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nctsworld · 4 years

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the yuletide boyfriend

SUMMARY‌ ‌⇾‌ your one wish this year is to not be single during the holidays. yangyang, as your best friend, takes it upon himself to be your temporary boyfriend. soon enough, both parties begin to wish this new arrangement could last beyond the holidays. // part of the x-mas in ncity collection WARNINGS‌ ‌⇾‌ implied ‌anxiety attack (during the first part of dec 24th – skip if need to), smut, mutual m*sturbation, couch s*x, angst, miscommunication, swearing RATING‌ ‌⇾‌ mature TAGLIST ⇾ @infnteen

AUTHOR’S NOTE ⇾ this is my longest fic to date and also... might be my worst b/c i feel like the angst plot points don’t really make sense... but i hope y’all still enjoy!!!

⇾ gif created by me, please don’t share or repost without credit!

NOVEMBER 30th

“So, anything special on your wishlist this year?”

Your best friend, Yangyang, asks you as you two sit next to each other on one of the many plush lounge couches in the Psychology building. It’s the usual lunch spot where you meet with him during your break between lectures.

The Psych building held much sentimental value for both of you because you met in Psych 101 during first year. Fast-forward three years later, neither of you expected to be the close friends that you are today.

Chewing your sandwich, you ponder on his question for a bit. Through the transparent glass walls leading to outside, you see the trickle of students heading towards the building since class is about to start for the noon round of lectures. A couple, you assume by the tight hand-holding and nose kissing, giggles as they enter the building, glued to one another by the hip.

“Not really.” You drop your head downward to your lunch container, smiling to yourself. “I’m honestly just happy to have Mark in my life, especially at this point in the year.”

Yangyang nods in accordance and smiles too, understanding the story behind your sentiment.

The boyfriends you’ve had since first year have always broken up with you before the holidays, right before the end of November. Since you only became close during second year, Yangyang’s been around for two out of three of your cursed holiday break-ups.

To have Mark, your latest boyfriend, be with you and it being already December tomorrow, it was truly a blessing for you and a silver lining that maybe this was the year to break the curse. Yangyang was grateful too, wanting you to have the utmost happiness.

You take another bite of your sandwich and tilt your chin toward the ramen eater.

“You?”

Yangyang slurps a few more noodles before he answers.

“I mean, the new Playstation would be nice,” he hums, mouth full.

Pointing the tip of your sandwich, you joke, “I’ll get it for you, but only if we share custody over it.”

“Mm-mm,” he shakes his head during a mid-slurp. “You know I can’t promise that.”

Both of you laugh in unison, living in the calm before the oncoming storm.

DECEMBER 5th

The E-Sports club for the university is hosting a party tonight and because Yangyang’s on one of the professional teams, he asked a few weeks ago if you and Mark wanted to attend. Of course you accepted; Mark also had some friends in the club.

However, when you text Yangyang in the afternoon, stating a change of mind, he knows something’s off.

Half an hour before the party starts, Yangyang decides to visit you. Thankfully you both lived on campus, but even if you lived across town, he’d still bus out to see how you were doing. He does it all the time to visit his family, anyway.

In the living room, the two sudden knocks at your door startle you. Peering through the peephole, you see the usual sight of your best friend, his lips curled upward and thumbs tucked in his pockets as he rocks on the balls of his feet.

It feels like an eternity for him when you unlock your door. The hinges squeal as you open it hesitatingly, your face barely appearing through the agape crack.

Immediately, his smile dissolves. Your face is drained and blood-shot eyes avoiding his own confront him.

Yangyang has only seen you cry twice in the three years he’s known you:

Once, when you were freaking the fuck out over potentially failing a course (but, on the upside, you ended up passing the final to save your grade).

The second time was at his house for a family dinner, when his mom accidentally added too much hot chili sauce to her homemade beef noodle soup (let’s just say you weren’t the only one crying that night).

Those were tears of dread and physical discomfort.

But this… this was crying he’s never seen from you before. His chest collapses inward, fearful of the reason behind your tears.

His voice shakes as he asks, “What happened? Are you okay?”

Neither of you are major huggers and only exchange them on the rare occasion.

However, this situation screams the necessity of it, so Yangyang lunges towards you, the collision swinging the door out of the way. His arms embrace you like a large, warm blanket. Comforting and safe.

Despite the affection, emptiness has taken over your body. Tonight, you’re a dead, empty shell of who you normally are.

You feel weak to the bone, but you muster up enough energy to scarcely raise your arms over his back to return the hug. Your eyes are dry from all the crying you’ve done all day, but apparently you have more tears left in you to spare.

Your eyelids snap shut and your jaw clenches.

“Mark broke up with me.”

Your words are muffled into his shoulder, but Yangyang hears it crystal clear.

You break down, sobbing out of control over the statement.

As aforementioned, Yangyang’s been around for your last two, now three, break-ups. Sure, he’s aware of how grumpy and distant you can get, but you never cried in front of him. You made an effort to never have him see you at your lowest point.

And yet, here you are, drowning him in your misery. Guilt washes over you for drenching his bomber jacket, but Yangyang couldn’t give two shits. His arms squeeze tighter while he rubs your back tenderly.

After several minutes pass and your waterworks abate, you peel away from him. You sniffle and rub your nose with the back of your hand.

“Sorry about cancelling last minute.”

“Hey, no need to apologize,” he whispers soothingly.

“I’m just… so fucking frustrated.”

With fatigued eyes, you drag yourself back inside your apartment. Yangyang discreetly closes the door behind him and hurriedly uses his feet to push off his shoes. As he does so, your mouth begins to run off while you slowly pace around aimlessly.

“Fucking done with boyfriends, especially when they think it’s so fucking awesome to keep breaking up with me right before the holidays.”

He kicks off his last stubborn shoe and catches you raking your hands through your hair, pulling it back firmly. Your lips are trembling, along with your entire frame.

“Like I get that I’m horrible and needy and emotional—”

His mouth opens, wanting to cut in to disagree with you with all his heart, but he clamps it back shut and swallows, allowing you to blow your steam off.

“—but can’t they wait until the fucking new year? I don’t know, or maybe just don’t date me in the first place! I don’t know, I don’t fucking know anymore. I’m just cursed, Yangyang...”

You flop down onto the couch and sink into the ocean of shiny pleather, shutting your eyes and trying to stop crying for the nth time. The deep sting behind your eyelids pain you, but it pains Yangyang more to watch the events unfolding ahead of him.

Unsure of what to say, Yangyang walks around the room. His gaze falls on your laptop screen and he frowns at the mostly bare Word document that stares back at him:

“WISHLIST: -KEEP ONE (1) FUCKING BOYFRIEND DURING THE CHRISTMAS SEASON!!!!!!!! GOD FUCKING SDKMFLDS”

There are a few more lines below it with more profanities and keyboard smashing. He quickly darts away, a pang of guilt striking for invading your privacy.

Then, he turns to you on the couch again. You’re now covering your eyes with your forearm, pressing your lips together. His chest twists and his throat is arid as a desert.

You’re in shambles and he’s dying to pick up the shattered pieces of you, wants to glue you back together. On a regular basis, Yangyang’s a talking machine and can talk your ear off for hours, but right now, he doesn’t know what to say to you in your current state. He second-guesses himself, wonders if he’s even that great of a friend if he can’t comfort you in your worst times.

Blowing out a long sigh and removing your arm, you speak aloud, “You should get going to the party.”

Like awakening from a deep slumber, you rise up sluggishly and sit up on the couch, slouched over. The other figure in the room steps closer to you.

“Sorry about your jacket, by the way,” you say. Your body is still, but your glazed eyes move to the dark spot on the middle of his shoulder. He glances at it and shrugs.

“It’s better like this anyway,” he says with a gentle smile, and the tight knot in his heart softens at the flicker of your own smile, albeit a small one. Unfortunately, it fades in a few seconds. “I don’t want to leave you like this, though.”

You stare at the used, crumpled balls of tissues scattered on the living room table. Some also ended up on the floor. Break-ups are shit and 98% inevitable, but you know you’ll eventually get over it. You always do.

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

He raises an eyebrow, as if asking, “Are you sure?” The lack of a worded reply causes you to notice the question written on his face.

“Go,” you plead with a feeble laugh. “Have fun for me.”

Both of you head towards your front door again. Crossing your arms, you lean your head against the door frame and attempt a smile for your best friend.

“Thanks again for checking up on me.”

Yangyang nods with a half-smile, half-pout, “Of course.”

You give him a departing wave prior to sealing your door.

Usually, Yangyang would bus from your place to the student union building, where the party is being held. Instead, he zippers up his jacket and stuffs his fists into his pockets, opting to bear the early winter chill to walk his thoughts off. His blazing self-doubt burns at first, but he overcomes it by focusing on ideas to fix your accursed dating rut instead.

Halfway through the walk, a light bulb moment occurs. A plan begins to brew on the surface of his mind and he thinks on it for the rest of the week.

DECEMBER 11th

It’s been almost a week since you last saw Yangyang.

Finals started already, so classes were done for the semester and thus, your lunch meet-ups halted too. On top of that, since you were simultaneously moping and studying, you hadn’t really texted him much, nor had he, besides the occasional check-up text on how studying was going and random memes. Yangyang knew you preferred time alone to heal and he respected that.

He also thought six days was enough time to get yourself back on your feet.

Yangyang’s at your front door once again, but this time with two bowls of his mom’s beef noodle soup in tow.

“Long time, no see,” you greet. Your tone is chipper, but your eyes look heavy, which could be partially from studying, Yangyang thinks. His smile deepens, content that you seem a lot better than the last time he visited.

“Delivery for two,” he raises the bag in his hand.

“And if I told you I already ate dinner?” you playfully retort.

The boyish man shrugs defeatedly, “Then I’ll tell my mom you hate her cooking—”

“You didn’t say it was your mom’s, Yangyang. Oh, my God,” you gasp, half-mockingly. You rush to grab the bags out of his hand and stroll towards your tiny kitchen. “Start off with that next time.”

As you remove the containers from the bag and onto the granite countertop, Yangyang shuts the door and takes his shoes off.

“So, I’m gonna be upfront and say that I may have come here with a proposal.”

“Changed your mind about the shared custody of the Playstation?”

“I’m still considering that one.” Finally in his socks, he slings his backpack off his shoulder and plops it onto the couch along with his jacket. He stands next to you by the counter. “But it’s on the same page as that. Remember that day we were talking about wishlists?”

“Mm-hmm,” you hum as you rip off the lid of one of the bowls. Blatant wisps fly upward and you inhale the savoury aroma, followed by a heavenly sigh.

“Last time I was here… I might’ve seen what you wrote on your laptop.”

Your expression immediately changes into full-on cringe. You bring a palm over to your face.

“Oh, God. Let’s not talk about that. That was just weepy, lonely me talking.”

Yangyang pops off the lid for his bowl and steps into your kitchen, rummaging through your drawers for chopsticks. “So you’re telling me you don’t want a boyfriend for Christmas?”

Your hand flies off your face. Eyes widening, you spew, “Do you have a boyfriend in your pocket, ready for me to have?”

In your open hand, he places a pair of chopsticks into it. “Well, actually, I was thinking—”

Sternly, you point the chopsticks at him. “Don’t you dare set me up with your friends.”

He counters and points his at you, “Even better than that.”

With your interest piqued, you slide yourself onto the counter stool and mix the noodles around, anticipating to hear Yangyang’s fantastic plan. Your friend sits on the other stool, facing you. He pauses for a second, taking a deep breath.

“Why don’t I be your boyfriend for the holidays?”

You freeze, and the noodles’ drips above your bowl are deafening to both individuals. Laughing awkwardly, you break your frozen state to drop your chopsticks and turn your head to look at him.

Sputtering, you say, “What?”

Unnerved, his mouth pinches to one side, thinking maybe he shouldn’t have even said anything in the first place. This was stupid, so stupid, but it’s out in the open and Yangyang already dug his grave—he may as well lay in it.

“Well, for one, it’s something on your wishlist that I can easily get,” he pauses mid-sentence, glancing upward in thought. “Well, really, fill? Is that a better way to put it?”

He continues, eyes back on you, “And two, I’m not setting you up with a stranger or someone you wouldn’t be comfortable with. I assume you know me well enough that you’re comfortable around me?”

Yangyang lifts an upturned palm and raises an eyebrow, waiting for a response to his assumption. Petulantly, you shake your head playfully and stick out your tongue at him.

Rubbing the back of his neck, his gaze drops down to the floor for his last point. His voice lowers.

“And, I don’t know, we’d just hang out like we usually do during that time, except we’d do more couple-y things.”

Realizing the implication of his words, he widens his eyes. “I mean, we'll do whatever you’re comfortable with, obviously. We don’t have to do any of the physical stuff—”

You burst into a giggle at his rambling and hold a hand out, cutting him off. “Okay, Yang. I get it.”

Yangyang watches your next moves carefully. You’re peering off to one side and picking at the tips of your fingers. After a minute that feels like forever, you nod slowly.

“I guess you have a point. We are sorta like a couple already.”

Your best friend sighs in relief, grinning that you’re not outright rejecting the idea.

“So,” you meet his eyes and bunch a shoulder up towards your ear. “We’ll just be a couple until what, New Year’s?”

“Yeah, sure,” he shrugs indifferently. “Whatever you want. It’s your Christmas wish.”

You chuckle and shake your head in disbelief that you two are actually making an agreement for Yangyang to be your temporary, holiday boyfriend.

Honestly, it’s a little crazy... but maybe it’s the perfect thing to get your mind off of Mark and the handful of holiday exes hanging above your head.

“Okay, since my last final is on the 21st, let’s start ‘dating’ then and we’ll play everything by ear, see how it goes.”

Yangyang bobs his head eagerly. “Sounds good, soon-to-be girlfriend.”

He sticks a hand out for you to shake. You take it firmly, sealing the deal and flashing him a grin.

“Soon-to-be boyfriend.”

Although the night goes on like usual between the two of you, you couldn’t deny how ecstatic you are to finally have a boyfriend during the holidays, even if it was technically your best friend as a stand-in.

DECEMBER 21st

Tonight’s your first date with Yangyang.

That sounds weird to say, you admit to yourself, but it’s the truth.

After you stroll out of your last final of the semester, Yangyang’s waiting for you inside near the main exit of the building with several layers on, including his hoodie over his head and a knitted scarf underneath. His attention leaves his phone and he stuffs it into pocket as he notices you heading over.

“Hey, girlfriend,” he welcomes you, beaming.

You snicker at the unfamiliar label. You wonder if you’re going to get used to this, even if it’s only for two weeks.

“Hey, boyfriend,” you grin harder as the word falls from your lips, trying your best not to outright burst into laughter. “Where we heading off to?”

Although you said both of you could play the dating by ear, Yangyang’s been keen on scheduling plans for the upcoming days. You told him he didn’t have to, however, he insisted by saying that he wouldn’t only be a horrible boyfriend, but a horrible friend if he couldn’t make the next weeks fun for you.

Yangyang was anything but a horrible friend, and the fact that he was willing to be your holiday boyfriend to make you happy proved it further. Nevertheless, you gladly let him take the reins.

“I was thinking the movies tonight? See the latest Marvel film?”

Concurring to the idea, you scurry towards the bus stop and are movie-theatre bound to the nearest one off-campus. Arriving at the theatre, Yangyang and you buy your tickets and a popcorn to share, then head into the respective auditorium where the movie is playing. Since the movie’s been running for a couple of weeks, the auditorium is fairly empty, giving you two the chance to snag perfect middle seats with nobody else is in the row.

Up to this point, aside from the name-dropping of boyfriend and girlfriend, this feels less like a date and more like any other hang-out with him. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing awkward.

But that changes during a third of the movie.

You’re both so immersed by the screen that neither party notices the other’s hand when both of you reach for the popcorn in Yangyang’s lap at the same time.

A jolt runs through as your hands brush together. The duo’s eyes tear away from the screen and flit to the action happening in real-time. The touch lingers for several moments.

“Sorry,” you quickly mumble, drawing your hand back slightly, but still hovering over the popcorn.

“Uhm,” Yangyang licks his lips and visibly gulps under the screen’s bright glare.

He whispers, his voice almost cracking, “As your boyfriend, can I hold your hand?”

Okay, this is just your best friend, acting as your temporary boyfriend, asking to hold your hand. No big deal, no big deal at all.

Yet, the thunderous knocking in your ears, louder than the explosions blasting through the theatre’s speakers, suggests otherwise.

You don’t even register it, but you’re already nodding in response. Your breathing slows to the rate of Yangyang’s hand inching over. At the anticipated contact, you gasp softly. His smooth fingers clasp over yours. Since the arm rest in the middle of you is positioned upward, there’s no obtrusion and you relax, letting your hands mingle in between the empty space.

Without looking at one another, both of you smile bashfully to yourselves as you try to continue to focus on the screen.

