they’ll never get to be in the same room as the baby unsupervised,” Imelda mutters, with a slightly exaggerated shudder of fake horror. Well, maybe not entirely fake.

Héctor laughs again, as though drunk on happiness, ignoring the brief stab of sadness at the thought that their baby will only have one set of grandparents. And no tíos from his side, since he never had siblings and-- ah, what is he thinking? Ernesto is going to be their tío, of course, they grew up together, it’s only fair.

“Wait until I tell Ernesto!” he exclaims, wishing the cabrón hadn’t chosen that day of all days to go get his nails done; if he were home, he’d be running downstairs in minutes to pound at his door and tell him the news. “I fully expect him to be the godfather! And to try and not hog all the attention at the christening, if he can manage-- are we doing that in Santa Cecilia? I think it would be nice, but Ernesto never wants to go back, so maybe--”

“Héctor.” Imelda’s hand is light on his cheek, her voice quiet, and Héctor knows something is amiss before he glances at her, at her somber expression. But this time, there is no panic: just the quiet realization of where this is going. “This is what we need to talk about. Ernesto,” she says, taking his hand. She looks saddened, but resolute. “... We’re having a baby. A child to raise. This-- the arrangement has to end.”

Oh. There is a stab of something in his chest, the kind of ache that comes with the realization that something good - something wonderful - has to come to an end, and sooner than planned. But Imelda is right, as she usually is; a child is going to change everything. A child in the house is going to change everything, and it’s their responsibility to make… adjustments. She can see that, he can see that… and he hopes that so will Ernesto.

“He will understand,” Héctor says through a lump in his throat. But it hurts, and his words sound unconvincing to his own ears.

For all the talents Ernesto has, knowing when to step aside was never one of them.

***

Something is… wrong.

It takes a while for Ernesto to notice, really, because throughout the dinner he’s rather busy talking - about the album, about future projects, about the new guitar he wants to buy, about himself in general because he does find himself to be a very interesting subject. They’re halfway through the main course when he realizes he’s not getting interrupted nearly as often as usual; by the time the waiter brings in the desserts, he finally notices the nervous glances they’re exchanging. Or at least, Héctor looks nervous; Imelda just seems to be… bracing herself.

Something is not right, Ernesto thinks, only moments before Héctor clears his throat.

“So, uh…” he manages a smile that is, at the same time, delighted and absolutely unconvincing. “Imelda and I have-- we have news.” He puts a hand down on the table, palm up, and Imelda grasps it with her own.

Later on, that is something that will keep coming back to mock him through sleepless, lonely nights: those joined hands, the way the fingers intertwine, how perfectly they fit. How complete they are, without him. But right now, it just unnerves him slightly; he looks up from their joined hands to meet Héctor’s gaze, confused more than alarmed.

“News?”

A nod, and the smile becomes a less forced, brighter. By his side, Imelda is expressionless as a sphynx. “We’re having a baby,” Héctor says, and grips Imelda’s hand tighter.

Ernesto stares. Blinks. Opens his mouth, closes it again, opens it once more. “... What?”

Another squeeze of Imelda’s hand, but Ernesto doesn’t notice: he can only stare at Héctor’s, too stunned for words, as he swallows and speaks again.

“Imelda is pregnant. We’re going to be parents.” The smile again, more tentative, more anxious. Ernesto’s eyes shift to Imelda, who remains expressionless. She is trying to keep control over the situation; Ernesto takes it as cold indifference as she nods and speaks, her voice calm, her words measured.

“... I am.”

Ernesto’s head spins a little. This is… bad. A kid would change everything and he doesn’t want things to change. “But how-- I mean-- I thought you were…?”

“I was on the pill, but some medication... interfered. I am five weeks in.”

“Five weeks,” Ernesto repeats, and there is some relief in his voice. Five weeks is still early enough for it to be taken care of - it would be a nightmare in Santa Cecilia, but in Mexico City? It can be done. He opens his mouth to say it aloud, but Imelda seems to have read his mind.

“We do want this baby, Ernesto.” Her voice is just a little more forceful, and again Ernesto is briefly stunned into silence. She sighs. “We always wanted children, you know that. This only comes… a little earlier than planned.”

Ernesto blinks, and turns to look at Héctor. He looks saddened, and it hits him suddenly - he knows where this is going. This is it, then - he’s getting the family he’s always wanted, they both are, and Ernesto is… no longer needed. He shakes his head, acutely aware of the fact he can’t say too much or too loudly, being in a restaurant and all. Only later, in hindsight, will he realize they told him in a restaurant to keep him from making a scene.

“Wait, wait-- what about--” what about me? “What about-- us?”

Héctor swallows. “You are still my best friend,” he says, and tries to reach across the table to put a hand on Ernesto’s arm, but he pulls back with a scoff.

“Oh, so that’s it? It’s over, just like that?”

Imelda shakes her head. “You and Héctor-- I won’t mind. But not at home, and… not with me.”

Is she serious? Does she really think it is enough-- that he will just-- Christ, does she feel anything about it at all? She may as well be made of ice, and Ernesto clenches his teeth, fury burning in his chest. He’s so angry, all of a sudden; at her for not caring, at himself for giving a damn that she doesn’t care, and at Héctor for just taking her side.

Of course he’d take her side. She has him whipped, and he’s a coward.

“You can’t!” he snaps, and finally her indifferent expression is broken, the hint of a frown creasing her brow.

“I can. I have every right to call myself out of it. Or would you force me?”

“What-- no!”

“There you have it, then. The arrangement, as it is, needs to end. I can’t keep being part of it.”

Anger barely in check, a sudden ache in his chest, Ernesto turns to Héctor. “And you agree with this?” he snaps. His best friends returns his gaze, still saddened… but his voice is firm.

“There’s a baby coming. We need to… to make some changes, even if we don’t like it. For the baby.”

Oh, of course. Anything for the damn baby that’s not even a baby yet-- but what about about him?