After a while, because you aren’t exactly holding hands, you spread your fingers, hastily doing so because you don’t want him to think you’re breaking the interaction, and twist your palm to properly interlock hands with him. You give Yangyang’s hand a warm, gentle squeeze. He does the same and even strokes his thumb against your skin.

Talk about playing everything by ear. Who knew you’d be hand in hand on the first date?

You attempt to not think much on it, but Yangyang’s hand in yours feels... so right, like your hand was made for this, for his to hold. Like you should’ve done this way sooner.

And if Yangyang’s thoughts could be heard, he’s thinking the same.

Despite the mutual fear of sweaty palms, neither of you desire to let go, so much that you not only hold hands during the rest of the movie, but throughout the bus ride back to campus and all the way until he escorts you to your front door.

With a certain charge in the atmosphere, you exchange sweet good-byes. That night, after the culmination of stress from finals and your worries of your holiday exes, you finally have a peaceful sleep, looking forward to your date with Yangyang tomorrow.

DECEMBER 22nd

“Babe, how do I look?”

“Very pretty, honey.” A bundled up Yangyang winks at you from behind his phone.

The second date is an evening at a Christmas light festival at a botanical garden on the outskirts of town. The lights illuminate so strongly; there was a glowing dome-like hue over the location that seemed to reach the dark sky as you got off the bus.

When stepping foot into the garden, all the encompassing lights mesmerize you. Lights on the various greenery, lights as decorative art pieces, lights lining the pathways. Different shades of colours and shapes engulf the massive area.

Yangyang’s currently in the middle of taking your photo near an arch tangled with dark blue, gold, and white bulbs. All night long, you’ve been mockingly using endearing terms, but, despite the frigid air, your cheeks heat up over something else he just said.

“You think I’m pretty?” you genuinely ask, breaking your pose.

He lowers his phone a bit, his jaw dangling.

“Uh, I mean,” he giggles awkwardly, nodding softly. “Yeah.”

Yangyang never told you, but he initially sat near you in Psych 101 because he thought you were the most stunning girl in the class. And sure, he was a little disappointed at the time to find out you had a boyfriend, but that didn’t mean you two couldn’t still be friends. Other than the first few weeks he had a crush on you, he’s never thought of you as more than a friend.

But those feelings are resurfacing, hitting him in the chest like a bag of bricks, due to moments like this one—you’re batting your eyelids, gaze straying elsewhere, and adorably chewing on your lower lip.

“And you’re not just saying that as my holiday boyfriend?”

Pouting to one side, he shakes his head cutely. “Mm-mm.”

On the flipside, the beginning with Yangyang for you was strictly platonic. You were dating Haechan at the time you met him. When Haechan broke up with you later that fall, you kept a distance from dating for a while, heartbroken from the high school love gone sour. During that period, you never told him, but you did run through the possibility of dating Yangyang since you got along so well... until you met Jaemin earlier the next semester, who stole your heart. Ever since then, you’ve never seen Yangyang under that light again.

Despite that, you can’t deny how attractive he is, and now that you’re single and technically dating him, you embrace the fact with open arms.

Beaming as bright as the lights, you tug him by the end of his puffer jacket’s sleeve to bring him closer to you.

“C’mon, handsome, let’s take some pictures together.” Prickles rise under Yangyang’s cheeks from the off-hand compliment.

Holding your phone up in the air at about an arm’s length away, the side of your heads touch to prepare for a few selfies. When you finish capturing them, Yangyang’s hovering over your shoulder as you scroll through to glance through the photos.

“We look good together,” you comment. “Don’t you think?”

In sync, your heads turn to meet each other. Your eyes waver from the blatant clouds of your breaths and over to his lips. The clouds become rapid bursts as you begin to lean forward. So does Yangyang.

“Do you guys want a picture together?” someone suddenly asks. The abrupt voice drags you both apart instantly, crushing the moment into pieces.

“Sure,” you peep, fumbling to hand your phone over to the stranger.

Posing, Yangyang’s hand rests around the middle of your back, which is the norm when you take pictures with him, but he pulls you in snugly. You smile even wider, relishing in the new-level of intimacy and allow yourself to be truly content among his presence.

“You guys are such a cute couple,” the stranger gushes while they return your phone prior to walking away.

“I guess we are, huh, babe?” you jut your tongue out in jest at him. This time, you indulge in the endearing term without a sliver of mockery.

Yangyang copies you, jutting his tongue out further than yours, and seizes your hand to continue the tour around the gleaming garden.

The almost-kiss isn’t mentioned for the rest of the night, nor is it acted upon, but both individuals dwell on the near occurrence before sleep that evening, staring longingly at their bedroom ceiling.

DECEMBER 23rd

For the third date, you find yourselves at the campus’ dedicated ice rink arena to partake in ice skating.

You’ve skated a few times in the past, but you’re by no means a pro. On the other hand, this is apparently Yangyang’s first time, and he’s already skating circles around you.

“Show off,” you grumble as he does another lap past you. Your gloved hands are splayed out in front of you, careful not to fall flat on your face.

Turning on his blades, he rebounds over to you.

“Sorry,” he pants. His raised cheeks glow an adorable shade of pink. “This is really fun when you get the hang of it.”

Yangyang intertwines his fingers with yours before you can say anything. “C’mon, take my hand.”

At first, it was sweet to skate alongside your holiday boyfriend, notwithstanding the few times you almost trip. As the minutes pass, you think you’re getting the hang of it, but suddenly, Yangyang unleashes your hand and glides ahead of you, abandoning you to slide at a swift pace that is definitely out of your comfort zone.

“Yangyang, what the fuck?!” you screech, completely disregarding the handful of surrounding parents with their kids, the former sending daggers your direction. Your ankles struggle to make a T-shape to stop, but the struggling only somehow makes you move faster.

As he spins to face you, now skating backwards with ease, he says, “See, you got the hang of it-oomph—”

Air’s struck from his lungs when you crash into his body. Thankfully, Yangyang skids his blades harshly against the ice and is able to steady and support you within his arms.

“You little fucker,” you gripe, lightly punching him in the arm.

He chuckles blithely, “Sorry, but it was kinda funny, you gotta admit.”

You breathe a large huff, which makes you note how your hair is falling over your face after the catastrophe. You’re about to lift your hand to rearrange the strands, but Yangyang beats you to it and is in the midst of tucking them behind your ear.

The knocking in your ears reappears with a vengeance and the physical source of the knocking is thrashing violently against your chest.

Your scorching breaths fuse in the refrigerated rink as Yangyang eliminates the inches of space between, his plush mouth ultimately converging with yours.

You have to constantly remind yourself to breathe under Yangyang’s intensity, and remind yourself that you’re in a public space and shouldn’t be making out like this.

But everyone’s skating around the couple, daring to not disrupt the affectionate display.

God, you don’t know when was the last time you’ve been kissed like this. Have you ever even experienced a kiss that was a fraction of this? Yangyang daintily cups your cheeks like you’re glass, but his lips press ruggedly into yours, inflaming your entirety and melting any existence of your figurative fragility.

You ignore the echo in the back of your mind that reminds you he’s your temporary boyfriend.

The Talk will inevitably occur, but your future self could deal with it. Presently, you’re too caught up, drowning in Yangyang’s embrace.

DECEMBER 24th

On Christmas Eve, Yangyang decides to bring you to an outdoor Christmas market.

Understandably, since it’s the day before Christmas, the place is absolutely packed. For the first fifteen minutes or so, it’s joyous being immersed in the Christmas spirit with the assorted little shops and their respective products. You’re holding Yangyang’s hand tightly, pointing and half-shouting over the bustle about the items that catch your eye.

Unfortunately, someone accidentally bumps against your arms and your hand is gone from his.

Swivelling your head, searching through the crowd, it occurs to you that you officially lost Yangyang.

Your feet come to a halt as your hand attempts to dig into your jacket pocket to pluck your phone out, but the moving crowd forces you to constantly follow the stream.

You yell for him, but words can’t materialize. Your windpipe tightens. Your breath is becoming shallower and shallower. Blood pulses in your ears alarmingly, blocking out the clamour from around you. Your mind’s running everywhere without control.

Where is your boyfriend?

No, scratch that, he’s not your actual boyfriend—where is your best friend?

Did he leave you? He would never.

Right?

But what happens when all of this is over? Will you still have your best friend?

You’ve avoided The Talk long enough, but you didn’t expect to catch feelings for him. Not like this.

Maybe you’re just destined to be alone.

Is this how it feels to actually lose him?

Tears fight your vision. You hear a faint call of your name, but you can’t urge yourself to turn around, sinking only further into the sea of anonymity. You’re just a face in a crowd, all alone, with no one who cares—

Yangyang grasps you by the arm and maneuvers you aside to a less busy area behind one of the vendor stands.

“Oh, God, thought I lost you there—”

You cut him off, hugging him with all your might and stuff your face in his chest cushioned by the downy layers of his winter jacket. Yangyang immediately drapes his arms securely around you, reading your uneasiness.

“Hey, I got you. I got you,” he soothes, running a hand through your hair. “God, not my best idea. Sorry for bringing you here.”

You shake your head, wordlessly informing him that it’s okay. You’re just glad to be with him again.

“Wanna go home?”

You nod solemnly, and Yangyang zips you out of there in minutes with his arm tucked by your side, ensuring he doesn’t lose you in the crowd again.

Fortunately, the jitters mostly disappear when you arrive at your place in the late afternoon. You’re in the middle of rummaging through your keys to unlock your door.

“Sorry I didn’t have anything else planned for today,” he mumbles, leaning with folded arms against the wall.

“Did you...” You insert the correct key and turn the lock, clicking the door open. Your gaze lifts to match his. “Did you wanna maybe have dinner with me tonight? I was thinking of ordering pizza in.”

The grin that reaches his eyes is a sufficient answer for you.

“Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” He hangs his arm around your shoulder and plants a kiss atop your head.

After chomping down pizza and playing a few rounds of Super Smash Bros. on Yangyang’s Switch, you peer over to him on your living room couch while he’s figuring out which character he should play next.

The little mental voice in the back of your mind prods you, reminding that you should really, really have The Talk soon. The Talk that you swept under the rug at the start by saying you’d play everything by ear.

Four dates later, and the thought of this ending scares the living daylights out of you. This not only including the interim relationship, but the dire possibility of the friendship itself too. Is it possible to go back to how you were, flipping it off like a light switch?

But the internal voice is smothered as you’re drawn to his pouting lips in thought. His pouting, oh-so kissable lips. Following the ice skating kiss yesterday, you only shared a good-bye kiss when he dropped you off. Since then, you’ve been itching to have his lips on yours again.

Yangyang eventually detects your lack of focus and finds you gawking at his mouth. Your gaze dashes to his eyes, blinking innocently, but then his eyes flicker to your mouth.

The tension in the room snaps. You two carefully throw the Switch controllers off to one side and attach yourselves together. Unlike the crashing of your bodies at the ice rink, this one is purposeful. Deliberated, as his forehead presses into yours and his tender caress carries your cheek. Your body plummets backwards until Yangyang pins you completely into the couch.

Initially, the lip-locking is gentle and mild. Your fingers lay in the vicinity of his angular visage and sturdy upper frame, in contrast to his hand curling around your waist in a light squeeze.

Soon, hands traverse to other regions—his back, your thigh, his stomach, your ass. Each touch seeking, craving, whining. Tongues slinking and dancing with appetite. Your bodies buzz for more.

Open-mouthed kisses transition from the damp lips to each other’s necks. The touches dig deeper, thriving with hunger. Your back bows, body curving into his. Grinding ensues and his robust desire is blatant against your own pulsing passion.

“You don’t happen to have any condoms on you, do you?” you groan upwards to the ceiling.

He retracts from your neck to swing his head side to side, grumbling a “Sorry, we can stop...” yet you interrupt his apology by cupping his covered length. The guttural groan he exhales into your lips makes you shiver with pleasure.

“Doesn’t mean we still can’t have fun with our hands...” you say slyly.

“Fuck yeah,” he rasps, smirking, before diving in again to taste your mouth.

Clothes are stripped with the assistance of each other, leaving you with only your bra on while Yangyang opts to be completely bare. He tops your body in the same position once more.

On the couch arm rest, your head is perched with his hand clutching the space next to it for leverage. Both figures are too scatter-brained to delve into the exquisite nudity of one another, hands flying desperately to your respective arousals.

Your pretty fingers wrap around his possession almost exactly when he dips two digits into your warmth. In unison, two sharp, quiet gasps pierce the room.

“Shit, you’re so wet,” he hisses observantly. You’re so overwhelmed by the bliss that you can’t assemble any sort of response.

Your mouth’s parted to one side, chest soaring with each plunge. Through his clouded vision, he ambles over your curves and lines and yearns to see your breasts, but he respects your choice of keeping it on and opts to ambush the expanse with kisses. Your chest is launched further into his mouth and Yangyang assumes you’re enjoying this.

Fearing friction burn, you drop him from your grip momentarily, swiping a few licks over your palm. When your hand pumps him again, now drenched with saliva, grunts reverberate against your skin.

“Yangyang?” you whimper, causing his face to pull away from the temple of your body.

“Yeah, baby?”

“I’m-I’m close.” And he can attest to it; the contractions around him are increasing, harshly squeezing his fingers.

“Same,” he pants.

Your best friend flicks his wrist with ignition, securing your waves of elation. You attempt to do the same, but it’s difficult when he’s also sloppily thrusting himself into your fist, so you simply clench your grasp harder. His features pinch and choppy moans dribble as he yields to his climax, gushing himself over your stomach.

Still sucking in lungfuls of air, Yangyang kisses you tenderly before removing himself to clean up the mess he made.

Following the clean-up, while putting on your clothes, Yangyang expresses how he should get going since it’s getting late.

“Did you wanna stay the night?” you pipe up.

His mind races, debating on whether to leave or not, anxious to blur the lines of your relationship even further.

Sure, he’s your temporary boyfriend, thus staying over at your place shouldn’t mean anything. But this agreement is ending next week, and he’s questioning if you two can stay just friends after this, knowing that he’s going to want more. Yangyang has had a taste of the what if, and it’s now irrevocable.

He wants you all for himself. Selfishly, but deeply.

For the sake of keeping this a great thing for you, he shoves his thoughts aside. This is all about you and for your benefit, anyhow.

“Uh, sure, I can take the couch like I always—”

“Yangyang, you just put your fingers inside of me,” you snicker, snagging him by the hand to your bedroom. “C’mon.”

The rest of the night is relatively chaste with some kisses and touches here and there. Eventually, you fall asleep facing each other with your fingers interlocked, excited for the big day tomorrow.

DECEMBER 25th

Normally on Christmas, Yangyang and you spend it with your respective families, but coincidentally, both of your families, your parents being retired and all, ended up vacationing this year, leaving the two of you to spend it with each other.

After getting up around noon, Yangyang heads to his place to grab his gift. He takes longer than you expected because, as it turns out, he also went home to grab baking goods he bought beforehand since he wants to make butter cookies with you today.

The cookies end up fine, but the mess is another story. Besides the chaos on the counter, your faces and aprons are splotched with flour (you swear he started it, but he disagrees and stands his ground that you’re the perpetrator). With a damp cloth, Yangyang aids you to clean, but not forgetting to wipe your face and giving you pecks over your cheeks and nose.

The baking and aftermath occupies most of the afternoon, so dinner comes in the form of fancy, romantic instant ramen for two. Afterwards, you two sit in your living room and start to exchange gifts.

Yangyang hands his over to you first. From the size of the gift and the crumpled, oddly-shaped wrapping, you already can guess it’s a stuffed plushie of a cute animal to add to your never ending collection. You hug it tightly with a large smile.

“It’s so cute, thank you!” you squeal, but you change your expression in an instant to a serious pout. “But you can’t steal this one like you did with my Ice Bear plushie.”

“Hey, I didn’t steal Ice Bear, I just forgot to give him back.” You roll your eyes sarcastically and he laughs. “I’ll bring him over tomorrow, if it makes you feel better.”

Then, when it’s your turn, you head into your bedroom and come out with a large, white shopping bag. His eyebrows raise, unsure of what could warrant a gift this size.

“For being my holiday boyfriend,” you grin, placing the bag in front of his feet.

Despite the hugest smile on your face, his heart sinks at the label for a second, but he blinks and wills himself to look inside the bag.

His eyes shoot open, so much that you’re scared you might have to stuff them back into his sockets.

Yangyang slips the box out of the bag with precision and stares at it speechlessly.

It’s the new Playstation.

He shifts his eyes toward you. You’re swaying on the couch, pleased by his reaction.

“Your parents paid for most of it, so I can’t take all the credit.” Sticking a finger in the air, you add, “You just gotta promise to share custody with me though—”

A hand behind your head yanks you into a deep kiss. He’s not the only one left speechless on the couch. He places the top of his head against yours.

“You’re crazy, but I love—” He quickly catches himself from saying something he might regret. “—I love it so much, thank you. Now I feel bad for getting you only the stuffed animal...”

You shake your head softly, brushing your thumb against his cheekbone.

“Thank you for everything.” Your eyes twinkle. “I couldn’t have asked to spend the holidays with anyone else.”

Carefully, like a newborn baby, he safely situates the boxed Playstation to one side and nabs your lips with his again. The scene feels like repeat of last night as your bodies wrestle passionately on the couch.

“Not to be presumptuous,” he mutters between the kisses upon your neck. Your eyelids flutter at the sensation. “But I also grabbed condoms from my place when I stopped by.”

His words sends the two of you leaping towards your bedroom. Under the dim lighting, you fall into the bed as Yangyang pares your layers off, one by one. With each peel, his lips roam the revealing bare skin. You swear he has kissed you from your literal head to toe when you’re fully nude in front of him.

Your companion drags his shirt over his head, throws it off to your floor, and immediately targets in onto your nub with his mouth, finally satiating his craving from last night.

Fingers thread into his hair and over his flexed back. His tongue swirls and his teeth lightly tug on your perkiness, making your eyes roll to the back of your head. And he still isn’t even inside you yet.

After leaving love upon your other bosom, Yangyang fumbles with the condom, forgetting which way it should go on. Giggling, you perch yourself onto your elbows and assist him. Rolling it over his possession, you recline yourself back and spread your legs for him.

Pensively, he sticks his tongue out as he adjusts himself between your sex, easing himself into you, and upon the full impact, you meet his gaze head-on. His stare makes you feel vulnerable and exposed beyond the physical plane.

But, unlike the others you have been with, you trust him with everything, like you always have, and be free with him. Losing your inhibitions and submitting to your whims, you entangle and become one with Yangyang.

Behind his hazy vision, Yangyang’s simply thinking how beautiful you are, how he can’t imagine anyone else under his touch but you, how he is willing to give up anything to make you smile.

Well, in this case, he’s willing to give up anything to make you pleased.

However, it doesn’t seem like he needs to do much because you’re howling his name and clinging onto his skin and the sheets in a frenzy, like you’re about to die of exhaustion.

You perish a few times under him before he finally reaches his little death himself, convulsing into the sheath.

When air’s replenished into your bodies, you rest on his chest under your blanket. Glancing up at him, you move some of his tousled hair off his sleek forehead.

“Merry Christmas, Yangyang,” you whisper, snuggling him with a satisfied smile.

“Merry Christmas, babe,” he whispers back, giving you one last peck before you both drift into a deep slumber together.

DECEMBER 26th

Last night took so much out of the both of you, you don’t get out of bed until about the middle of the afternoon. Yangyang doesn’t have anything planned for today since it’s Boxing Day, since the crowds might be crazy wherever you go, so it’s officially a chill, rest day for you both.

When you step out of the shower in fresh clothes, from behind the couch, you watch Yangyang gaming on his Switch.

The little voice in your head looms, prompting that now is the time to have The Talk, and speaks up on your behalf.

“Do we have to end things next week?” you croak.

You see Yangyang’s shoulders stiffen, then he pauses the game and turns around to face you. His gaze follows you as you step closer to the couch, opting to stand.

“Uhm.” His Adam’s apple bobs and he shrugs. “It’s up to you, it’s your—”

“Yangyang, that’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking what you think, how do you feel?”

His lips press together and he’s staring at the floor. You can tell the gears are moving, but you can’t read his expression clearly.

“I’m down for whatever you want to do,” he says slowly, eyes still averting yours.

That’s a I’m-your-best-friend answer, you deduce. Not a I-want-to-be-your-actual-boyfriend answer.

He adds, stuttering, “I mean, I wouldn’t mind doing this a little longer if that’s what you want—”

Your face scrunches in annoyance. “Did you just sign up to be my short-term boyfriend so you can fill my empty heart?”

His eyebrows crease with confusion. “I mean, I never want to see you unhappy.”

“So it’s pity dating then?” you lash, raising your voice.

“No, I—” Yangyang bites down on his tongue, almost letting the one word slip out again. He blows out a lengthy sigh and runs a hand through his hair. “I care about you, so much. I’d do anything to make you happy.”

You’re defining his words as an affirmation of friendship and as an underlying rejection of your love.

You need to know for certain.

“Do you love me, Yangyang?” you blurt. “As more than a friend?”

This is it, Yangyang thinks. This is your chance to let her know how you feel.

But the distress written on your face makes him wonder if he should even go through with it, and it’s intensifying with every passing moment that he’s not speaking.

If only he knew your distress was deepening because you took his hesitance as absolute rejection.

Your heart is breaking because of him, and he technically wasn’t even yours to begin with.

You smack your lips together and gulp a few times, trying to make the huge knot in your throat disappear.

“You know what, maybe let’s just forget this arrangement and leave it all behind and forget about the sex and—”

“You wanna stop this?” he utters quietly.

The word “this” hangs heavy in the air. This, carrying the weight of not only being the temporary agreement, but also your friendship.

“Yeah,” you whisper, tears beginning to blur your eyes. “I think I do.”

DECEMBER 28th

Two days have passed since you last saw Yangyang.

That day before he left, Yangyang, feeling guilty for how events unfolded, wanted to give back the Playstation, but you insisted for him to keep it. In spite of everything, it was a Christmas gift to him from you and his parents.

But both of you weren’t sure if the shared custody promise was going to be held up.

In hopes that things would eventually get better and heal itself, Yangyang thought it’d be best to leave you alone for a while, like how he usually did.

And maybe he was right to do so, but this time is different.

Because he’s on the other end of the stick now; he’s the one who broke your heart.

Under regular circumstances, whenever you needed space, he was always ready to be there by your side.

But Yangyang’s uncertain if you’re going to let him comfort you this time.

And you’re uncertain if you even want him to.

DECEMBER 30th

Today, Yangyang finally makes the move to get in touch with you, texting you to call him, but you don’t, so he leaves a voicemail later in the evening.

“There’s a New Year’s party I’m going to tomorrow,” he starts off, then spews the specific details.

There’s a pause and you hear shuffling in the background. You assume he’s pacing around.

“I know you ended our agreement, but I wouldn’t mind fulfilling my end since New Year’s is the last day tomorrow. I’d be really glad if you came to the party with me, whether it be as my friend or my girlfriend.”

Another pause.

On the other end, Yangyang rubs his palm over his face, considering whether or not he should say it. If you picked up the phone call, he was going to do it anyway, but this just felt improper. He wants to say it when he knows you’re listening in real-time, so he ends off the message with:

“I miss you. So much.”

DECEMBER 31st

It’s 8:40PM. Before Yangyang buses out to the party, he’s back at your front door for one more shot. His fist taps at your door, cognizant that you wouldn’t be elsewhere since your other friends are out of town for the holidays. Despite that, you don’t come to the door. Nevertheless, he speaks to you through the wooden barrier.

“Hey, I know you want to be left alone, but I just wanted to see if you changed your mind about the party.”

Still no answer. He lets out a sigh and prays the following will incite a reaction from you.

“About the question that you asked me that night...”

He closes his eyes and allows his mouth to carry him.

“I do. I do love you. As both my best friend and more. I’m sorry if I hurt you that night by not saying anything, but I love you so much and I think we should give us a shot.”

Still no answer. Yangyang continues.

“Look, I know it’s scary and crazy to date your best friend. I’m scared too, but you know what? I’m okay with being scared. I’ve watched you gone through those assholes over the last few years and maybe you’re scared I’ll end up like one of them, but unlike them, I don’t think you’re horrible or needy or emotional—you’re beautiful, intelligent, and strong for putting up with all those fuckers.”

He leans his forehead gently against the door.

“And even if we ever do break up, and this is a big if because I’ll always try my hardest with you to make it work, I’ll still be your friend. I promise. You won’t lose me ‘cause I need you in my life. I gotta keep my end up for the custody of the Playstation, right?”

A smile breaks over his face from his joke, but still. Radio silence.

“Can you at least say something?” he begs.

After a few minutes, realizing he needs to probably give you more time to be left alone, he departs and heads to the party.

Originally, you actually were planning on attending the party to see Yangyang to make-up with him.

Unfortunately, out of all the days you had to take a late afternoon nap, it had to be today.

And you overslept. Big time.

At 10:55PM, you scramble awake, realizing you’re absolutely late to the event. Since the party’s downtown, you know calling an Uber or Lyft there would be fast, but tonight’s the worst night for any share riding service and there aren’t any available drivers. Thus, you have to manage with busing there.

It’s 11:40PM when you finally reach downtown, but the bus can’t take you all the way to the core centre where the party is; hordes of people are out on the streets and traffic is dreadful. God, you’re going to be cutting it close to midnight, but you make a run for it.

You’re grateful the party is on the second floor of a small building because you slide in right through the entrance at 11:58PM. You rush to call Yangyang’s phone, hoping he’ll pick up as you try to find him in the scattered groups of people.

You begin to holler for him in hopes he can hear you, but the countdown is happening, drowning out your voice. Thirty seconds left until the clock strikes for the new year.

When his number finally goes to voicemail, you redial his number. Suddenly, a hand grasps you by the wrist.

Yangyang looks at you, dumbfounded.

“When did you get here?”

The harmonious chanting around you floods your surroundings.

“Ten, nine, eight...”

Getting closer to him, you practically scream into Yangyang’s face, trusting he’ll hear what you’re about to say.

“I know Christmas is over, but I want to change my wish.”

“Seven, six, five...”

“I know you might not feel the same and I know things might not work out.”

“Four, three, two...”

”But I wish to date you past New Year’s until whenever, however long we last.”

“One...”

“I love you, Yangyang—”

The one you love snatches you by the waist and your cheek, stealing your lips at the last millisecond before midnight.

“Happy New Year!”

A wave of noisemakers, clappers, and hollering erupt around the room. After it dies down a bit, Yangyang shocks you with a scolding.

“Why didn’t you say anything when I came over?!”

Confusion rushes over you. You realize he probably came by when you were sleeping.

“You came over?!”

“Yeah, I confessed my love for you.”

“Wait,” you blink blankly, unsure if you heard him correctly. “Your love?”

“Yeah,” he nods, giving you his cheesy, adorable smile. “I love you.”

“As more than a friend?” you clarify.

“Babe,” Yangyang’s thumb caresses your cheek. “I don’t think I could ever go back to wanting less with you.”

Your lips tremble with relief as your gaze melts in his.

“And, anyway, who else am I going to share the Playstation with?”

“Well, I mean, you do have Hendery, Xiaojun, Winwin...” you start to count his infinite list of friends on your fingers.

“Yeah, but I need you so I can constantly beat your cute little butt at games.”

“You do not constantly beat my cute little butt at games, I’ll have you know that I beat you at—”

Yangyang shuts you up with another kiss, the one of many for the rest of the night.

JANUARY 2nd

It’s your second morning at Yangyang’s place. You’ve only done it a few times now, but you realize that waking up in his arms is one of the greatest feelings in the world, second only to his kisses.

In his bed, spooning you from behind, he grumbles into the nape of your neck, “Morning, girlfriend.”

Half-awake, you mumble back, “Morning, boyfriend,” and sink deeper into the curve of his body.

Content, you finally broke your string of cursed holiday break-ups for good.

And all it took was to be with the one who was in front of you all this time.

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cotton-tails · 4 years

Text

So I saw this last night, and the little angsty plot bunny in my head woke up and I just had to write something. Fully intended to be a drabble of sorts, but of course it turned into a four page tear-fest, so grab the tissues and strap in.

Oh, and I haven't edited this, it's just 3am word-vomit, so enjoy the mess!

“So, this hasn’t exactly gone to plan.”

Della snorts cheerlessly at Donald’s deadpan comment, struggling into a sitting position and wincing at a twinge in her elbow. The chains dig into her arms with every movement, a very clear upgrade from the ropes they’d all been able to break out of within several minutes not too long ago. These idiots don’t know who they’re messing with.

Or they do; probably a little too well, hence the plan that fell apart very quickly. And the chains. And the scary looking red lightning below them.

“Shut up!” Heron snaps behind them, cuffing Donald a little too roughly around the head.

He doesn’t react more than a sharp hiss and a dark glare behind him, and Della can’t help the sharp pang of guilt under the surge of anger. She bites back a comment, keeping her eyes fixed on the ground until the villain is out of earshot.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes, keeping her voice low.

“What? Why?” Donald sounds confused but she can’t bring herself to look at him.

“You should be with Daisy right now,” she says, “I’m the one who guilted you into staying, into coming on this stupid trip. And now we’re facing the very real possibility of dying.”

Donald is quiet.

Forcing herself to look up, she frowns at the look on his face. He still doesn’t say anything, but the expression says it all; ‘Della-you-absolute-idiot-what-are-you-blathering-on-about?’

“I came on this stupid trip cause our kids were in trouble,” he hisses eventually, “my family were in trouble! You think I wouldn’t ditch my vacation in a heartbeat for any of you?”

“I-” Della starts, but her voice catches, rendering her utterly speechless. He’s not lying, she knows exactly what he would do for the family, for her. Yet, somehow that knowledge isn’t exactly helping.

She misses her chance to reply, all conversation cut off with the explosive arrival of Scrooge and Bradford through the roof.

Della clenches her fist and almost bites through the inside of her cheek as he slams to the ground. She manages to chime out a ‘Hey Uncle Scrooge,’ with Donald when his pained gaze finds them. Beakley mutters a sarcastic ‘Fantastic,’ from her other side. She can only watch as a now armoured Bradford, armed with the sword, picks him up by the back of his coat and drags him up the stairs. He’s blathering on about something, but she’s stopped listening; too busy focusing on her battered and beaten uncle and how this could have gone so completely and utterly wrong.

It’s the usual spiel anyway, threats to destroy his family, his adventures, everything he had worked for, blah blah blah.

Then the contract is revealed, and her stomach drops to somewhere around her knees. If they don’t find a way out soon, Scrooge will have to either sign his life away or they all die, and frankly, neither option sound particularly appealing.

It’s only when Bradford sacrifices his own agents that the desperateness of the situation really sinks in. It’s one thing to talk about murder, it’s entirely another to actually do it. And if Bradford is willing to throw away his own agents, Della can’t imagine what he would be willing to do to her family if Scrooge doesn’t sign.

He tries to buy some time. Della can almost hear the cogs turning in his head as he tries to figure out how to get out of this one. She huffs out a half-hearted laugh at the sharp quip about the fine-print. He’d figure something out, he always does. Not to mention the kids are bound to have found a way out by now, they’d pick up the rest of their allies and be on their way to disrupt the whole evil plan.

It’s just a matter of-

“Ugh! Enough stalling!”

Never mind.

“You need some incentive.”

Della does not like where this is going.

“Perhaps the life of your most trusted ally?”

The three of them snap their heads forward as Bradford stalks towards them, sword dragging on the concrete threateningly. As the screeching rings in Della’s ears, the only thought racing through her mind is ‘not Donnie, not Donnie, please, don’t take my brother.’

Her heart almost stops when he scoops Donald up by his collar, his cry echoing in her ears.

“Donald!” Three voices scream.

She can barely breathe, crippling panic bubbling up inside. All she wants to do is close her eyes and scream, break these chains and drag him back to safety, but she can’t move, she can’t take her eyes off her twin as he’s dangled over the edge.

“What will it be Scrooge? Adventure? Or your Family?”

‘Just do what he wants!’ She’s not ashamed of the thought. They’ll figure out a way to reverse the contract, there’s always a way, always a loophole. Just do it so she can see her brother safely on solid ground.

“Alright, I’ll do it.”

She can’t say she’s surprised at how quickly he gives in.

“No! Don’t!” Donald screams, “find a way out! You can beat him!”

The pen is already in his hand. “It’s not worth the risk lad.”

They can only watch in horror at the golden glow that circles around him, lifting him up and binding him with unbreakable chains that drag him to the ground.

“I did it!” Bradford crows triumphantly. “The great Scrooge McDuck, now only a poor old man!”

Della’s heart breaks just a little at the look of absolute misery on her old uncle’s face, but she doesn’t have time to mourn properly, because Bradford is talking. Again.

“Normally I wouldn’t indulge in such petty villainy,” he says, his gaze turning back to Donald, still dangling over the edge, with a glint in his eye that makes Della’s blood run cold. “But since this is a special occasion.”

He lets go.

Della’s eyes meet Donald’s for an agonising second, and then he’s gone.

There’s a flash of red, and someone is screaming.

She doesn’t even realise it’s her until a rough hand knocks her back.

“Shut it! Or it’ll be you next!”

Hot tears stream down her beak and she presses her forehead into the cold concrete, not even bothering to choke back a sob. Over the pounding of her own taunting heartbeat in her ears, she hears the sound of the machine powering down (‘Too late’ her traitorous mind provides), of her kids voices yelling something, and Scrooge shouting for them to be careful.

And Bradford, confused and angry as her family finally, finally step in to save the day.