What do they care? They have their baby now. A brand new third wheel. That’s all I was, no? It was stupid to think that had changed. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

It stings - a lot - and Ernesto realizes that if he stays there he’ll scream or, worse yet, break. So he does the only thing he can do: he stands abruptly, almost knocking down the chair, and storms out of the restaurant - trying not to think, saying nothing, without looking back.

He doesn’t think he could stand turning to see those two still there, hand in hand - but ah, it’s no longer just the two of them, is it? There are three people around that table. The perfect number.

And he’s not part of it anymore.

***

“All right. What’s wrong?”

Sofía’s voice rings out in the darkened room. Ernesto, who’s staring at the wall and scowling, makes a face despite knowing she can’t see it at all.

“Nothing,” he says, hoping it will be enough. It clearly… isn’t.

“Yeah, no. You show up and suggest drinks, which was always your code for ‘fuck later’, and I say sure, got no plans for the night and it’s been a while. With you, I mean, I kept myself busy.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“We go out to have the drinks and you hardly talk, which is not unwelcome but also unlike you, since you can spend up to three hours talking about yourself without pausing - I timed you once,” Sofía says, and pokes him in the ribs. “Cigarette?”

“Not good for my voice,” Ernesto grumbles, still resting on his side to glare at the wall. He hears the sound of a lighter, a deep inhale, and he hopes she’s done talking. She’s not.

“I mean, really - there was karaoke going on and you didn’t elbow your way to the microphone. That is so unlike you it gets into worrying territory.”

“I was not in the mood--”

“Then you come to my place, fail to get it up - not that unusual, really--”

“Hey now--”

“-- But nothing some work can’t fix, and then suddenly you have a headache and would rather just sleep.”

“You’re giving me a headache right now,” he points out, turning.

“So you did not have a headache,” Sofía mutters, and triumphant note in her voice, and Ernesto snorts, shutting his eyes. There is a huff, and she rests her chin on his upper arm, blowing some smoke in his face. “Come on, who was it?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I recognize heartbreak when I see it, amigo.”

“I’m not heartbroken!” he sputters indignantly, spitting out the last word like it’s something rotten, and turns his head to glare at her - getting another puff of smoke in the face.

“Hu-uh. And I’m a bride of Christ,” she mutters, and pulls back to rest on her back, a hand reaching out to tangle in his hair. “Look, I still have no plans for the night. If you want to keep up your Macho Act I’ll go make myself a sandwich, have another smoke and go watch a movie or something. If you’d rather talk about it, I’ll listen. You’ve got time until I finish this cigarette to decide.”

Ernesto lets out scoff and stands, throwing the sheets off himself. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he says sourly, grabbing his clothes. He’s out of the door a minute later, slamming it shut, and gaining no reaction but a raised eyebrow and another drag of the cigarette.

***

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#pixar coco #coco #ernesto de la cruz #imelda rivera #hector rivera #mind the gap

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seljepw · 6 years ago

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Sleeping With the Enemy: Part 3

A/N: My beloveds. Thank you for your unending patience with my slow-ass story crafting. This one has been in the works for a long time, and I’m so freaking happy to share it with you. Sláinte.

When last we left our heroine: A year ago, Crowley and the reader came to an agreement. Since then, they’ve fucked seen each other twice, and it’s no longer as cut-and-dry as it once was. What is going on, here? Just great sex? Just business? Or something more? (Catch up on previous chapters HERE)

Menu Warnings: HERE THERE BE SMUT. Demon power kink, unprotected sex (you know this is pretend, right??), public sex, orgy, Crowley’s dirty mouth, etc.

Weighing in at: 7,780 words. I’m not even sorry.

The King of Hell had been fucking with you for months.

Note: fucking with you, not fucking you. Therein lay the problem.

It started the morning after his last visit. You had dragged yourself, sore and sleepless, to the shower. You spent much longer under the hot water than usual, hoping it would wash away some of your confusion. By the time you got out, the huge bathroom was full of steam. In the condensation on one of the mirrors was a large heart, around your first initial and a capital C. Crowley’s voice echoed in your mind.

“I didn’t expect you to pine away, doodling our names in little hearts on you chemistry notebook…”

You hastily wiped your hand over the drooling lines, and hoped that neither of the Winchesters had wandered in in the last hour.

A month later, you had opened the shitty motel room door in po-dunk nowhere, Arkansas, to find the entire room covered in flowers. Every kind, every color possible. On the pillow, tied to a black rose with silk ribbon, was a note. “Your favorite must be here, somewhere.” When you climbed in the car the next morning in your FBI duds, Dean asked if you were wearing a new perfume.

You managed to keep the boys out of your room for the remainder of the case, and every night when you “went to get ice”, you discarded another bin full of flowers.

You did keep your favorite bloom, though. Pressed in your hunter’s journal with no other context.

The fancy underwear had shown up next. Scraps of red lace that looked like they had been made to be taken off almost immediately, but would disintegrate with normal use. When you left them in the box, the next day they were replaced with soft, clearly expensive pajamas. Those you wore. But not out of your room. Sam and Dean were observant enough to notice when you got new clothes, and you didn’t want to have to come up with a groggy, pre-coffee lie, one morning.

It went on for months. Pizza you didn’t order arrived at the library where you and the guys were pulling an all-nighter. On laundry day, your clothes were magically folded and arranged in a C on your bed. A box of bandaids in Baby’s backseat, the day after you put down a rugaru, with a note inside that said “Just protecting my interests…”. It was getting infuriatingly difficult to explain away or hide the evidence of demonic visitation from the Winchesters, despite the fact that you hadn’t actually seen your demonic visitor, at all.

And then there were the dreams.

Every few nights, you would dream of Crowley’s hands on you. Burning fingers on your thighs, breasts, wrists, pussy… one night, you woke up coming. Most nights, you just woke up frustrated, flipped the pillow to the non-sweaty side, and tried to get back to sleep.