His voice sets off something inside that she hadn’t felt since the day Lunaris betrayed her. A raging anger that burns through her, overwhelming any other emotion and completely taking over her mind.

The chains are no longer an obstacle, and even Beakley can’t stop her from launching herself at the buzzard. They tumble down the stairs, fists flying and feet kicking. Everything blurs after that, which may or may not be a side effect of a rather painful bump on the head as they hit the ground at the bottom of the staircase. She’s kicked off, then it’s just a cloud of lights and bodies and a strong arm holding her back from doing anything overly-reckless and potentially stupid.

The kids, her (their) beautiful, wonderful kids, figure out the loophole and the ever-binding contract disintegrates.

It’s done.

The maniacal villain is defeated once more. The world has returned to rights and the sounds of celebration fill the air.

But Della can only stand and watch, her hands trembling and eyes burning. Beakley stands behind her, hands hovering just behind her shoulders, ready to give comfort if needed.

He’s gone.

Her brother, the other half of her soul; just… gone.

And… oh.

Her knees buckle, a wrecked sob forcing its way from her throat. Beakley catches her with a arm round the shoulders and a hand under her elbow, lowering her gently to the ground as she crumples into a ball. She presses her hands to her eyes in a hopeless attempt to stem the tears as everything comes crashing down.

“It’s okay, let it out dear.”

He shouldn’t have been here. He should’ve been on that amazing adventure with Daisy, sailing together on that old houseboat. After everything life had thrown at him, after all the madness they’d been through, he’d finally caught a break, finally found that amazing person who loved him as fiercely as he loved her.

Then Della had come along, crying about lost time and not being ready. She hadn’t wanted to him to leave, even on a stupid vacation that he would very clearly be coming back from.

Now he wouldn’t even get the chance to go.

And it’s all her fault.

“Mom?”

The obvious confusion and concern in Huey’s voice is enough to send her tumbling over the edge all over again, fresh tears springing up at the thought of having to explain what happened to her- to his kids.

Scrooge hurries them away, and she tries not to listen to the hushed explanation, the startled gasps, and she has to cover her ears for the rest. She can’t stand it.

It’s all her fault.

“DELLA!”

‘What?’

There’s no mistaking that voice.

Her head snaps up so fast she’s half sure she’s given herself whiplash. Even through blurred eyesight, she knows that silhouette, that outfit, that stupid hat. She blinks, sniffing and scrubbing at her face with her sleeve, hardly daring to believe.

It shouldn’t be possible, there’s no way it’s possible. She saw it, she saw him fall, saw the flash of lightning, the empty space where he had been only moments before. She watched her own brother die. So how was he standing ten feet in front of her, laughing as he’s tackled by several small and colourful blurs?

A hand appears in front of her face and she looks up into the stunned face of her uncle. He looks almost as much of a mess as she feels, tearstains tracking down his cheeks and spotting on his coat.

“I think it might be best if we just don’t question it,” he says, helping her to her feet.

His hands are shaking as he holds hers tightly, but she doesn’t comment; it can’t be any worse than her own trembling limbs. They turn back to Donald, who’s ended up sat on the floor under the collective weight of the kids. He’s got a tearful Louie on his shoulder and several kids wrapped around his torso as he struggles to his feet, and Della can see him mouthing a headcount as he takes them all in.

“I swear every time we see you, you have more children.”

She hadn’t even noticed Panchito and José just beside him, grins wide and eyes twinkling with amusement and, in José’s case, something else that she can’t quite place. Donald just laughs at Panchito’s observation, the sound sweet as honey and causing even more tears to well up all round. The pure relief that sweeps through her is almost enough to make her knees give way again, but Scrooge’s hand gripping hers and Beakley’s arm still around her shoulders is just enough to keep her grounded.

Then he catches her eye.

“Hey Dells.”

The kids must see something in her face, cause they have to good sense to dart out of the way just moments before Della hurls herself at her brother. They almost topple backwards, but Donald is able to keep them just about upright while Della just focuses on wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his shoulder. His arms circle her waist, holding her just as tightly. The tears are streaming freely now, but she’s beyond caring. He can yell at her about ruining his shirt later and she’ll just take it with a grin.

“You idiot!” she yells, her voice muffled by his shoulder, “I thought you were dead!”

“For a minute, so did I,” he says into her hair, “how about we just call it even?”

The soft jibe only makes her laugh, and she holds him just that little bit tighter.

Miracles do happen, and in the end all that matters is love, family and adventure.

But if he thinks she’s going to let him go galivanting off on some adventure without her now, then he’d better think again.

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misamccn · 3 years

Text

linked - killua zoldyck.

pairing: killua zoldyck x female reader

chapter word count: 2182

content warnings: violence, blood, child abuse, trauma, anxiety, death, abusive parents.

summary: soulmate au - seventeen year-old (y/n) has never been free. after 9 years of being locked away with her father who uses her for her nen ability, (y/n) escapes and is on the run. she has big plans to become a hunter and see the world...until she meets her soulmate killua and his friends after discovering that her father is after her and wants to take her back. will she escape her father with the help of killua, gon, and alluka? will she bond with killua, or will they sever their link?

:: prologue - running to the starting line

You craved control.

For all of your life, you never got to experience any kind of control, except when you were a little girl. Your mom would let you choose things for yourself. Like when you wanted to train, what you wanted to eat, and who you wanted to play with. But one day, she dropped you off to your father's house and she was gone. Murdered in cold blood that same night. Your light, happiness, and control died with her that day too. Gone in an instant. You would never choose another thing for yourself from that moment forward.

Until now.

Your feet, clad in thick black leather combat shoes worn with dirt and time, slapped against the wet pavement as you ran to the bus station. You roughly rubbed your hands against your tear-stained eyes. How could I be so stupid, you thought to yourself as your heart pounded in agony against your chest.

He really fooled you good, didn't he? For a second there, you felt safe. Like someone actually cared and didn't want you for your power.

Giichi...you bastard.

You clenched your fists angrily as you wiped the tears from your eyes. No more tears, I have to keep going or else dad will find me and I'll end up back in that cell.

After your mom died, your dad took you in and decided to make you use your gift as a payment for him taking you in. He took you underground in his base. There were no windows, no light, no color. It was dull and empty. The only things in your cell were a mat with a blanket, a toilet, and chains on the wall that were used to restrain you when you failed him and needed to be punished. You spent nine painful years down there. You spent your time healing your father's gang members and guards when they came back from a fight. The worst nights were the nights where a lot of them got hurt. Healing that many of them at once would almost kill you at some times, but your father never let you stop. He never let you have a break. The pain of it all left you breathless.

You were his tool and your purpose was to fix the people that were destroyed for him and his money.

The most painful part of it all though was probably the loneliness of it all. You didn't get to have any friends, and the only person your age that you knew was this boy that you met on an island a long time ago.

There was also your soulmate, of course.

He was always there, never fully in focus, but lingering in your thoughts. His emotions and feelings often filled your mind when they were strong. You didn't know his name, or what he looked like, but you knew him. Even if it was just a little bit.

You first felt him there the night your mom died.

The thunder and rain pattering against your window drowned out the sound of your sobs as you lay in bed awake that night. You had never felt so alone before. Not only was your mother gone, but her whole clan was gone. The people that she loved so much, and the people that you were just getting to know. Your small hand grasped your pillow tightly as a sob ripped its way through your throat when all of a sudden, you felt it. It was small, but nonetheless present. A soft, unfamiliar warmth lingered in the corner of your mind, almost like it was a little bit timid. It soothed her, suddenly she didn't feel so alone.

"I'm sorry," it seemed to say.

With tears still streaming down your cheeks and your eyes wide open, you whispered back, "Thank you."

There were multiple other occasions that you felt him there.

After your father smacked you around a few times for not healing fast enough, or not giving the results he wanted, you'd feel that same warmth.

When you were on the brink of death after healing too many terrible wounds at once, you felt his panic in the corner of your mind.

Sometimes, you could feel a deep loneliness in his mind. Sometimes you could feel he was in physical pain, just like you.

Was it possible that he was going through something similar?

You often wondered if he felt the lack of control that you did.

You knew that you would be destined to meet one day. When and where you didn't really know. You haven't found him yet because his first words to you were still written across your collarbone and you had yet to hear them out loud.

You were in no rush to find your soulmate though, you still had plenty of things you wanted to do. So many places to explore. So much life to live and take back. You were in no rush to settle down with a partner that you had no control over choosing, especially since you just freed yourself.

You ran away from your father's house about 3 months ago. There was a big raid. Enemies of your father had never broken into his base before, and you knew it was likely that it wouldn't happen again soon. So when the locks on your cell were unlocked due to the damage that was happening to the base, you took the opportunity and ran. You took your katana from your father's storage unit on the way out and bolted.

After running for a while, you found a small city. It was called Junipo City. The population was small and the poverty level was high. You were homeless for a while. You slept in an ally way behind the city's supermarket, and that's where he found you. Giichi.

When you first saw Giichi, you thought that he was very handsome. Just looking at his slick back black hair and green eyes made your heart do a little jump in your chest. However, it was his smile that pulled you in. There was something so friendly, so inviting about it. How naive you were then...

He acquainted himself with you and started dropping off food to you for about two weeks. After those two weeks, he convinced you to stay with him in a shelter that he lived in and worked in. He gave you your first set of new clothes in nine years, a place to sleep and food to eat. He took care of you, and for the first time since you escaped, you felt like maybe you didn't have to do things alone.

For the next two months, things were perfect. Giichi showed you all over town during the day. At night, he would bring you hot chocolate before you went to bed. You loved watching him play with all of the other kids and talk with the elderly at the shelter. Sometimes, late at night, you found the courage to confide in him. You told him about your past and all of your fears. Your heart began to flutter madly in your chest whenever he walked into the room. You thought that maybe, everything would be okay, maybe he even liked you too...

But after everything that happened tonight, you found yourself back in square one, alone again.

He had asked you if you had any career plans for the future.

"Hmm," you thought as your feet swung back and forth over the side of your cot, "I was thinking that maybe I could become a Hunter. I'm hoping to take the next exam. I think that my experience with nen and my katana gives me a good chance of passing the exam," you replied sheepishly.

"The next exam?" Giichi asked sorrowfully.

"Yeah," you smiled, "is there something wrong?"

Giichi smiled and shook his head, taking his seat on his cot across from yours.

"There's nothing wrong with that, of course. I'm really happy for you. It's just that...I'm really sad to see you go so soon. The Hunter exam is next week after all."

He looked back up at you. His sorrowful sage meeting your (y/e/c) ones. There was something in his look that made your heart soar...

"Giichi, I-"

He leaned in closer to you from his cot and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. Almost immediately you felt heat rise to your cheeks. He's so close...

"(Y/N)...I was going to wait to tell you this, but since you're leaving I have no choice but to tell you now," a mischievous smile found its way onto his face, "I really like you, (y/n). I have since the moment I met you. You're beautiful and strong. It really makes me sad that you're leaving before we had the chance to become something more than friends..."

Something more than friends? You had never thought about being more than friends with someone other than your soulmate...and even when you did think about that you figured that would be happening way down the line. Right now, you're free and you're allowed to finally make choices for yourself.

The first words of your soulmate burned angrily against the skin of your collarbone.

Could you pursue this, soulmate aside? No...no you couldn't. You were going to become a Hunter. You were going to make money and explore the world. Maybe along the way, you'd meet people and you'd get to finally use your power safely for people you care about...For now, though, you didn't have room for a relationship, despite what you felt for Giichi.

"Giich-"

Before you could tell him how you felt, he placed his hands on your cheeks and pressed his lips to yours.

You were completely frozen. Your eyes wide open in shock and your heart pounding against your chest. This was your first kiss. Before you could even process that thought it was over, and your soulmate mark was on fire.

He was there, lingering dejectedly in the corner of your mind. Feelings of jealousy, betrayal, and finally something passive washed over him in your head. And then he was gone. He shut himself out almost faster than your kiss.

Giichi pulled away from you, "After you get your Hunter license, will you come here and show me?"

You nodded your head slowly, your fingers playing with your tingling lips, "S-Sure."

He smirked and patted your head before walking away, "Get some sleep, (y/n). Goodnight."

Sleeping was the last thing you did. You laid awake in your cot, your soulmate mark throbbing against your collarbone. After about an hour of tossing and turning, you decided to get up and get some water, walking on your tiptoes to avoid waking the other sleeping children in the cots around you.

You were almost to the kitchen when you heard Giichi talking on the phone in his office.

"...uh-huh, yeah...She should be back from her Hunter Exam in two weeks, I'm guessing... Yeah...You can pay me and take her at the same time I guess, no need to make two trips... trust me, she'll definitely be back..."

You rocked on your feet outside of his office, almost losing your balance at the same time. He tried to trick you...he tried to gain your trust and sell you...To who though? Your father? A third party that knew about your power? That didn't matter, right now you had to get away and lay low.

You ran back to your cot and took the few things that you owned. You pulled on your black hoodie and pulled the strap of your Katana case over your chest and let your katana rest on your back. From there, you crept out of the back doors and ran into the night.

Your feet slowed to a stop as you reached the bus stop. A bus was there loading passengers so you immersed yourself into the line, pulling your hoodie over your face.

You took a seat alone at the back of the bus, the rain pattering angrily against the window and the wind rattling the bus.

You can do this alone, (y/n). Don't be afraid, you have to lay low for a little while.

You took a deep breath and shut your eyes. Regret weighed heavily on your heart and you tried to push these thoughts to your soulmate but you were met with silence.

The intercom on the bus buzzed to life, "Next stop: Yorknew City."

#killua zoldyck #hunter x hunter #killua zoldyck x reader #killua x reader #gon freecss #alluka zoldyck #illumi zoldyck #hxh x reader #kurapika #leorio #x reader #hisoka #tw: anxiety #tw: trauma #tw: death #tw: abuse #tw: violence #tw: blood

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vanillacaramelhoney · 4 years

Text

Different (2)

Pairing(s): Five Hargreeves x Reader

Summary: "We can always tell them."

Warnings: Fightingg, violence, death, y’know the usual

A/N: The fight scene at Griddy’s is my absolute favorite aside from the board massacre lmao

Fair warning- I’m shit at writing fight scenes!!!

Masterlist

Previous | Next

YN stayed in the house for the funeral, not wanting to intrude.

She didn't know Reginald aside from the stories Five told her in the apocalypse. They were enough for her to know that there was a lot of baggage that their father left them to carry.

She felt that she'd be intruding, despite what Five told her.

"You're a part of this family, y'know," Five pointed out as they had changed. "You're allowed to be out there."

"Yeah, but I didn't even know the man," YN reasoned. "Besides, they don't know that."

"We can always tell them."

YN looked back at Five, a playful smirk spreading across her face. "What happened to wanting to keep your love life private?" she teased.

Five scoffed, but there was only mock annoyance behind.

"Besides, I think Diego would try to kill you if we told him we're married."

"How do you two know each other?" Five asked, turning to her. He wore his old uniform. YN wore one of his as well but didn't wear the full set. She was glad that she was the right size for them.

"He knows my mom," she shrugged.

Five gave her a look of confusion but didn't comment on it.

From what Five told her, the funeral didn't go well- not that she expected it to go any better than it did. Diego's behaviour didn't exactly surprise her, and what she knew of him and his siblings, the fight wasn't a surprise either.

That didn't mean she wasn't upset with him.

Now, though, she watched as Five dug through the kitchen. She sat on the edge of the table, her feet resting on a chair.

Klaus sat at the head of the table across from her. He held onto a guitar, his shoes discarded on the table.

Allison joined the three. "Where's Vanya?"

"Oh," Klaus spoke, "she's gone."

"That's unfortunate." YN glanced back at Five.

"Yeah," Allison agreed, giving him an odd look.

"An entire square block," Five said. "Forty-two bedrooms, nineteen bathrooms, but not a single drop of coffee." He looked up at his sister.

YN rolled her eyes at the reminder of his caffeine addiction.

"Dad hated caffeine," Allison reminded him.

"Well, he hated children, too, and he had plenty of us," Klaus laughed pathetically at his joke, stopping abruptly.

Allison and Five stared at him a moment.

"I'm taking the car," Five said.

Klaus sat up in his seat, moving the guitar. "Where are you going?"

"To get a decent cup of coffee," Five told him. He looked to YN. "You coming?" With a nod, she dropped off the table.

"Do either of you even know how to drive?" Allison asked.

"We know how to do everything."

"It was great meeting you all," YN smiled before Five grabbed her hand, and they jumped out of the kitchen.

Klaus stood from his seat. "I feel like we should try and stop them, but then again, I also just kinda want to see what happens."

They could hear the engine start, followed by the stifled sound of the car leaving.

Diego walked in, already speaking. "I guess I'll see you guys in, what, ten years? When Pogo dies?"

"Not if you die first," Allison said, stepping away from him.

"Yeah, love you, too, sis," Diego fired back. He glanced around the kitchen. "YN leave?"

"The girl?" Klaus asked.

"Yeah."

"Her and Five ran off to get coffee, apparently."

Diego let out an annoyed sigh, stepping away and moving to leave.

The shifting neon lights above Griddy's was a welcomed sight for YN. She seldom visited with Diego, and on occasion, her mother joined when she was free. After a while, though, she started coming on her own and became acquainted with Agnes, who always served her.

The two climbed out of the car, and Five led the way to the diner.

A man held the door open for them as he left, earning a quick thank you from YN.

They settled next to each other at the counter. YN reached over and rang a short tune with the bell.

Five gave her a confused look as she settled back.

She looked back at him innocently.

"What?" she asked.

"What was that?" he asked.

"I haven't seen Agnus in a long time, and I always did that when I would come in," she pouted. "Leave me alone."

Five let out a chuckle and shook his head in amusement.

Behind them, the door opened, and footsteps came up to the counter. A man sat down in a chair close to Five.

Agnus came from the back room, and YN beamed at the sight of her.

"Sorry," the waitress apologized. "The sink was clogged." With a smile, she pulled out her pad of paper and pen.

"What'll it be?" she asked, looking at the man.

"Uh, give me a chocolate eclair." Agnus wrote down the order. She glanced up at Five.

"Can I get the kid a glass of milk or something?"

YN stifled back a laugh as Five scoffed. "The kid wants coffee. Black."

Agnus glanced at the man, uncertain of what to do. "Cute kid," she laughed. Looking back at Five, he gave her an uncomfortable smile.

She quickly moved on to YN.

"Nice to see you again, dear," she said, trying not to look back at Five. "Want your usual?"

"Yes, please," YN spoke softly.

Agnus gave her a nod before stepping back to the coffee pot.

Five let out a soft sigh.

"Don't remember this place being such a shithole," he said, earning a gentle push from YN. "I used to come here as a kid. Used to sneak out with my brothers and sisters- eat donuts 'till we puked. Simpler times, huh?"

The man next to them seemed confused- understandably so, YN thought.

"I suppose," he responded.

Angus returned to the counter, balancing four items in her hands. She placed two coffees down- one for Five and the other for YN- and gave the man his eclair and YN her favorite pastry.

The man had pulled out his wallet, holding out money to Agnus.

"I got theirs," he said.

"Thanks." The two spoke in unison.

It was quiet for a moment as YN dug into her food. It had been almost a full day now since she'd last eaten anything, so she wasn't going to let it go to waste.

"You must know your way around the city."

YN looked up at Five, who stared at the man.

"I hope so," the man said. "I've been driving it for twenty years."

"Good," Five said. "We need an address."

YN raised a brow at him, unsure of where this was going.

She watched as the man wrote the address down on a napkin and slid it over to Five.

With a curt smile- one more pleasant than what he offered Agnus- Five took it and looked the address over.

YN looked at it over his shoulder, glancing back as the man left the restaurant.

"What's that for?" she questioned as he folded and pocketed the napkin.

Five opened his mouth to speak but shut it when the door opened again. Through the reflection of the bell, they could see armed men dressed in black behind them. Two had their weapons raised to each of their heads.

YN sighed as she stared down at her unfinished pastry. Did it really need to be this hard to get some food?

"That was fast," Five hummed. "Thought we'd have more time before they found us."

"Okay," the man holding his gun to Five's head spoke. "Let's be professional about this, yeah? On your feet, and come with us. They want to talk."

With a sigh, YN propped her arm up and rested her chin in the palm of her hand.

"We've got nothing to say."

"It doesn't have to go this way. You think I wanna shoot some kids? Go home with that on my conscience?"

"Well, I wouldn't worry about that." Five and YN glanced at each other. YN looked forward again, and Five looked back at the man. "You won't be going home."

Letting Five take the lead, YN waiting until he disappeared from his chair to drop from her seat and duck down.

The man that was aiming at her followed her movement, ready to shoot.

She moved faster, using her weight and swiping the man off his feet. He stumbled to the ground, landing on a conveniently placed pile of ice shards that pierced through his body. They melted to water seconds later, leaving no evidence behind.

"Hey, assholes!" Five's voice rang out in the diner, attracting the attention of the men.

As the men shot wildly at where he used to be seconds ago, YN used the distraction.

Focusing, a sharp wave of her hand brought shards of ice flying through the floor at the men. Only two got hit, the others taking cover from them before turning their shots on the girl. She avoided as best as she could, all while being jealous of Five's ability to jump around and avoid everything.

The boy wrapped his tie around the neck of a man, while another tried to aim at him. YN kicked at the other, and he stumbled back.

Forming a flat but sharp piece of ice in her hand, she rushed him, swinging at his neck with the ice. He dropped to the ground, blood pouring out and pooling around him.

YN scrunched her nose at the sight, dropping the ice.

Turning, she caught sight of the last two men trying to corner Five. He disappeared as they shot, leaving them to shoot at each other. They sank to the ground, dead, and the fight was finally over.

YN let out a laugh as Five retrieved his tie from a man's corpse.

"What's so funny?" he asked, wrapping his tie back around his neck.

"They were a couple of idiots," she said.

"You know, for someone so sweet, you can be real awful sometimes," Five said. YN smiled at him, shrugging.

The sounds of grunts caught their attention, and YN's smile fell.

Five moved to stand over the last man, crouching down to snap his neck. There, he caught sight of the tracking device and picked it up.

He showed it to YN, who groaned.

"You wanna go first?" he asked.

"Not really."

They sat back at the counter.

YN watched in displeasure as Five took a knife to his arm, cutting into the skin. He dug into the wound with his fingers, grunting in pain.

He pulled out a small pill-shaped device that blinked green. He set it aside before handing the knife over to YN.

"Your hands are still black," he commented.

A side effect of solidifying liquids came in the form of frostbite on her hands. It would never hurt her, but her hands and fingers would ache and freeze for a certain amount of time as it faded.

"Are you sure you can do this?" Five asked, noticing the severe shake to her hands. "Are you alright?" He hadn't seen the side effects in so long that it was odd to see them again.

"I'm fine," YN assured him. "I didn't know I had powers at this age, so I never used them. I guess being back at this age and using them so much all of a sudden is taking a toll on my body."

"Here, give it to me," Five insisted.

With a sigh, she traded the knife back and held out her arm for him.

Her face scrunched in pain as he cut through, stopping when it was open enough. He did the same for her, reaching in and pulling out the tracking device.

"Can we go now?"

They left the shop hand-in-hand, Five ignoring the cold her hand gave off.

He dropped the devices by the sewer drain.

"Where to now, babe?" YN asked.

"Vanya's."

The click of a lock and creaking hinges filled the dark room where YN and Five sat, waiting.

YN could faintly see a figure's outline, who she assumed was Vanya. Hoped was more like it.

Five clicked on a light, revealing their presence.

Vanya looked at them, startled. "Jesus!" she breathed.

"You should have locks on your windows," Five told her.

"I live on the second floor."

"Rapists can climb."

Vanya paused. "You are so weird."

She turned and closed the door before removing her coat and draping it over the back of the couch.

She sat down on the couch.

She looked over the two, more focused on her brother than the girl who rested against the back of the chair he sat on.

"Is that blood?" she asked them. Her gaze stayed on their arms.

YN moved her arm out of sight, which was much more visible than Five's.

"It's nothing," Five said.

Vanya shifted, not liking his answer. "Why are you here?"

"I've decided you're the only one I can trust."

"Why me?"

"Because you're ordinary." YN discreetly flicked the back of his head. He sighed at her. "Because you'll listen."

With a soft 'okay,' she stood up and disappeared into a room. She returned shortly with medical supplies, to which Five rolled up the sleeve of the blazer.

The woman took a sharp breath at the sight of his wound.

"When I jumped forward and got stuck in the future, do you know what I found?" Five spoke.

"No."

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. For a while, I thought I was the last person alive. I found YN, who managed to survive by luck.

"I never figured out what killed the human race, but I did find something else. The date it happens. The world ends in eight days, and I have no idea how to stop it."

During Five's explanation, YN had been waved over to the couch by Vanya so she could take care of her arm as well.

Vanya stared at her brother in silence as she tried to register the bomb he had dropped on her.

"I'll put on a pot of coffee."

----Taglist

@fancytravelerbird

#tua #tua x reader #tua x you #The Umbrella Academy #Umbrella Academy #umbrella academy imagine #umbrella academy x reader #number five #number five x you #number five x reader #five x reader #five x you #five hargreeves #five hargreeves x reader #five hargreeves x you

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honey-dewey · 4 years

Text

When I’m Older and I’m Wiser

Pairing: Marcus Moreno/ Dentist Reader

Word Count: 4,262

Warnings: General medical fic involving dentistry and recovering from wisdom tooth surgery. Mentions of pills, blood, needles, and Marcus being very high. Some use of (F/N) (L/N), but not much.

How the hell Marcus Moreno has gotten this far in his life without getting his wisdom teeth removed is beyond you. But that fateful day comes, and honestly you really should just quit being the Heroic’s dentist because it’s probably taking years off your life. Mostly because your current patient is very cute, very high, and in your care for the next 24 hours, which is a dangerous combination.

“Ow.”

Missy looked over from where she’d been getting a second glass of milk, turning her attention to her dad. Marcus was staring at the eggs on his plate, seemingly frozen. The look on his face could only be described as offended, as if the eggs had just bit him back.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, sitting back down and nudging Marcus with her foot.

“Hurts,” Marcus mumbled, putting a hand to his cheek. The last thing he had expected was pain upon eating scrambled eggs, but it was there.

Missy shrugged, digging into her own eggs. “Could it be a cavity?”

Marcus shook his head, moving his hand to his other cheek. “Both sides.”

“Two cavities?”

Giving Missy a playful dirty look, Marcus took another bite of eggs, face scrunching when the pain persisted.

Missy raised an eyebrow, and Marcus suddenly regretted having a tiny powerhouse of a daughter. “When was the last time you saw Dr. (L/N)?”

“Uh,” Marcus squirmed a bit under her judgmental gaze, thinking back. “I made an appointment right before your mother passed, but then she died and we were in mourning, and then I quit actively hero-ing full time, and then I took a while off to raise you, and then I started my new job, and then I was kidnapped by aliens, so I dunno. A few years?”

“A few years?” Missy said, cocking her head slightly. “You make me go every six months!”

“You’re still growing!” Marcus defended. “I’d be an awful parent if I didn’t keep up with your health.”

Missy sighed. “Please tell me you’ve seen an actual doctor recently.”

Marcus nodded. “Saw my GP last month.”

“Good,” Missy said. “Can you see Dr. (L/N) today please?”

Again, Marcus nodded. “Y’know, sometimes I wonder just who’s running this household.”

“It’s me.”

“I know kiddo. I know.”

Their drive to Heroic headquarters was silent, but comfortable, as it usually was. Marcus parked, the throbbing in his jaw just getting worse as he and Missy got on the bus into headquarters. Missy broke off in the reception area, heading down the hall with a wave. Marcus waved back, smiling at her as she disappeared.

Wiping his hands on his shirt, Marcus walked up to the receptionist, who gave him a friendly smile. “Hello Marcus, what can I do for you?”

“Hey Rhea,” Marcus said, leaning slightly on the counter. “When’s my first meeting?”

Rhea hummed, putting his name into the computer and clicking a few times. “Looks like your earliest meeting is at 2:30.”

“Awesome,” Marcus groaned. “Does Dr. (L/N) have any available appointments in the morning?”

“Has someone been skipping out on the dentist?” Rhea said jokingly, moving to a different computer screen. “Was it Missy who made you go?”

“Yeah.”

Rhea laughed. “That kid,” she said softly. “And you’re in luck. Dr. (L/N) has an available appointment in half an hour, at nine. I’ll get you set up with it, okay?”

Marcus sighed. “Yeah, that works. Thank you Rhea. I’ll see you later.”

He waited for his appointment in the hero lounge, reading a book and chewing absently on his thumb nail. When his watch read ten 'til nine, he put his book in his bag and began to make his way down to the medical wing of the building.

The medical wing was not one Marcus was in frequently. He knew some of the staff, but not all of them. But he waved to them all the same, eventually reaching the dentist’s section with five minutes to spare.

“Mr. Moreno!” The nurse behind the reception counter said cheerily. “I thought it had to be a mistake when I saw you had an appointment.”

“Please,” Marcus said. “Just Marcus will do.”

The nurse nodded. “Of course. The doctor will be right out. You’re her first of the day, and honestly, I think she thought your name was a typo too. It’s been too long.”

Marcus sighed. “Yeah. Missy chewed me out about that earlier.”

“I’ll bet.” The nurse gestured to a row of chairs. “Take a seat. I’ll go see if the doc is ready.”

Marcus sat down, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs in an effort to calm his nerves.

“Moreno?”

He looked up, heart suddenly beating fast. Standing in the doorway that separated the waiting room from the actual office was Dr. (L/N), looking very expectant and a tiny bit disappointed.

———

Marcus stood, following you back into the office. His steps behind you were nervous, a high contrast to the confident clicking of your shoes.

“Long time no see,” you said, pushing open a door and gesturing Marcus into the exam room. “What finally brought you back?”

“Aside from Missy?” Marcus asked, sitting in the chair and rocking his left foot back and forth on the ankle. “I woke up this morning and it hurt to eat breakfast.”

You nodded, washing your hands and donning a pair of gloves. “And there wasn’t any pain last night?”

“Maybe a tiny bit.” Marcus watched you sit on a rolling stool, moving so you were just at his side. “But nothing I was worried about.”

You crossed your legs, thinking. “Did you do any intense training in the past 24 hours?”

“Nothing involving my head.”

“Well then it’s probably just a cavity or two,” you decided, rolling closer to Marcus’s head and putting both feet on the floor. “Let’s take a look, get some x-rays, and see if we can’t have you feeling better soon.”

You adjusted the chair so Marcus was staring up at the ceiling, and at a large space mobile you’d hung ages ago. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

You smiled, pulling a mask up over your nose. “Relax Marcus. I’m not gonna hurt you on purpose.”

Marcus still squirmed a bit as you examined his mouth, your brows knitting tighter and tighter as you realized this wasn’t a simple case of a few cavities.

“Marcus,” you said slowly, sitting him up and tugging your mask down under your chin. “You’re in your forties, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Please tell me you don’t still have your wisdom teeth.”

Marcus shrugged. “I don’t know. Why? Is that a bad thing?”

“Most people have theirs removed when they’re teenagers,” you explained, pulling down the x-ray machine. “That way, there’s less risk of nerve damage. It’s not a bad thing to have them removed later in life, but it does come with higher risks.”

“Oh.” The reassurance didn’t comfort Marcus much as you softly directed him through the various x-rays.

You pulled the piece of plastic out of his mouth as the final x-ray hit your computer. “Sorry about that,” you said, watching Marcus rub his face. “I know it sucks. But, good news, I have an answer for you.”

You let Marcus turn so he was facing your computer. “It’s definitely your wisdom teeth,” you said, tugging your gloves off and pointing at the computer screen. “See? All four of them are coming in, which is impressive. I can probably take them out tomorrow, honestly. Those suckers can get really painful really fast, so we’re gonna want to take care of it as soon as possible.”

Marcus paled. “Tomorrow?”

“That would be best.” You put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, it’ll be okay. I do one of these surgeries like, once a month. I know what I’m doing, and you’re going to be just fine.”

“Okay,” Marcus said, nodding and staring at you. “I believe you.”

You smiled. “Perfect. So I can schedule your surgery for super early tomorrow, I’m thinking around seven, maybe seven thirty. We wanna get it out of the way early because you can’t eat anything for twelve hours beforehand.” As you explained, you gathered some papers from a desk drawer. “I assume you want general anesthesia.”

“Is that the option where I sleep through it all?”

“Yep,” you said, stapling the papers together and handing them to Marcus. “As per protocol, we’re going to need reassurance you’ll be with a responsible adult guardian for at least forty eight, if not seventy two hours post surgery. The first twelve to twenty hour can be brutal, so you definitely want someone there during that.”

Marcus shook his head. “I haven’t got anyone besides my mom, who I assumed would be taking Missy while I healed.”

“That’s okay,” you promised. “We can get someone here to care for you for two days. You’d have to stay here at headquarters, but you’d be comfortable and cared for. Whatever you do, I’ll call in some pain prescriptions and the like for you to pick up after work today. Just see the pharmacy out front and they’ll give the pills to you.”

You stood, gesturing Marcus up. “So, to recap. Get here early tomorrow, no food after seven tonight, and wear comfy clothes. Most patients go with sweatpants, but you go with whatever is most comfortable to you. Bring a change of pyjamas and your prescriptions if you’re staying with us, and I’ll see you tomorrow Mr. Moreno,” you said as you led him back to the lobby.

Tomorrow came faster than anticipated, and before you knew it, it was seven AM and you were waiting for Marcus with your nurse beside you.