You (ahem) filled the void with a few guys here and there, but mostly, they just took the edge off enough that you didn’t literally claw your way up a wall. Nothing quite matched the intensity that you had experienced with Crowley. Eventually, you gave up on outside help, and invested in a large pack of batteries.

It had been almost six months since your last… what to call it?

“Encounter”? Too spaceshipy.

“Assignation”? Too romance-novely.

“Date” was flat-out wrong.

Whatever it was that you and Crowley had indulged in, it had been too long since it happened.

October came again. You hadn’t heard from Crowley for two months. No semi-intrusive gifts, no cryptic notes, not even a bathroom mirror doodle. You tried not to think anything of it. So, he had gotten tired of toying with you, and moved on. Fine. Good riddance. You would just have to compartmentalize and move on with your own life. It wasn’t like he owed you anything. This all started as basically a business deal for an ancient, witch-fighting talisman. Nothing personal, right? In fact, it was a relief not to have to hide the evidence from Sam and Dean. You definitely did not miss him. Or, so you told yourself at least twice a day, when you caught sight of the Luisgeàrd as you changed clothes, or felt it pressed between your breasts under your shirt. Despite yourself, though, you never took it off.

~~~

Another vampire, another hunt, another po-dunk nowhere. Two lane blacktop and spanish moss-layden oak trees whipping by the open window. Unseasonable heat that was sticking to your skin, making you itch from the inside out. Dean singing and drumming on the wheel. Between the sexual drought and the muggy air, you had to concentrate hard on not throttling him.

When you and the boys finally tracked down the vamp, you spent a little longer than normal beating the shit out of it before the killing blow. Sam had given you A Look, but said nothing. Dean offered to buy you a drink.

The town bar was a standard Southern-American dive. The kind of place where a night had never passed without at least one drunken sing-along to “Friends in Low Places”. Women and men in ass-hugging jeans and tank tops bumped around like bubbles in a kettle. Dean was in heaven. Soon, he was hustling pool in the corner, a blonde woman giggle-whispering in his ear, a huge grin on his face. You saluted each other with your respective drinks through the neon light and loud voices.

“You good?” his raised eyebrow asked.

Your smirk and sip responded, “Not as good as you, but I’ll keep.”

His head tilted a bit to your left. “Heads up, lame pickup line at 9 o’clock.”

You turned to face the guy just as he slid into the stool next to yours. In the time it took for him to smile at you, you gave him a once-over. Not bad. Cute, in a Friday Night Lights kind of way. No outward display of “southern gentleman” that really covered up misogyny. And the lack of a rebel flag on his shirt was a welcome change from the other customers. He’d do.

Before he could say anything and ruin the moment, you spoke first.

“Buy me a drink.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, ma’am!”

A beer and a half later, things were right on track. His hand on your thigh and his mouth on your neck and your thoughts most definitely not on the King of Hell, thankyouverymuch.

“Let’s get out of here,” you murmured in his ear.

“Aw, fuck, yeah!” was his charming response. This guy was lucky you were so hard-up.

“Just gimmie a minute to freshen up.” You extricated yourself from his grip, slid off the stool, and headed for the bathroom. As you passed the pool table, you and Dean had another silent conversation, where you assured him you had things well in hand, and would call him if needed.

You actively didn’t think about Crowley. You didn’t think about Crowley while you checked to make sure you had a condom in your bag. You didn’t think about Crowley while you sat on the toilet. You didn’t think about Crowley while you washed your hands. Then you glanced in the mirror and saw the note.

“Enjoy the junk food, Love. He’s cute. You deserve a treat. -C”

In your shock, the only thing you could think was, So, the King of Hell uses Post Its. Good to know. Then the rage hit. How dare he pull something like this? Months of radio silence, and then suddenly popping up and implying that he was giving you permission to sleep with what's-his-name, out there. Fuck. That. You were not going to give him the satisfaction of feeling like he could control you.

“Fuck you, asshat!” you snapped to the empty bathroom. Then you were through the door, pushing past drunk rednecks, not hearing Dean calling your name, not seeing the confused look on “junk food’s” face, until you were out in the humid parking lot, the Post It crumpled in your fist.

Dean had the good sense not to press you. The drive back to the hotel, breakfast at a diner in the morning, and then the whole way back to Kansas, he didn’t ask what had happened in the bar. He didn’t ask about as loudly as a person could, in fact. Sam kept giving you the patented Winchester Look Of Concern™ when he thought you couldn’t see. But they knew you. They knew that when you had shit to deal with, you did it alone. The only one who’d ever meddled in your all-alone shit-dealing was Crowley. Damn him. You twitched angrily and turned up the volume to your headphones, closed your eyes, and ignored the Winchesters all the way to the Bunker. It wasn’t until Dean killed the engine that you opened your eyes and realized your fingers were tangled in the Luisgeàrd’s leather cord.

~~~

You almost didn’t open it. The box on your bed. Large, white, and tied with blood red ribbon. You were considering how to get it to the garbage chute without Sam or Dean seeing it when you read the note attached.

“Please wear this when you yell at me. -C”

“At least he said please this time…” you grumbled. Curiosity got the better of you, and you opened the box.

It was a dress. A white silk gown that poured over your hands as you rustled it out of the tissue paper. You held it up for inspection, and stared. Simple. No frills, no lace. Just artfully draped white silk that fell to the floor. Despite your anger- which hadn’t abated, by the way- you were enchanted. You thought back to last Halloween as you kicked out of your jeans and flannel, and then slithered the silk over your head.

The gown you’d worn to Crowley’s masquerade ball, when this whole thing started, had been uncomfortable and heavy. Swathes of red velvet that left you restricted and off-balance. Undoubtedly gorgeous, but so not you. The leather mask that hid your features and cut off your peripheral vision hadn’t helped, either. The foreignness of your costume that night had lent an overall feeling of Other to that whole experience. And that feeling had colored everything that came after. Added to the confusion. Was still adding to the confusion.