“Damn his mouth is messed up,” the nurse mumbled, looking over the x-rays. “All four?”

“All four,” you agreed, smiling as the lobby door opened. “Mr. Moreno! Follow me. I assume you stuck with the rules I gave you yesterday?”

“Yeah,” Marcus said, handing you the paper bag with his prescriptions and a small drawstring bag that presumably had clothes in it. “I’m gonna be staying here.”

“Perfect,” you said, pushing open the operating room door. “I see we’re dressed for the occasion.”

Marcus turned red, looking down at his soft black sleep pants and a worn out Fleetwood Mac shirt. “Yeah.”

You put Marcus’s stuff down on the counter, handing him a small white cup. “That is a super powerful mouthwash,” you explained. “Take it, and do try and keep it in your mouth for a minute. I know it tastes horrible.”

Marcus did try, but he only made it to thirty seconds before he had to spit out the disgustingly bitter mouthwash.

You laughed at his face, pulling on your gloves. “Alright Marcus, that works.”

He smiled softly, relaxing a tiny bit. “Thanks.”

“I wouldn’t thank anyone who made me take that stuff,” you said, grabbing a thin tube and holding it out. “That goes under your nose and over your ears, just like that,” you praised as Marcus threaded the tube over his ears. “Now, can I see your hand?”

Marcus let you clip a heart rate monitor to his right index finger, watching as you walked to his other side and held up the final thing. “And last, but not least.”

Immediately, Marcus looked extremely nervous again. You put down the IV line and rubbed his shoulder, trying to work away some of the tension. “Hey. Look at me. Just a pinch, and then you can take a nice long nap, okay? Deep breaths Marcus, deep breaths.”

Marcus took a breath, and you carefully took your hand off his shoulder. You slowly directed his head onto the chair’s headrest, still murmuring reassurances. “That’s it. Count the stars on my mobile out loud. I can’t remember how many there are.”

“Okay.” Marcus looked up, slowly counting out loud as you found his vein and stuck him with the IV line as quickly as you could. You administered some of the anesthesia, smiling as Marcus’s numbers began to slip and slide, until he wasn’t even counting as much as he was just mumbling out random mushy words.

“Goodnight Marcus.”

You gestured the nurse in, and she smiled, taking Marcus’s glasses and setting them on top of his other things. You finished off the anesthesia, watching Marcus’s eyes close.

When he woke again, it was to you pulling the IV line out and taping a cotton ball to his arm. “Wa’s happ’nin’?” He slurred around the cotton and the drugs.

“The surgery was a success,” you explained softly, despite Marcus not really understanding you. “All four teeth came out with no issue, and we’re about to take you to recovery. Oh, Marcus, keep your head up.”

Marcus struggled to keep his head upright, and you giggled, holding your hands out. “C’mon. Let’s get you into a real bed.”

You’d been through this with many patients before Marcus, but he seemed to be a stand-out, as you had some trouble getting him in the wheelchair and down the hallways into the recovery wing. He definitely fell under the ever entertaining category of ‘toddler high’ patients. His slurred words and puppy dog eyes made you laugh more than once on your way to his room. You actually had to stop and pause to laugh when he slurred out that he thought you were an Angel. He simply watched you with an exaggerated worried expression, half his words getting lost as he tried to mumble something out.

“What was that Marcus?” You asked, wiping your eyes and continuing down the hall with him.

“You’re tho prethy.” He said, head tipping down.

“Head up,” you coaxed softly, smiling despite yourself. “Look, there’s your room.”

Getting him in the room, which was more of a small, one person condo space, was thankfully the hardest part. But once you were in, he was very sleepy putty in your hands.

“Okay Marcus,” you said gently, helping him out of the wheelchair and onto the couch, piling a few pillows beneath his head “Do you want anything before you go to sleep?”

Marcus looked up at you. Between his cotton stuffed cheeks and his wide doe eyes, he looked a tiny bit ridiculous. You smiled, pulling out your phone and snapping a quick picture while he was still drugged as hell. “Marcus?”

“Mittenth.”

“What?”

Marcus pointed to his bag. “Mittenth.”

You walked over to the bag, opening it up and finding a black and white stuffed cat right on top. “Oh. Mittens.”

You handed the cat to Marcus, who immediately snuggled it to his chest and rolled over a bit, falling asleep instantly.

Again, you couldn’t help but stare. He looked so innocent like this, all curled up and sleeping. You hesitated to call him adorable, but if the shoe fit.

You sighed, picking up your phone and trailing into the single bedroom. Changing quickly into your leisure clothes, you texted one of the people at the pharmacy and requested a few ice packs and a wisdom tooth slushee. Both things were delivered in a matter of minutes, and you placed them securely in the small freezer to wait for Marcus.

When he woke up, he was significantly less high. Looking around, Marcus poked his cheeks and made a face. “I can’t feel my nose.”

“The entire bottom half of your face is numb,” you pointed out from your position at the two person table in the kitchen. “And believe me, you’re gonna want it to stay that way.”

Marcus sat up, looking over at you. “I’m hungry.”

“No solids for a while,” you told him, standing and grabbing his slushee. “But you can have this. And before you ask, yes you have to use the spoon.”

Marcus pouted, but took the slushee. “But the cotton.”

You nodded, settling on the couch next to him. “Open wide.”

Marcus did, allowing you to shove two fingers into his mouth and fish out the cotton. “Still bleeding,” you mumbled to yourself. “We’ll shove more in there when you’re done. For now,” You tipped the slushee at him. “Eat up.”

You turned your attention to the TV while Marcus ate slowly, taking tiny bites and occasionally sticking his tongue out. “It’s really numb.”

“That’ll fade by tomorrow morning,” you promised. “At noon I want you to take your first pills. Then you get more at one.”

Again, Marcus pouted, but simply sank lower into the couch cushions and mindlessly watched whatever was on TV. “Is my face swelling?”

You shrugged. “No more than other patients. But yeah, just a bit.”

“Do I look stupid?”

The question made you laugh. “Marcus, I’ve had so many ridiculous patients. You’re no worse than some of my other ones, I promise.”

Marcus accepted this and continued to take small bites of his slushee. “Why’s it gotta be blue?”

“Because blue isn’t even remotely close to red.” You didn’t even look up as you answered. “Same goes for when little kids get teeth pulled. You want something that’s soft, easy to swallow, and isn’t the color of blood.”

“Oh.”

You nodded. “Yeah. How’s your mouth feeling?”

Marcus mulled it over, eventually deciding on saying “Kinda achy.”

“I’ll give you those pills soon,” you said. “It’s gonna be tricky, considering any kind of anything touching those holes in your mouth is gonna hurt like a bitch.”

“Even water?”

“Even water.”

Marcus groaned, and you shrugged. “Sorry. But you’re the one who waited until now to do this.”

When Marcus finished his slushee, you grabbed a pill bottle off the kitchen counter, quickly glancing at the label and nodding. “Two of these,” you said, opening a cabinet and taking out a glass. “Come here.”

Marcus trudged over, leaning heavily against the counter’s edge. You put the two round pills on the counter, along with the glass of water. “Best to do it quickly. And one at a time.”

Picking up one of the pills, Marcus carefully put it on his tongue, taking the glass with a hesitant hand. He took a sip, swallowing quickly and audibly. “Can’t I use a straw?”

“Yeah,” you said sarcastically. “If you want dry socket, go ahead.”

“Do I want to know what that is?”

“Nope.” You pushed the second pill towards Marcus. “Take that, then you can lay back down.”

Marcus sighed, mirroring his previous action. However, instead of simply swallowing with a tight face, Marcus started, eyes filling with tears as he spit the water into the sink, the pill clattering against the metal.

You immediately began to worry as Marcus cried. It wasn’t a small tear or two either. He was full on sobbing, gripping the edges of the sink so tight his knuckles went white.

“Marcus,” you murmured, putting a hand on his arm. He looked up at you, and you put on your most comforting smile. “Hey, it’s okay.” You picked up a towel and slowly wiped the residual water off his face. “C’mere.”

He collapsed into your arms, going limp and continuing to cry. You rubbed his back, heart tightening whenever he let out a whimper of “hurts.”

“I know,” you said softly. “I know it hurts. But you have to take the pills.”

“Can’t,” Marcus hiccuped, burying himself deeper into your sweater.

“Marcus,” you said firmly, slowly untangling him from you. “I know it hurts. But you’ll be in more pain from not taking the pills. Please, for me?”

He took a breath. “Can we watch TV afterwards?”

You smiled. “Of course. I can give you ice for the swelling too.”

Marcus nodded, looking into the sink. “Do I take that one?”

“No,” you said, fishing a new pill out of the container. “It’s in the sink, I’m not gonna take that risk. Here.”

Marcus stared at the unassuming white pill in his hand. “Which one is this?”

“The acetaminophen.”

“The what?”

“Tylenol.”

Marcus nodded, popping the pill into his mouth and quickly gulping down the water. This time, he avoided hitting his stitches and simply handed you the glass. “I’m not doing that again.”

You took the glass, putting it in the sink. “You have more pills to take in an hour.”

Marcus groaned. “TV?”

“Of course,” you said, walking to the couch and smiling as Marcus fell onto it. “What do you wanna watch?”

Marcus turned his red rimmed puppy dog eyes on you. “Say Yes to the Dress?”

You laughed. “Are you serious? We can, but that’s not what I expected at all.”

“I like trash TV when I feel terrible.” Marcus grabbed Mittens and cuddled the stuffed cat to his chest.

You found the show, setting it up and standing. “More cotton. You're probably still bleeding, and we definitely don’t want that. Open.”

It took some finessing to get two more wads of cotton into Marcus’s mouth, but you succeeded, despite his complaints of feeling like a cartoon chipmunk.

“I’m gonna go start on dinner,” you said. “Are you gonna be okay here?”

Marcus pouted. “Do you have to start now?”

“Yeah.” You gestured to the kitchen. “Don’t worry, I’ll only be gone for twenty minutes. Soup just needs to sit for a while.”

Slightly consoled, Marcus zoned out at the TV while you got to work making a simple chicken noodle soup.

“Done,” you said, wiping your hands and walking back to the couch twenty minutes later. “Marcus, are you still awake?”

Marcus grumbled, holding his hands out. “C’mere.”

You passed him an ice pack, and he made a face. “Not what I want.”

“What do you want?”

As if somehow knowing they were your kryptonite, Marcus gave you his puppy dog eyes. “Wanna hold you.”

You sighed, but crawled into his arms anyway. When you finally settled, he was on his back, head and neck propped up on the arm of the couch, and you were on your side between the back of the couch and Marcus. He was warm, wrapping one arm loosely over your waist and using the other hand to press the ice into his cheek.

You quickly slid into a nice comfortable headspace, occasionally smiling when Marcus commented on the wedding dresses on screen.

“You dropped Mittens,” you realized after a while, shuffling to grab the discarded toy from the floor.

Marcus took Mittens, gently placing the cat on his chest, so that it was secure on his sternum.

“Does Mittens belong to Missy?”

“Belonged to Clara.”

“Oh.” You saw the change in demeanor, noticed how Marcus’s face steeled when he said her name. He rarely talked about Clara, especially at work. “I’m-“

“Nah,” Marcus said, shaking his head. “It’s the past. I’m happy now, and so is Mittens.”

You nestled deeper into his chest. “Happy right now?”

“Definitely happy right now,” Marcus said softly. “Very happy, even though I can’t feel my face.”

“Even if you could,” you mumbled, knowing where this was headed. “You can’t kiss anyone for a while.”

Marcus grinned. “I guess we’ll just have to wait then, won’t we?”

You mirrored his mischievous smile. “You can’t kiss,” you said, scooting upwards, until you were laying on top of Marcus, your belly on his ribs. “But I can.”

You lay gentle kisses across his cheeks, smiling when he laughed at your insistence upon kissing his nose. His cheeks were cold from the ice and tender from the swelling, but Marcus never tried to stop you, so you continued downwards, kissing the pulse points on his neck.

“You’re a damn tease,” Marcus huffed.

You simply smiled into his skin and tugged the collar of his shirt down, pressing firm kisses into the points of his collarbones.

“Hey,” Marcus nudged your head. “Can we finish this when I don’t have a mouth of stitches? I still can’t feel my tongue.”

“Of course,” you said, pushing his shirt collar back up and laying your head on his sternum. “How long?”

“Hm?”

You shrugged, watching a woman try on a stunning wedding dress on the TV. “How long have you wanted to kiss me?”

Marcus thought it over. “Last year,” he finally decided. “When Missy had three teeth out. You were so kind, and I just melted.”

“But you didn’t fall in love hard enough to ever pay me a visit,” you teased, tracing the faded symbol on his shirt.

“Didn’t ever want to go under and realize I’d spilled everything,” Marcus confessed.

You smiled. “Too late. You said I looked like an Angel in the hallway.”

Marcus turned bright red, and you laughed at him. “It’s okay,” you promised, kissing his cheek that didn’t have the ice pack. “I think you’re pretty handsome yourself.”

That night, after dinner and more pills and ice cream for dessert, you and Marcus settled down in the only bedroom, clinging to each other as if your lives depended on it.

Waking up was hard. Marcus was well enough to go home, most of the swelling gone and the numbness completely faded.

“So,” you clicked down the halls of the dentist’s office, Marcus behind you. “No really hot liquids for another few days, and try not to do solids until then either. That antibacterial mouthwash should be used twice a day, and you can start brushing your teeth again in two days. Remember, no straws, take your pills, keep icing your cheeks, and if I see you in this office before this time next week, I will be calling your mother.”

Marcus nodded as you pulled open the lobby door, where Anita and Missy were waiting. “Anything else Doctor?”

You shook your head. “You should be all clear Mr. Moreno. I’ll be seeing you for your check-up next week. Don’t you go skipping out on me now.”

Marcus smiled. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he promised, leaning a bit closer to you. “And I cannot wait to kiss you for real.”

He pulled away, leaving you flushed and dizzy. “See you next week Doctor.”

“See you next week Mr. Moreno.”

If you liked this, I do dialogue prompt requests as well! Go request something if you want!

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

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iwantitiwriteit · 4 years

Text

Love Lockdown - Part 5

Back to December - Part 1

Pairing: Chris Evans x Reader

Summary: In the December prior to the pandemic, you spend Christmas with Chris in Boston, a first time meeting between you and his extended family. You struggle with implications of seriousness this milestone has on your relationship with Chris.

Warnings: Angst, Pandemic backdrop, Profanity, healthy dose of Fluff, sprinkle of Sexual suggestiveness

Notes: So much was really working against me getting this up for y’all lol, but nothing worth having comes easy, right? Anyways, tried some new stuff I learned in some articles I read, more showing, less telling. Allusions and metaphors. We’ll see how it comes across. Christmas in October anyone? Read the previous part here!

The ding DONG of the doorbell echoes so exaggeratedly, it had to have been your imagination. No, I’m really here now. With your blood pumping loudly in your ears, you stare straight ahead at the barrier to entry, and seemingly to your happy future.

A Christmas-covered front door shouldn’t cause you this much stress, but here you were, feeling mocked by smiling snowmen and delicate, origami snowflakes.

You try to focus instead on one of the many thoughts flurrying your mind.

What if they hate me? Valid question, but sooo not the vibe right now. You go for another.

What if I hate THEM? Nice. None of these thoughts are stilling your rapidly beating heart.

“Ow! Loosen up the vice grip, will ya?”

“Oh,” you look down at where yours and Chris’ glove-clad hands are joined, releasing them almost instantly. “I’m sor—“

“It’s alright, babe,” Chris chuckles. As if you could muster a strength close enough to hurt this man. He’s sure not to let your hand get too far, taking it back into his and bringing it up to his rosy lips for a chaste kiss.

You wish you could feel it, the warmth of his lips on your knuckles, but that would mean braving the Boston blitz without a piece of your knit armour. You’re not sure you’re ready for that. You’re also not sure how he does it. He’s wearing significantly less layers than you, yet he’s perfectly content as if it’s a Summer’s day, while you are, quite literally, quaking in your boots.

He notices your shivering shoulders, knows it’s not just the cold getting to you. With his right hand in your left, and his left hand wrapped around a gift, he nudges you with his words.

“Hey,” he starts, but sees the opulent wreath on the door still has your attention. “Hey you,” he tries again. You finally look up at him. You lock your widened eyes with his ocean calm ones as he scans your face. Your brows could almost touch with how deeply furrowed you have them and your lips are fixed in a tight line.

“Typically it takes a lot to get my girl all nervous and whatnot,” he states, but you knew it was more of a question of what's up with you.

“Yeah, well… I’m not nervous, Chris.”

“Really? Cos the bruise on my hand would say otherwise,” he jokes.

You roll your eyes at him trying not to laugh. “Even if I was nervous, which I’m not, could you blame me? This is a lot. This is big. This... This is your family.” Your features soften and voice drops in volume. “I don’t wanna fuck it up.”