This dress was exactly the opposite of last year’s getup. You regarded your reflection, spinning slowly. It fit you well. More than that, it suited you. You could move easily in the lightweight fabric. It didn’t get caught under your feet as you walked, and the sleeveless bodice gave you full use of your arms. The glowing white of the silk played with the tone of your skin, making you glow, too. The Luisgeàrd, in it’s constant position around your throat, nestled comfortably in the neckline, which looked like it had been cut specifically to show off the talisman.

“Sneaky fucker,” you murmured, fingering the wooden disk.

“I prefer to think of it as, ‘Romantically Mysterious’,” rasped a familiar voice in the corner.

You’d been expecting this, but you still flinched. Whirling to face him, months worth of angry thoughts stampeded to get out of your mouth and bottlenecked, leaving you working a jaw around silent fury.

“You look radiant,” was all he said.

All the trapped words coiled in your throat like an about-to-cry lump. You managed to gasp in a breath, then blurted out, “Where have you been?”

Seriously? You berated yourself. ‘Where have you been?’ Like you’re some neglected housefrau confronting an errant husband at 2:00am. Fuck, get your fists off your hips. You don’t care, remember?

You crossed your arms, suddenly feeling foolish in the gorgeous dress. Still, you had promised yourself you wouldn’t back down. Crowley unsettled you, and that was unacceptable. You weren’t unsettled. Ever. You couldn’t be, in your line of work. You put on your fight face and looked him squarely in the eye.

He just stared at you for a moment, something like sadness around the corners of his eyes. “I was watching,” he finally said, quietly.

“You were watching? Well, thank you. That’s not creepy at all.”

“It occurred to me that we both might need some space, after…” he stopped and looked away. His glance fell to your bed.

The memory surfaced. You and Crowley, face to face, sweaty and sated...

“What the fuck are we doing, Crowley?” You’d asked. “What is this? I mean, I barely know you. Half the time, I don’t trust you... What are we doing?”

You remembered the feeling of his palm on your cheek and his forehead pressed to yours. The way he had whispered, “Y/N, I-”

...And that was when the boys had come home, and everything had gone to shit.

You took a small step forward. His eyes darted to the silk rustling around your feet, clinging to your thigh as you moved. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he looked… scared. It was unheard of to see Crowley, King of Hell and consummate cocksure ass, off his game. Maybe this dress was exactly what you needed. Leveling the playing field, so to speak.

“After what, Crowley? After last time, in this room, in that bed, when you almost said something you’d regret?” You’d closed the distance, now. If either of you reached out, you could grab the other.

“I need your help,” he said, finally meeting your eyes, again. There was no guile. No half-smile in the words. Just fear and perhaps a little shame. “All right? There it is. I need your help.”

You were stunned. “You… what?!”

“There are some rumblings in my kingdom. Pissants who think I’ve lost my edge; that Hell’s not what it could be under my rule. ‘Make Hell great again’, and all that twaddle. I’ve made a shaky alliance with a coven-”

“A coven? Of witches?! Crowley, do we need to have another talk about what I do for a living?”

He continued speaking as though you hadn’t. “-A coven that’s powerful enough to sway the dissidents. If I can show that I’m strong enough to forge a treaty like this, it would go a long way to restabilizing my reign.” Somewhere in that statement, he had rested his hands on your hips. He gave you a gentle shake and looked at you through his lashes. “A delegation from this coven is coming to the Halloween ball, tonight, but they’re old-school. They respond favorably to symbols and archetypes. Pomp and circumstance. They may not like dealing with me alone. I need backup, Love.” He hooked a knuckle under your chin and lifted your face to his. “I need a Queen... for the night.”

“A…. a queen. You mean… me? Me, queen?” Great, now you had devolved into Tarzan sentence structure. Get a grip, woman!

He smiled at you. A real smile. You weren’t sure you’d ever actually seen Crowley smile, before. It was gorgeous. His hands were still on you- hip and chin- and he used the leverage to pull you forward into a kiss.

Warm and soft and gentle, this was one of those kisses that seemed to wrap around you, raising goosebumps and relaxing every tense muscle. You wanted to swim in it. Drown in it.

Crowley’s sulfur/incense smell was everywhere. His hands whispered around your waist and into your hair. You signed into the warm solidness of his chest pressed to yours. The feel of his suit coat under your fingers. It went on forever. It was, ironically, pure heaven.

When he reluctantly eased his lips off of yours, your face felt cold. It took you a moment to resurface and open your eyes. Crowley’s earnest face stared back.

“Please, Y/N. Will you help me? Just for tonight?”

You stayed silent for a moment, slowly working your fingers through his hair, not looking at his eyes. Letting yourself enjoy the feeling of making him squirm, for a change. You carefully wound his tie around your hand; got a good grip. That’s when you met his gaze. With a deliberate tug, you command his full attention.

“I’ll make you a deal, Crowley,” you said, low and only a little breathless. “I’ll be your Queen for the night. And afterwards, you will owe me a conversation. About feelings.”

A hint of terror darkened the corners of his face, but his overall expression was one of hunger.

“It’s a deal.”

There was a lurch somewhere in your guts, and suddenly you found yourself standing in a dim alcove, like a theatre box, overlooking a familiar black marble ballroom.

Hell’s Halloween Ball was in full swing, already. The assortment of attendees echoed last year’s. Fae, vamps, and even a djinn or two wound their way around and through the crowd of demons, all decked out in elaborate costumes.

You looked down from the shadows of your hiding place, and once again, the feeling of being so terribly human overwhelmed you. Like a goldfish in a school of sharks. That was when you realized that Crowley had zapped you here before you’d had a chance to grab a single weapon. Or shoes. ...Or underwear. That off-balance, othery feeling took hold of you. You shivered.

“Something wrong, darling?” Crowley rumbled from behind you.

“Just feeling a little underdressed, all of a sudden.” You kept your voice down, even though you were so high above the dance floor, no one could possibly hear you.

Crowley hummed low in his throat and pressed himself to your back, snaking his hands over your silk covered hips and nipping slightly at your earlobe.

“Underdressed is exactly how I like you,” he growled.

Your whimper was purely instinctual. So was the way you arched back, rubbing against him and offering your neck for kisses.

Crowley groaned and bit down on the junction of your throat and shoulder. A slight keening sound happened somewhere in the vicinity of your vocal chords without your permission, and you ground against him again. You had just a heartbeat to enjoy the feeling of Hell’s most impressive cock rolling against you before that feeling was replaced by a sharp slap on your ass. You pulled a breath through clenched teeth and gripped the railing in front of you.

“Careful with that. It’s loaded,” you said, and shook your ass at him.

“And who’s fault is that?” He retorted.

“Who’s fault?” You huffed a laugh. “Yours! It’s been a while, you know.”

“You didn’t listen to me- I tried to steer you towards that little snack back in Alabama. You chose not to take the offer.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you said without any real anger. “Like I’m gonna do what you tell me.”

“Cheeky.” Another sharp spank, softened by a kiss behind your ear. “We can-and will- play later. Now, it’s time to work.”

He stepped back and let you turn to face him. At some point, he had donned his costume. It was the same from last year, you saw; a red cape draped over his impeccable black suit, a multi-horned devil mask covering the top half of his face. Standing in the shadows of the alcove, the flickering lights from the ballroom below picking out the lines of that mask, Crowley was back to the mythical dark figure you’d encountered a year ago. A wolf-in-the-woods kind of shadow that made all the animal parts of you quiver. The devil that had fucked you senseless in the dark above his library. God, you wanted him to do it again.

He must have known how his appearance affected you, because he licked his lips, smirked, and crooked a finger in your direction. His eyes flared red as you took an involuntary step forward.

“That’s it, my Queen,” he murmured low, “Come to daddy.”

You snorted in quiet amusement as you crossed the carpeted floor to him. “Ass.”

From behind his back, Crowley produced a mask for you. It was white filigree, not solid, so it wouldn’t cut off your vision like the last one, the metal swirls were wrought to dip low over your nose and high on your brow, almost horse like. The antlers that sprouted from the top gave the appearance of a crown, much like the demonic horns on his own mask. You reached a tentative hand out to touch one of the points.

“A deer?”

“A hart. A White Hart.” When you looked askance at him, he continued, “The White Hart, in stories, is a traveler from another world. An emissary of sorts. And the bestower of blessings upon Kings. I told you- symbols and archetypes.”

“So this is a political move, not an aesthetic one?”

He rolled his eyes. “Sweet missionary on a spit, woman. Have you seen yourself? It’s both.”

He helped you settle the mask in place- it was much lighter than you thought it would be- and offered his arm in a courtly gesture. “I think we’ve reached ‘fashionably late’, by now. Come on, Pet. Let’s give them a show.”

~~~

The ballroom fell silent when you walked in. The music died away, dancers stopped swirling, conversations ceased, and everyone turned toward the King of Hell as though it were choreographed. You looked out over the sea of supernatural faces and tried to slow your heart rate. If Crowley needed you to be a Queen, and it got you an honest conversation from him, by fucking Hell, you would be a Queen. A deal’s a deal, after all.

“Friends, demons, countrymen,” Crowley addressed them, a little sardonically, “Welcome to my annual ball. As always, until sunrise, the legendary hospitality of Hell is open to you. Enjoy yourselves!”

The music rose again, and the party resumed. A path opened in the crowd, and Crowley led you to the dance floor. Although the fizzle static of a few hundred conversations filled the huge room, it seemed that every eye was still on you. Your bare feet, blessedly hidden by the liquid swirling of the dress as you moved, made no sound on the cool marble floor. A lack of shoes allowed more maneuverability than last year’s heels, but it made you feel even more venerable. And you still didn’t know how to waltz.

But Crowley wasn’t King of Hell by chance, and he played his role flawlessly. As he swung you into into his arms, you felt the familiar hot pressure of invisible hands lifting you just an inch off the floor. You fought a gasp and smirked at him. The hands in question had lifted from just under your ass.

“Bastard,” you murmured.

“Oh, darling, you say such lovely things,” he retorted, and began swirling you around the floor.

With the whirling motion blurring the world around you, it was easier to forget that you had entered the room as the center of attention.

“So, this is a yearly thing, huh? I didn’t know it was such a big deal.”

“Well,” he tilted his head conspiratorially, “It’s not like we’re the types to have a company Christmas party. This lets everyone mingle, drink, blow off steam…” At that, one of the manifested hands under your skirt reached a little deeper, running a finger of heat through your folds. You hissed through clenched teeth, to keep from crying out. Crowley continued in a conversational tone, but low enough that only you could hear, “Have I mentioned how gorgeous you look, tonight, Y/N? I can’t bloody wait to have the business bit over and done with. I’m going to eat you alive.” His eyes flared red as you moved through a small shadow on the edge of the floor, and an ethereal tongue joined the fingers under your skirt, lapping at the juices there.

“Fuck, Crowley, you fucking asshole… shit…” You whispered and writhed, trying to ease the pressure. But his power just moved with you, and you couldn’t get away. Your vision went white around the edges and your breath came in shallow pants. The King pulled you closer, to keep you from swooning back, and never broke stride.

“Oh, there she is. Hello, darling,” he crooned, “Did you miss me?” The spectral tongue never relented, and a sucking pressure was added to your clit. You bit your lip in a desperate fight to keep quiet. Crowley kept going. “This is the version of you I like best, Love. All flustered and pliable and dripping.” The disembodied tongue pushed deeper, writhing inside. You couldn’t bite back all of your pleasure and a small Aaaaah! Slipped out, buried in Crowley’s neck. He continued, “That’s it, Love. Let your King take care of you. You like when I play with you, don’t you? My squirming, soaking wet little toy. I wonder how long I can keep playing with you until-”

The music died again and Crowley broke off mid-sentence with a whispered curse. He stepped away from you, to greet the intrusion. The invisible mouth abruptly stopped its torture, as well. But the hands remained, more to keep you upright than anything else. Which was a good thing, as you probably wouldn’t be able to stand on your own. Again, the occupants of the room turned toward the main doorway, in which stood three women in glittering black gowns.

The witches had arrived.