“Impossible.”

“You sure? Think I already did by taking this long,” you mumbled. You look away, unable to hold Chris' intense gaze anymore. Being in front of his childhood home, for the first time since you’ve started dating over 2 years ago, you can’t help but feel… guilty.

No use in taking the conversation there at this moment. Especially knowing that lately it led to some sort of shouting match. The ‘I can’t’s’ and ‘next time’s’ didn’t suffice anymore.

Chris only responds with a sigh as he rings the doorbell for the second time. He looks back over to you, a snowflake floating then landing on your lash. You’re unaware of how whimsical you look to him. How well you’re going to fit in with his family and friends.

He takes his thumb to brush the snowflake off and cup your cheek. Watching as you swallow thickly, Chris moves his thumb to your throat to massage away the lump you try to move on your own. You relax into his touch, and he flicks his eyes down to your gently smiling lips then back up to your eyes. You know what he’s silently asking. Placing your hand on his wrist was your silent answer. He leans in slowly, and you wish you could stay like this, just for a little while longer. But all good things...

“Uncle Chris!” a youthful voice exclaims as the door swings open. Chris swiftly removes his suggestive hand from your neck and himself from your personal space. He prays there’s some mistletoe hanging inside.

“Hey Kiddo!” Chris huffs out as he picks the child up, replacing her spot on the floor with the present in his hand. She goes to wrap her small arms around his neck as he asks her, “Did you grow since just last night?”

“No!” She giggles as he pinches her cheeks. “I missed you Uncle Chris! You weren’t here when we woke up,” his niece pouts. You look at Chris to see him with matching puppy dog eyes and poked out lip.

“Oh, Kiddo, I’m sorry. I--”

“It’s ok,” she cut him off, causing you to chuckle at her brashness, “I saved the gift from you and your special friend to open last!”

“Well, speaking of...” Chris pulls you in closer to him by your hand, “This is her! I went to get her from the airport,” he beams down at you. The little cutie in Chris’ arm has turned more shy when speaking to you as you exchange names and a quaint handshake.

In a not-so-quiet whisper, she tells Chris, “She’s really pretty. Good job,” with an added thumbs-up and shoulder pat. You can’t fight your giggle and the heat that rises to your face, and Chris can’t fight the laughter that erupts from himself.

Chris is joined in a chorus of laughter, the foyer now filled with Evans’ of all ages, tickled by one of their youngest and no doubt happy that Chris is home… and brought company. This is it… you think.

It’d been a long while since you’d ‘met the family’, having not made it that far with the relationships leading up to this one with Chris. You wonder if it’s like riding a bike, or if you should’ve read an article on how to during your last minute flight.

In the crowd of smiling Evans’, you spot Chris’ mom and brother. You’ve met them on numerous occasions, all in L.A., and know them pretty well. However, everyone else you knew from a picture, a story or would be meeting for the first time this afternoon. There was going to be a lot of meeting, greeting, questioning, explaining…

You steel yourself for the day ahead. Chris looks at you and gives you a reassuring smile and squeeze on your hand. You reciprocate, tension releasing only the slightest as you look at his sunny face, your reminder of why this must go well.

——————————————————————————

The first couple hours you were sure would be the hardest. It was a time of first impressions, and you only get one of those. Tasked with making the rounds to about 30 or so aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews, in-laws, childhood this and that, Chris wanted to make sure you met every. Single. Body. And as soon possible.

“That way, we get you comfortable faster!” He rejoiced. Chris’ excitement was always infectious so you try to let wash over and enthuse you.

You lost count of how many times you fake laughed at ‘Chris has finally brought you home! We were starting to think you weren’t real!’. But with Chris by your side, the worn out joke was just bearable. He found new ways to respond each time, no doubt to at least keep you entertained. ‘Who do you owe money, then?’ or ‘When you find a treasure, you try to keep it to yourself as long as possible *wink*’ or ‘She’s not even here… she’s a hallucination’ never failed to make you laugh or make your cheeks burn.

It’s actually really endearing to know that there was some anticipation for your arrival. Unbeknownst to you, Chris had been hyping you up to his family. Telling them your accomplishments and aspirations in your writing career, which apparently impressed them. He told them your hobbies and other passions that sparked conversations about their own, and prompted advice on your life trajectory.

All in all, breaking the ice was more delightful than you thought it would be, and hoped that by sticking by Chris’ side the rest of the day would go in that way. But the universe had other plans.

At one point, you get whisked away to the kitchen by Chris’ mom, Lisa, under the guise of needing help with some dishes for dinner. You quickly realize that it's a set-up of sorts, with most of the women of the Evans family gathered around the island putting finishing touches on their dishes and slyly sipping spiked eggnog. These are the people who you feel you have to impress.

Their chatter and laughter came to a halt as they eyed you cautiously crossing the kitchen to the spot Lisa designated you. It was only a matter of time before the interrogation began.

“So… we’ll cut straight to the chase: why is it we’re just now meeting you? You’ve been with our Chris how long now?”

“Vicky!” Lisa smacks her arm warningly. “Have you no filter? You’ll scare the poor girl off before dinner!”

Chris has told you about his infamous Aunt Vicky. “A true cream puff; soft and sweet… once you get past the tough outside,” you remember him telling you.

“It’s fine,” you start, not willing to cower from the inquiry, “Chris and I have been together 2-½ years— 3 in June. And we’ve been happily taking things slow.”

“Good on you for taking things slow. Most women would— and do— jump at the chance to lock down our Chris. But not you, you’re a woman with her own sense of self. We like that,” you’re affirmed with a wink.

Whew.

“You are as pretty as our kid spy said; thought she was exaggerating.”

“Um thank you…?”

“She’s pretty, but can she cook?”

“Carole!” Lisa warns another woman and apologizes to you with her eyes. Chris also told you about his aunt Carole, Vicky’s ‘side kick’. The two of them made for a dubious duo.

“Yeah, what’s Chris’ favorite dish of yours?” Aunt Vicky prodded.

“I can cook, but not that often for Chris,” you respond, to which you’re met with crickets and cock-headed looks. You add, “He’s out of town a lot, and when he is in town, he’s the one doing the showing and proving of why I should stay with him,” you joke (kind of), and to your relief, they find it funny.

“Oooo I like her!” Vicky and Carole say in unison, causing the kitchen of women to laugh. You really did try to keep your expectations low for this visit, not necessarily wanting to seek Chris’ extended family’s acceptance, but you can’t help the relief you feel in this moment.

The next couple hours pass of helping out with dinner dishes and dessert, giggling over glasses of cocktails and family stories. You’d narrowly avoided questions about marriage and babies, but that’s to be expected. For the first time today, you’re able to forget your worries and your boyfriend and actually enjoy yourself. Speaking of...

“Hey you,” Chris is waiting by your seat that’s next to his which he pulls out for you when you arrive at it. An early Christmas dinner is about to be served, and you and Chris are reunited at the table for the first time in hours. “Missed you,” he says with a kiss on your temple. “Can’t wait to hear about your day,” he adds. But there wasn’t much talking between you two throughout the meal, though.

No, the Evans’ family theatrics don’t allow for it. All of them talk with complete genuineness, laugh with their entire beings, opine with their whole chests, and you see where Chris gets it from. Turning to your boyfriend, you find him smiling and laughing along with the rest of the table, looking full of warmth and love. Completed by his family. Your heart gets a little heavier thinking about how he doesn’t have these moments as often as he’d like. In part by his job, yes, but a small part of you feels like you may also have something to do with that. A thought that pains you to wade in too long.

After dinner you try to help with the dishes, packing away leftovers and to-go plates. You don’t get too far, instead get shooed out of the kitchen by the elders, being told to ‘spend the rest of the evening with your man’. You oblige, realizing you barely talked to each other since earlier in the day. In your quick scan of the house, you couldn’t find him, so you shoot him a text.

Some of the kids and teenagers were gathered around some games in the den. Their antics and wittiness remind you of your nieces. They happily let you join in, and at one point, you acquired a little one on your lap as your game partner. The two of you bond over beating her cousins in these games as you school them in a few rounds of Uno, Connect Four, and Jenga.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you smile as you check it.

“Oooooo is it from Uncle Chris?” she cheekily asks as you get up, setting her on your spot on the floor.

“They’re probably gonna go make out under the mistletoe,” one of the older kids teased. The room of adolescents erupt into a fit of giggles and chorus of ‘ews’

“Are you two gonna get married?” the little cutie randomly asks you. “I heard my Grandma and Aunts talking about it!”

“Oh, wow, um… I gotta, I’ll see you all later.” With that you dash out of the room, as symphony ‘K-I-S-S-I-N-G…’ fading behind you.

——————————————————————————

The sky was shades of baby blues, pinks, purples and oranges. It’s a beautiful backdrop to the snow and ice kissed tree branches and lawns. The road had been freshly salted and freed of winter obstacles making it easier to stroll along as you and Chris often did after a meal.

It’s even more beautiful than he said, you think to yourself. For a second you wonder why you were ever hesitant to come here. There was no real reason, yet you used a million excuses. But this time around, you finally ran out.

Not that you weren’t tired of your fear. That was it. The real reason… was fear.

You look down at your boots, the ones you dust off just one week a year now. Striding beside them are a larger, more expensive pair; they too only see the snow on rare occasions. Your eyes follow up the long legs they belong to, taking in the nice slacks and chunky cable knit sweater under a heavy, well-made piece of outerwear. Your eyes finally land on the face of the man in the fine threads.

Looking at Chris right now, you’ve never seen him fit in so perfectly somewhere. But why wouldn’t he on the roads he cut his teeth on. He could make you forget every fear and every doubt you’ve ever had. Hell, he could make you forget your name on a good day. And on those days, you didn’t know what to do with all of that, what to make of it. But it’s the most wonderful time of the year, so

“Come here,” you say just above a whisper, tugging on Chris’ hand causing him to turn to you. You bring your hands to his broad shoulders, smoothing out the invisible wrinkles there. You languidly drag your right hand over to his chest as you notice a red stain on the light colored knit. “My love…” you humoredly drag out as you tap on the food stain.

“I know, I know. My mother already beat you to the scolding,” he chuckles.

“You’d think by this age you’d have learned to be more careful.”

“Hmm, now what fun would that be…” his sultry tone didn’t go unnoticed by you. Your eyes on his tailored, dinner party clothes, hoping to find a relief for your emotions somewhere between the stitches. You never know where to begin with your feelings. Surely it would be to start with the easy stuff, but it all seems hard.

You rub your hands on his chest, not quite meeting his eyes. “What’s up? Whatcha thinking about?” Chris asks with a lopsided grin, resting his hands on either side of your waist. You smile at him nervously. Before you could say anything, there’s a gust of sharp, cold wind. You clutch on to Chris’ sweater, burying your face in his chest seeking refuge and warmth.

“M’thinking about how you got me out in this damn cold! You know my southern bones can’t take it,” your whines muffled by his sweater. He chuckles at your antics.

Chris slowly drags his large palms up from your waist, and this just ensures that there are goosebumps on your skin under your layers if the wind hasn't done so already. He rests one hand on your shoulder pulling you apart just enough for you to look into his hazy blue eyes. His other hand continues it’s trek until it’s rested on the side of your neck, his thumb stroking your jaw. “I know of a way to get you warm…”

“Was this part of your plan?”

“Mmmm… maybe…” Chris leans in close, surely to kiss you, but you have other plans.

“How’s it feel to be back home?” you inquired with faux aloofness, slipping out of his hold and continuing your walk towards his mother’s home.

Chris hesitates for a second, wondering if you really just swerved a kiss from him. He clears his throat, “Uh… yeah it’s great! There’s nothing like family, I know you can agree to that. Even if they are loud… and crazy,” to which you both chuckle. “So…” he starts as he wraps his arms around your middle causing you both to waddle up the front lawn. “How do you feel? Not so bad, was it?”

“No! Far from it! I really, really love your family Chris,” you say as you crane your neck to look at him briefly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Although, I strongly disagree with some of their choices in best music of all time, but I’ll learn to get over that. I got over it with you,”

Chris spins you around in his arms, hands firmly on your waist. “I don’t care what you say; Joel is the best music Billy of ALL TIME!”

“Yeah, ok.” you retort with an eye roll to his amusement.

“I’m glad you had a good time babe. They’ve been hounding me to meet you for a while now. I’m happy we made it happen.”

The words are right there on your lips. I’m sorry it took so long. I’m sorry I acted silly. I’m sorry I was scared to take the next step. But what if I’m not ready? What if we get it wrong? Your throat is dry, as it often is when it’s time to bare a little of your soul. At least Chris always has something to say.

“I can’t wait for you to see me this nervous when I meet your family…” You don’t know if that makes you feel better or worse. Chris looks into your eyes expectantly, lovingly. His features are soft and tender, and you think it’s the most beautiful sight on a man, on this man. Your man.

Chris looks at your lips then at your eyes. There goes that silent question again. You’ve never been one to give Chris what he wants when he wants it. He’ll never admit, but it’s one of the things he loves most about you. So, in true you-fashion, you make a run for it.

He’s baffled, but doesn’t waste much time in playing into your little game. You’re laughing hysterically as you look over your shoulder to see him bounding after you on the front lawn. You high tail it around the side of his childhood home, kind of hoping he catches you. Not even you, as stubborn as you are, would want to be running forever.

Chris walks into the backyard cautiously, but not cautiously enough as he’s met with a snowball in the temple. And your maniacal laughter.

“Oh, you’re in for it now!” Chris sneers as he scoops up the most perfectly compacted snowball.

“Oh shit!” You slowly make for the backdoor, walking up the deck stairs backwards, hands up in surrender “C’mon babe, you don’t have to do this,” you plead.

“Yes. Yes, I do. Cos all I wanted was an innocent, sweet kiss.”

“I’ll give you a kiss! Just put the snowball down.”

“It’s too late, sweetheart.” The look in his eyes is sending butterflies straight to your heat. As much as you wouldn’t mind ‘losing’ this game, there’s too much at stake.

“Think of my hair!” You whine to appeal to his better nature. That gave Chris pause, but only for a moment.

“It’s in braids; you’ll be ok.” When Chris takes a step towards you, you take a step back, but instead of eating snow as you anticipate, you slip on a patch of ice and fall flat on your ass.

Chris is quick to race over to your side. “Babe! Are you ok?” he’s slightly panicked as he lifts your torso in his arms, checking your eyes for consciousness.

“Got the wind knocked out of me, but I’m fine, yeah,” you say through a dry laugh.

“Oh, thank god.” He says with a sigh of relief and a wide smile. You smile back at him as he strokes your cheek and says, “Now I won’t feel bad about this.”

“Wha—“ You see white as your face freezes over. Chris is dying of laughter as you sputter the snowball out of your mouth.

“Ha ha ha. Keep laughing... you won’t get that kiss you’re wanting so bad.” He immediately stops laughing, deflates, and pouts, causing you to giggle. “Oh my goodness! Is it that serious?” you teased him a little further. Chris was done playing, though. He stood up and folded his thick arms over his chest to show you he was serious.

You stood up too, and began to tap and poke at his shoulders, chest and stomach. Chris wouldn’t look at you, trying his best to stand firm and not smile. “Look up, dummy!” you say eventually. He acts as if he’s doing you a favor, but can’t hide his giddiness at the sight on the ceiling.

A leafy green plant, with a cluster of red inedible berries, secured with a red ribbon.

You take his face into your hands, lightly grazing your fingers over Chris’ full, trimmed beard. The world is out of focus as you and Chris are now eye to eye. Neither of you can hide your eagerness. You rub your thumb over his plump bottom lip and wonder why you would ever deny yourself this man.

Pulling him into you, the gap is closed between your mouths. The kiss is gentle, shy even, after first. It dawns on you that you’d only shared a quick peck at the airport, and before then, had gone a couple weeks missing each other’s touch.

The neediness and desire within you is heightened at the thought. You wrap your arms around his neck pulling him closer. You start to get lost in him, in his warm taste and touch. You feel the yearning in Chris too. He wraps his arms around your waist, hugging you tightly to himself. His hands start to travel to places you desperately want them to be, but he catches himself, remembering where you are.

“Let’s go say our goodbyes,” he says through an out-of-breath smirk. You bite your bottom lip and reply with a quick nod of your head.

The pair of you head inside to make your last rounds for the evening. Chris keeps it pretty brief with everyone, the both of you promising to see them again sometime soon in the new year. Early Spring seems to work for most everyone; the kids will be on spring break, Chris will be home before jetting off for a press tour, and you’ll have settled in to your new writing job, that isn’t exactly your dream gig, but a step in… a direction.

As you got into Chris’ car to head for his Boston home, waving to his family as you backed out the driveway, none of you could predict or prepare yourselves for the very different, sordid world that waits in the months ahead. How drastically it would change on grand and small scales.