~~~

To help get your heart rate down and your brain back in working order, you took mental notes of the new guests. Queen-for-a-night or not, you were still a hunter. The blonde one was young. In her early 20’s, if you had to guess. She wore a white mask over her eyes. On the other side of the doorway, there stood a statuesque brunette that seemed to be nearing 40. Her mask was red. The one in the middle was a head shorter than the other two, but was unquestioningly In Charge. She was old. Middle 80’s maybe? You hardly ever saw a witch owning her age, like that. Her black mask and black dress made her white hair stand out against the dark marble room.

“Ladies,” Crowley’s tone was friendly, if a little cautious, “I’m so glad you could join us. Please come in.”

A new path cleared, and you saw a small dais set at the end of the hall, on which sat two empty thrones facing the crowded room. That was where Crowley led you. He didn’t even look behind to see if the witches followed- just took your hand and proceeded to the thrones.

You had regained most of your composure from his mid-dance teasing, and though you were still a little short of oxygen, you were able to tread silently on your own bare feet, once more. You tried not to think about how many eyes were on you- you just focused on Crowley’s warm, steady hand in yours, and followed his lead. You moved on autopilot until you were both seated, Crowley on your right side. You must have made an imposing sight. Crowley all in black and red, you in glowing white, and both masked faces staring down at the assembly.

The witches stood at the foot of the dais, looking up at the King and Queen of Hell, and remained silent.

You swallowed quietly and rested your hands on the throne’s armrests. Queen. You are a fucking Queen. Get yourself under control. Head up, shoulders back. It’s showtime. Think Queen, damnit. You tried not to dig your fingernails into the carved, dark wood.

“We have some illustrious guests,” Crowley addressed the assembled creatures, “The Exalted Coven has sent a delegation to Hell, in hopes of forming an alliance. Isn't that right, ladies?”

The white haired woman inclined her head a fraction.

“Then you are welcome. Let’s talk business, shall we?” From some hidden pocket, Crowley produced an ornate scroll. The parchment scratched and fluttered in the silent air as it unfurled, stretching from his lazy hand to the old woman’s feet. She would have to stoop to pick it up and read it.

“Just a boilerplate agreement, of course,” Crowley continued, “You are granted the protection of Hell, blah blah, and we gain your fealty, with tithes due every seven years, etc etc.”

Your hunter brain went into overdrive. Protection of Hell? Tithes? What would this mean for you and the boys and your work? What parts of that contract was Crowley glossing over to make a quick sale? You were so busy speculating that you almost missed when the old witch spoke.

“Your Queen seems very quiet, Crowley. She doesn’t speak?” Her voice was strong and resonant, not at all the voice of a little old lady. You also clocked the use of Crowley’s name, not “your majesty” or whatever.

Everyone turned to you. Fuck. Shit, fuck, damnit, pissing hell. They expect you to talk, now? For a heartbeat, you thought terror would overwhelm you. But suddenly, you felt a warm hand on the back of your neck. Crowley’s demonic power applying reassuring pressure to the spot in your spine that he had repaired so many months ago. That feeling of Otherness washed over you, and the world took on the fuzzy edges of a dream.

“She speaks,” you said, mildly amazed that you sounded so calm, “She just doesn’t speak merely to fill silence.” Where did that come from? Astounding yourself even more, you continued, “The King has made an offer. Do you accept?”

She regarded you for one long, agonizing moment that was probably only a heartbeat. Her eyes dropped to the rowan wood disk on your chest. You couldn’t be sure, with masks obscuring all faces, but it looked like the old woman cocked an appreciative eyebrow at you. In the corner of your eye, you saw Crowley’s mouth twitch as if trying not to smile.

The witch then nudged the air with her chin, which was apparently some kind of signal, because the two women at her sides stepped forward quickly. The youngest picked up the trailing end of the contract and held it steady, the other ran her hand slowly down the parchment, muttering under her breath. The Luisgeàrd grew slightly warm against your chest, as it always did in the presence of witches’ magic. When she reached the end of the contract, the red masked witch murmured a few words in her leader’s ear. Wrinkled lips pursed at Crowley in a decidedly “we are not amused” sort of way, the old woman flicked her fingers towards the contract. A few words and phrases blazed red, changed, or disappeared altogether.

So this is how the supernatural elite negotiate? You thought. It was a far cry from beers and pizza and yelling in the Bunker’s war room.

Crowley shrugged and grinned like a precocious child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Can’t blame a bloke for trying, now can you? The changes are acceptable. We have an agreement.”

The witch smiled, stepped forward, and dragged a finger along the bottom of the contract, leaving a thin line of crimson behind. Signed in blood.

Crowley’s grin widened, and the contract vanished with a flick of his wrist.

“Now, then,” he announced, “You ladies are welcome to share our hospitality, but I understand if you have more pressing matters to attend to, tonight.”

“The Maiden will stay,” said the witch, and the young blonde stepped forward, “The Mother and I will go to our own festivities.” Crowley gave a half bow of acquiescence from his throne.

And with that, they swept out, the music rose, and the party resumed. The blonde witch- The Maiden, apparently- was swept up into a dance by a demon in a wolf mask. At least, you hoped that was a mask.

As you contemplated that, Crowley pressed his mouth to your ear and whispered, “You were bloody magnificent, Y/N.”

You turned to face him. “Really? I thought I was gonna pass out when she put me on the spot like that. I just said the first thing that came to mind that sounded… I don’t know… Queenly.”

“You were perfect! Fuck, that was perfect!” And there, in full view of the movers and shakers of the monster world, he grabbed your arm, swung you into his lap, and caught you up in a devouring kiss.

As if the guests had been waiting for this signal, the tone of the room changed. A throbbing beat threaded through the music, the lights dimmed a bit, and the air seemed to take on a crackle of energy. When Crowley moved from your lips to your throat, nipping and sucking and kissing, you stole a glance around the room.

In an alcove, two vampires were busily feasting on a faerie. One on her neck and the other… Oh. Definitely not on her neck. The faerie looked like she was having the time of her life.

On the dance floor, waltzes had given way to spinning, grinding couples and thrupples, costumes shoved aside so hands and mouths could access the flesh underneath.

“Crowley...” You gripped his shoulder to get his attention on your words and not your uncovered skin. “What the fuck is going on?”

He looked out over the ballroom and it’s writhing occupants with a proprietary smile.

“I told you, Love. We like to blow off some steam at this party.”

“But… I mean… This is looking like an orgy!”

Crowley smoothed a hand over your hair and gave you another genuine smile. Damn, you could get used to that smile. It made you all wobbly in all the right places.

“Bugger me, you’re adorable,” he said, “You left before the good stuff, last year. Or, should I say, we jumped the gun on the good stuff, last year…” The grin turned predatory, and his eyes flared in the candlelight. “What do you say, Pet? Want to give them a display of what they missed, last time?” He guided your hand to the considerable bulge in his lap.

In another involuntary response, your fingers wrapped around the suit-covered shaft, pulling a groan from Crowley that he didn’t bother to stifle. You glanced over your shoulder again, at the assembled hosts of Hell.

At the end of the buffet table, the Maiden was laid back among the champagne glasses, the wolf-faced demon hovering over her. She reached down to undo his pants.

Tearing your eyes away, you focused on the King, once more. He was palming your breast- the silk sliding delightfully against your nipple. He licked his lips once again. His eyes were unwavering bonfires of red light, fixed on your face. You hadn’t stopped stroking him, you realized. You kept stroking, almost absentmindedly, hypnotized by the look Crowley was giving you. An equal mix of quiet disbelief and ravenous hunger.

Over the roar of blood in your ears, you began to hear unmistakable sounds from the crowd behind you. It was like being immersed in porn. Fuck, it was hot. You stared into those red eyes and tried to think coherently. Crowley’s hand that wasn’t on your chest began to inch under the hem of your dress. Slow and deliberate and easy to stop if you wanted to.

Just then, a crash of glass behind you drew your attention away. The champagne glasses had been jostled off the table by the force of the wolfman’s thrusts. The Maiden wallowed back, emitting small gasps and squeals. You stared.

The heat between your legs was throbbing. Your face was flushed. This was unlike anything you’d ever seen. The dreamlike feeling hung over you as you slowly worked Crowley’s dick in your hand and gazed into the crowd. You noticed not only the writhing masses of flesh and cries of pleasure, but several grinning faces turned in your direction. Hell was watching.

“People are staring at us.”

“Of fucking course they are.” Crowley bucked into your hand and growled appreciatively when you tightened your grip. You turned back to face him.

“I… I don’t know how I feel about that, Crowley.”

He released his hold on your breast and took a moment to straighten his tie. The gesture was so refined, the turn of his neck so fluid, that it became obscene against the backdrop of intimate noise that filled the air. You squirmed against the wet heat at your core, trying to figure out if you were actually about to fuck the King of Hell- on his throne- in full view of hundreds of witnesses.

He leaned forward to kiss you, moving from your mouth to your jaw and up to your ear.

“This night is ours, Love,” he murmured, “And as much as I would love to make you scream for me right here, I think you like to watch more than be watched. Besides, I’m in the mood to have you all to myself...”

You felt the tug in your gut once more, and again found yourself in the alcove high above the ballroom. From here, you had a bird’s eye view of the orgy- and that’s exactly what it was, at this point. Piles of limbs tangled on the dance floor, humped backs and arched breasts undulating in the candlelight, bare flesh and flashing teeth and holy shit- the sounds. It was enough to make your head spin, even without the supernatural teleport.

Crowley pressed against your back, hands braced against the railing on either side of your body, trapping you. You melted back against him and watched the display on the dance floor. The band hadn’t stopped playing, but there was now a driving, drumming beat hanging over the melody, and people fucked in time with the music. You felt drunk. Drunk and dizzy and more turned on than you’d been in a long time.

“Crowley?” you said, twisting around to ring your arms around his neck and look squarely in his burning eyes.

“Mmm?”

“I need you to fuck me. Right now.”

“My Queen!” he exclaimed through grinning teeth, and yanked you back into the shadows.

In a tangle of kisses and hot grasping hands, you managed to rip away each other’s clothes.

Soon you were flat on your back, nothing between you and the deep red carpet below you, the Luisgeàrd resting on your bare chest, the King of Hell between your legs.

When he reached up to dislodge your mask, you gripped his wrist to stop him.

“No,” you gasped, “masks stay on.”

He chuckled. “We’ll make it a Halloween tradition, then.”

As the music and screams and groans drifted up from below, Crowley reached between you, grasped his cock, and slowly began dragging himself through your folds. Teasing your clit with the blunt head, dropping back down to press against your clenching core, then back up again. Over and over, with agonizing gentleness, never stopping his methodical torture, never looking away from your face.

“Crowleeeeeyy…” you whimpered, trying to buck up and catch him.

The burning, invisible hands clamped onto your hips, holding you still and helpless against the floor.

“Tsk tsk tsk, Y/N,” he whispered, “Look at you. Soaking wet and desperate to be fucked. Mewling and panting like you’re in heat. My little toy. You think you’re ready for me?” He nudged at your opening, again, applying just enough pressure to slide in a fraction of an inch.

“Aaa! Fuck, yes, Crowley please... please…” Your vision wouldn’t focus. You couldn’t lift your hips to meet him, so you arched you back and rolled your head from side to side in desperation. He didn’t move at all.

“Can you hear them, down there? All those screams and wet slaps?” You nodded emphatically. “That is nothing to the noises I want you to make for me.” Then he slid backwards, away from your throbbing center. It undid you.

A scream of frustrated agony ripped out of you- bouncing off the marble walls of the hall and momentarily drowning out the din below your alcove. But before that scream died away, Crowley slammed into you full force, and a new scream took its place. The distinctive stretching burn that always accompanied the arrival of that cock inside you was shocking after so long an absence. You roared with pleasure at the sensation.

“That’s my girl! That’s my Queen!” Crowley exclaimed into the cacophony, grinding his hips against you, buried to the hilt.

When you ran out of air, the King took advantage of the relative quiet and backed out of you a bit, then shoved back in with a groan. You were only dimly aware of your own noises, at this point- too focused on the hymn of obscenity that the masked, looming devil with glowing eyes was pouring into you as he slowly dragged out, then snapped back into your quaking pussy, again and again.

“Fuuck, you’re so wet, Love! That’s my Queen! So wet and hot and tight- oh, yes! I’ve waited months for this… Dreamed of getting back into this cunt!”

“It’s yours,” you gasped, reaching up to grab the horns on his mask, all reservations gone, just lost in the feeling of fucking the King of Hell, again, “It’s all yours! Oh my god, you feel so good!”

With a roar of his own, Crowley yanked himself out of and away from you, leaving you empty and sprawled on the floor. Before you could do more than squawk in protest, he jerked you up and spun you towards the railing.

“I told you before. God’s not here,” he snarled.

You landed against the barrier, chest and shoulders hanging over the rail. The festivities hadn’t died down. In fact, it looked like they were gaining steam. A swirling, pulsing mosaic of skin and colorful costumes spread out across the ballroom. Anything that could be done for carnal pleasure was being done, somewhere in the room. Still in the throws of your own passion, you took in the display, gasping for breath.

Crowley was behind you again. His fingers stroking in and out of the dripping, aching spot between your legs. He pressed you forward, leaning out over the ballroom. The Luisgeàrd swung back and forth, as if to draw your attention to the spectacle below.

It was the kind of thing that would have made you blush and look away, any other time. Hanging half over the railing, looking down at a kaleidoscope of sex, breasts dangling in the air- so exposed. But not tonight. Tonight, you weren’t you. Tonight, you were the White Hart. The Queen of Hell. And God wasn’t here.

Crowley fisted one hand in your hair and gave a sharp tug, the other hand guiding his cock back where it belonged. Wet as you were, he slid home smoothly, to a chorus of groaning from both of you.

Slowly, methodically, almost reverently, he fucked you against the railing as you watched the show.

“Look at that, Pet. Look at all the fun they’re having down there. But they all wish they were here with you, you know. They all wish they were right here, deep in this gorgeous cunt… Aren’t I lucky? Fuck, I love this pussy! You glorious thing…”

The stream of his words, the slow, exquisite drag and thrust of him against your swollen inner walls, the delicious sting of being suspended from his fist by your hair; it was all too good. The moans fell out of you in one long note, and you felt the tightening in your belly that meant release wasn’t far off. Still, it stayed maddeningly just out of reach.

“Crowleeeeyyy… Crowley, pleeease… I need to come… please!”

Once more, the King maneuvered you effortlessly. In a swirl of motion too quick to follow, he had you facing him, perched on the railing. Somehow, he was still buried inside you. Ruling another dimension clearly came with some physics-bending perks.

“Look at me, darling.”

You stated into those cigarette red eyes, set in the demonic mask, glowing in the dark alcove. The intensity in those eyes made you even more light-headed. Almost to the point of fear. But if you’d learned anything in the past year, it was that when Crowley was fucking you, you could trust him.

Gripping your waist to hold you steady, he aimed a powerful thrust right to your center. You swooned back a bit, eyes fluttering closed with pleasure, grabbing Crowley’s arms and wrapping your legs around him for stability.

“Ooooh, yes!” You cried. So close… you were so close…

“No, Pet. You keep your eyes on me, now.” You brought your focus back to him. “That’s right,” He crooned and ground against you, “You watch me fuck you. Watch me fuck you until you come.”

And you did. You kept your eyes locked with Crowley’s as he pounded into you over and over. All his words were gone, now. His bottom lip clutched between his teeth as he concentrated on you. The demonic power manifested again; this time a merciless vibrating heat against your clit.

You forgot where you were. Forgot who you were. The entire world narrowed to the sensations shooting out from between your legs and the burning points of light hanging in the gloom before you. Somewhere, far outside your senses, someone was repeating, “Fuck! Yes! Fuck! Yes!” over and over. Was it you? Finally, that internal cord snapped and you came, screaming, shaking apart from the inside out, still staring in Crowley’s eyes.

He didn’t slow down. Just kept fucking you through it until you were spent and limp. Then he gathered you to him, buried his masked face in your neck, and with a few more shuddering thrusts, spilled himself deep inside you.

You stayed like that for a long while; locked together, lazily running fingers over each other’s skin, dropping gentle kisses on ears and necks and shoulders. Not speaking. Not needing to. The King and Queen of Hell.

You both managed to get safely to the floor before Crowley slid free. You were exhausted. You just puddled in his arms and drifted in and out, kissing deeply and trying to catch your breath. Swimming in that dreamlike Otherness.

After what may have been days, for all you knew, you felt that lurch in your guts, and realized that Crowley had zapped you back home. He lowered you into your bed, smoothed back your hair, and with another kiss, rose to leave.

“You.. you owe me…” you slurred through sleepy lips, “conver...sation. You said.”

“Next time, Love. I’m a demon of my word, don’t you worry. You sleep, now. My Queen.”

As Crowley pressed one last, gentle kiss against your brow, you finally fell into unconsciousness.

~~~

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#sleeping with the enemy #spn fanfic #crowley smut #crowley fanfic #crowley x reader #spn smut

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