You look adoringly at Chris from your spot in the passenger seat, unaware the beginning of your relationship’s treacherous slope was just a few days away. Had you known, you wouldn’t have left that kiss so soon, would’ve cherished his heated embrace a little more later tonight.

But it’s already been written.

——————————————————————————

What’d you think?

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octalove · 4 years

Text

V: Letting Lie

(Batgirl/Red Hood)

Description: There’s a breakthrough in the case, and Reader takes things into her own hands. Part one, two, three, and four.

The hospital was white. All white. Like a dream. White walls, white floors, white curtains, white stretchers, white papers fluttering around on clipboards, doctors in white coats. Mr. Wayne’s suit was black, so I focused on him. Black suit, blue tie. Black hair, blue eyes. He was filling out whatever paper the nurse had given him. Something about seeing it all play out, despite the face he had put on for me, made my eyes well up with tears. He was afraid, so I was afraid.

“Mr. Wayne?” His eyes shot up as he looked desperately at the nurse. He was so helplessly at the mercy of whatever news they brought us. We both were. “Will you come with us? We’ll have a nurse stay with the girl.” The nurse looked down at me with a warm smile. White teeth.

“We need to borrow Mr. Wayne for just a second. That okay, baby?” I just nodded, not really considering it something I could say no to. No, please, I want him to stay. I’m scared and I want him to stay. A male nurse came and sat by me. He talked to me about school, my favorite subjects- science, math. He asked me what I wanted to be, and I shrugged.

“People who like science and math make good doctors.” He said. I shrugged again, but then considered it more.

“Is it hard?” I asked.

“It’s very hard. Not a lot of people can do it.”

“…”

“But it’s worth it. You help people, you know?”

Mr. Wayne appeared from around the corridor. The look on his face made all the papers stop fluttering. Made all the doctors stop rushing. Made the world stop where it was. Somewhere, maybe, in retrospect, I knew before he said it. I kept my eyes trained on his face, even though I wanted to look away.

“Y/N…” He said, taking a seat beside me. “Listen to me, sweetpea. Your parents-” His voice was cautious, considerate as he tried again. “Your moms got hurt really badly tonight… They- they’re both…“ A tear landed on my hand as the memory grew into a reality, which was bigger than I was. White sheets, red blood. He took my hand, and wiped it away.

“They’re gone now.”

They didn’t talk about Jason Todd.

And since they were the only people in his life at the time he died, nobody talked about Jason Todd. We met a couple of times, before Bruce took me in. I hated my expensive gowns, and he hated his expensive obligations, and we hid together at parties, all the while Dick insisted we’d get married. He lived, albeit briefly, as a smart, capable boy, and died as a smart, capable Robin. I had trouble looking at his face- pictures and old year books. When I did, I was looking into the face of a boy who died an untimely, tragic death. That was it. That was his story. Jason Todd died alone, afraid, and probably in a lot of pain. I went to his funeral.

If at all he came up (I could only think of one or two occasions), Bruce would tense, his eyes falling away, and Alfred’s gaze would cloud with memory. Dick, at least, could share a story or two, coveting the fondness and pride he had for his brother without dismissing the whole subject. Tim and Damian didn’t ask. They just tried not to die with the uniform on.

So walking into the cave and seeing Jason Todd’s face plastered on the central monitor seemed like the single most unlikely thing to occur in the Wayne household. I would’ve placed Bruce adopting another child before digging up and displaying dead ones.

Tim, Dick, and Babs were huddled close, faces wound and tight, while Bruce looked distracted, fascinated with his W.E. ballpoint pen. I dragged my feet a little to alert them all of my entry, but only Babs looked up.

“Y/N.” She said.

“Hey. What’s going on?”

Everyone just sort of concluded that someone else would explain, or take the lead, but no one made any attempt to do so. Finally, Bruce sighed.

“Come here. Sit down.” Okay. If there was anything in the world that could make your intestines feel like they were getting turned to ramen noodles by a paper shredder, it was Bruce Wayne telling you to come here, sit down. I searched the others’ faces as I did so.

“What happened?” I asked quietly, trying to fill the chasmic silence.

“I’m going to go over everything. Do you remember…” He trailed off- just for a second. It wasn’t often I saw him battle with something like that. His face was tired, and his eyes revealed a struggle as he fought whatever emotion he was grappling with. “Do you remember Jason?”

I nodded. “Sort of.” An echoing memory passed. Lacy table cloth curtains and chocolate covered strawberries as we camped under gala snack tables, whispering and laughing. Bruce watching me when my parents went out of town, and Jason giving me a tour of the library. The red roses on his burial. Sure, sort of. His blurry picture was on the monitor, anyway.

“Okay. Very good.” Bruce began again, perhaps relieved he would have to go into detail to refresh my memory.

“We’ve been putting a lot of information together regarding the Red Hood. We’ve been able to deduce his origins were The Viper House, but before that, Arkham. He began working out of the Asylum, and contacts there had a lot of information about him.”

That, I didn’t know. I supposed I wasn’t the only one slinking around in shadows. He was addressing everyone now, going through visuals on the monitor.

“He began to placate what was left of Joker’s operations in Coventry before he started on general crime. Oracle was even able to get some information from Harley Quinn.” I looked at Babs with some surprise, and she just nodded along.

“The very first sighting of him- in Coventry- was April 27th, seven months ago. The fifth anniversary of…”

I nodded. I knew what April 27th was. A vapid, despairing day in the manor that Bruce spent in his office and Dick didn’t call. I didn’t follow, but if Bruce had linked Jason’s death to Red Hood, I knew he must have something big.

“All of the information we gathered, on top of his intimate knowledge of us, vigilante or otherwise, has lead us to a clear conclusion. The encounter in Crime Alley on the 21st was just another confirmation.”

I almost flinched as my eyes flew to Tim, but no one seemed particularly interested in me. I texted him quickly, careful to avoid Bruce’s eye.

You told him?

- I told him I was the one who saw it. It was important information.

Shit, Tim. Was he mad?

He didn’t answer, looking back up to the briefing. I slid my phone into my pocket, guilt weighing in my chest alongside the other myriad of emotions building.

“He’s been around longer than seven months. Much longer. And it began with Jason’s death.”

I furrowed my brow, putting together a puzzle with with bent, broken edges, like trying to fit a triangle into a square-shaped hole- just one angle missing.

“Are you saying… Joker didn’t kill Jason? That this guy did?” My body felt cold.

Bruce looked at Dick, who didn’t return his gaze. Then, he turned back to me.

“I’m saying... that Jason is Red Hood.”

I let confusion twist on my face. “What? How? That’s not possible. You think he lived? We- I mean, we had a funeral.”

Dick shook his head, answering on Bruce’s behalf. “He did die, but… are you familiar with the Lazarus Pit?”

I went over my tangling thoughts. The crime scenes. The anger. The vigilante justice packaged in a case of blood and bullets, shipped right to Gotham’s largest looming criminals. The warehouse, the alley. The button. The leather on his gloves as he ran his fingers along my face and pressed it, leaving me all alone.

Tell Batman,

It was all falling in line; bubbling up and searing together like hot, melding flesh pulled together in the burning waters of the Lazarus.

I’m getting impatient.

“So… what are you going to do?” I asked.

Dick’s face was pained. Solemn. “I… we want to try to talk to him. There’s a reason he’s doing all this, and there’s a reason he chose now. If we want to figure it out, we have to find him.”

I swallowed. “I can help.”

“No.” Bruce declared swiftly. “Absolutely not. The only thing we know about him is that he’s dangerous. Red Hood may have Jason’s DNA, but we need to work under the assumption that he isn’t the same person.”

I could answer that. He wasn’t.

“Do not look for him. Do not engage him. Is that clear?” He was talking to me, Tim, and Damian. We all nodded.

“Any unapproved interaction could jeopardize the case, and give him more insight into our movements. We want to try and remain one step ahead. That is all.” The explanation was for Damian, who operated on bargains, not orders. Again, we all nodded. After a moment, I sighed.

“Well… I have school in the morning. Will you tell me if you learn anything else?” I asked. The three of them nodded, and Dick muttered a ‘goodnight’. I turned, mind working against the grain of what I should do and what I wanted to do.

Just go to bed, I willed myself.

Just go.

Night fell, black and smoggy. The sea was hissing and writhing, unsettled with the gale of a promised storm. I wasn’t entirely certain what would catch Red Hood’s attention. It seemed that our history comprised of him finding us, and not the other way around. Gotham Docks seemed like a good place to start. Ever since Kuznetsov was found in his watery grave, his men belonged to Hood. They moved drug imports that came to Port Adams- actual drugs- pharmaceuticals, over-the-counters, hydrocodone, acetaminophen; all legal things. But Gotham City taxed the living hell out of medicine imports, so people like Kuznetsov (may he rest in peace) smuggled them in fishing vessels for cheap, and got them into the hands of big pharma and medicare companies for a lot of money.

I’d picked a cozy spot on the roof of a bait shop that made me feel safely invisible as my eyes swept over the docks. Batman didn’t typically prioritize crime of this caliber; over the counter meds weren’t going to blow anyone’s heads off the way crazy clowns and mafia bosses were. It made the busy henchmen on the boardwalks nice and blatant. It wasn’t hard to find tonight’s operation.

I needed to make a scene. Make some noise, throw out some names- one name in particular. Wherever he was, I hoped it’d be enough to make it worth dropping in. I was used to making quick, efficient work of criminals, not stalling. Making a scene meant no disappearing in shadows, or quieting the sound of my breath.

There were a couple of men dollying crates in and out of a packaging plant. Disguised as fishermen, naturally. As they approached the building, several feet from the propped-open door, I dropped. Embracing the momentum, my weight striking the old wood made a salient sound, and sent the startled men gasping and staggering backward.

“Holy shit!”

“B-Batma-

“B-B-Batgirl?” I clipped. “Were you gonna say Batgirl?” It didn’t really matter which bat they thought it was. The fear all worked to the necessary effect.

“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,” The man muttered, scooting backward along the wood as I let my step fall heavy against it.

“Where is he?” I asked, drumming up my vicious, raspy voice, like smoke on the sea.

“Where-where’s who?” He stuttered. The other man was taking advantage of my focus and scrambling to his feet. Any second, he would bolt into the building. Perfect.

“Red. Hood.” I said, loud enough that the fleeing man would hear.

“I don’t know! Hand to god, I don’t know!” The man on the ground pleaded. I looked down at him, letting the fear and shadow distort my face.

“I don’t believe you.” I kicked him in the chest, sufficiently knocking the wind out of him, but left him there, turning my attention to the packaging plant.

Adrenaline was in my limbs, pushing and pulling with the running blood under my skin. When was the last time I had a good fight? Carjackings and bank robberies felt so small, and predictable. Everything was always stable. Batman always had it under control, watching dutifully from rooftops, appearing in split second if I needed help.

Tonight, Batman wasn’t here. I felt no eyes on my back, no voices in my ear. It was under control, but it was my control.

The men inside had already sufficiently scattered. I didn’t bother to hush my footsteps as I entered. The icy breeze from the open door made my cape flutter, despite its weight- and that was the only sound.

Suddenly, boots on concrete, and a man let out a defiant cry as he shot toward me, with a rusted tire iron raised above his head. I moved on practiced instinct, side stepping and leaving him stumbling, before delivering a hard, well-aimed kick that he wasn’t getting up from. Two other men concluded (incorrectly) if they went together, they could take me.

It was a blur of fists and make-shift weapons comprised of packaging tools, but they were easy to parry and subdue. I kicked the second one back with enough force to send him through a thin wooden partition, which cracked and splintered under his weight. I swung my eyes around the scene.

“Anyone else?” I knew they were there. Tucked behind conveyor belts and crouched low, using fish barrels for cover. No one answered the call of duty.

“I’ll ask again,” I called. “Where. Is. Red. Hood?”

Suddenly, a flash of color, and I went backward and downward, catching myself enough that my arm slid across the concrete instead of my face. I let out a sharp breath just in time to dodge another blow.

“All this,” The computerized tilt of his voice couldn’t smother the anger in it. “For little old me?”

I kept my eyes trained on his hands, because I could entertain close combat, but knew I’d need to bolt if he drew his guns. That didn’t appear to be his intention. I dipped away from one of his swings, but he swiped at the fabric of my cape, grip closing, and used it to heave me into a barrel. I gasped at the force of it as I reckoned with shattered wood. Barely recovering, I rolled out of the way as he swung low. I went for the door, figuring I could use a little more space, since he had a hundred pounds and a few feet on me.

Outside, a frigid wind was cascading across the docks, biting my skin and casting droplets of salt water all around. Red Hood moved imposingly slow-paced, attending the cuff of his jacket sleeve, while I put a hand on the railing and tried to find my footing again.

“There are easier ways to get my attention, sweet thing.” Drawing to a halt, he didn’t look like he was going to attack me again, so I wiped the blood from my lip and straightened.

“Sorry. You forgot..” I was still breathing heavily. “To give me.. your number… last time.”

He laughed; a terrible, beautiful thing. “I guess I did, didn’t I?”

I fought to remember why I was here, and consequently, tried to pull together Jason Todd with the faceless man before me. They seemed to foil one another- a triangle through a square-shaped hole.

“So what do you want?” He asked, more serious this time. Though a reasonable question, it almost sounded rhetorical for the sheer lack of curiosity in it. I swallowed.

“Show me your face.” I said. It was so quiet, so hushed by the jeering sea that I was surprised when he tilted his head in response.

“Liked our little game that much? Had to crack a few skulls just to play it again?” I was frustrated, wishing he would come close, like he had in the alley, and let me touch him. Let me push away the helmet and know.

I tried to convey my seriousness with a look, but he just rolled his shoulders.

“Is that all, little bird?” He seemed annoyed; like I’d dragged him here only to concern myself with the small matter of his secret identity. The secret identity of Gotham’s most prolific crimelord. I wanted to make him understand, but I didn’t know what to say. He didn’t say anything else, either. He didn’t say “no” or “whatever” or “goodbye”. He just started walking away.

Jason.

Suddenly, I stopped myself. What if he wasn’t? What if Bruce was wrong? I’d throw out a name- an accusation- at a monstrous stranger who had no connection to me or my family. He’d laugh his terrible laugh and know that the world’s greatest detectives weren’t so great after all. Nervousness consumed me, tightening around my throat, placating me while I watched his form get smaller as he walked away, the darkness threatening to swallow him up.

“Jason!”

He stopped. His boots dragged to a jarring halt on the wood. Slowly, then, he turned around. The shadows were long and cast over him, turning his helm the color of old blood.

“Come back.” I said. “Please.”

His body language was unreadable, a mix between relaxed and hesitant that left him standing there, looming, and left me unsure as to whether he was going to leave, or pull a glock on me. Then, he lifted his hands. His thumbs dragged beneath his jaw methodically, until there came a hiss from his helmet, and he pulled it off.

“Jason.” I repeated. My voice was tight. It shook. His gaze followed me in the dark before he approached, gate slow and heavy, and sat down on a fishing crate.

“What? Do I look different? Put on a little weight?” Maybe he was joking- I couldn’t tell. The soft rasping of his voice startlingly contrasted the voice scrambler, and blended with the bubbling waters below our feet. But something eerie laced it. It was still foreign to me. “It’s okay. You can tell me.”

I had previously thought I might be able to do this; face him. After all- I should be happy to see him again, alive after five years of Bruce’s grief and wretched hollowness. Years of operating in the long, dark shadow cast by his headstone. But somehow, the man before me was instead a confirmation. A walking death certificate. Jason Todd- the other Jason Todd- was still gone. Bronze skin, of which small, light colored scars adorned. Midnight hair mussed from his helmet, leaving a couple strands to fall over his dark eyes; eyes that used to hold warmth, and now held a malefic coldness. When I drank in the features of his face, I found my chalice empty. He didn’t approach me this time- didn’t draw near enough to feel his heat. Just sat there, elbows resting on his thighs, leaning forward and looking at me. I had trouble holding his gaze, but I did. Then, he gave me a chilling grin.

“Did you miss me?”

His voice knocked something loose, as my mind placed him as a memory. Someone I’d actually known. I had a million burning questions. “How? What happened?”

He pulled out a cigarette, shrugging. “I’ve been busy. Dying’s a lotta work.”

“Why- why are doing this?” This being spending seven months as the most prolific crimelord in Gotham. There was a spark of his lighter. Using his hand to shield the flame from the winds and misting water, it nurtured an orange glow on his face, bathing his skin in auburn light for just a moment. I blinked, and it was extinguished, replaced, again, by the blue darkness. He took a deep drag.

“Know how I died, dollface?” He asked. I did, so I nodded.

“Remember what happened to the bastard who killed me? After.” I studied him, still reeling a bit from accepting the man before me as the boy he’d been. I remembered there was another attack after Jason’s death. Joker took forty pounds of C4 to a shopping center in Fashion district at the beginning of May. Amidst the rubble were Robin: Missing posters. Bruce didn’t make them. Joker kept up his streak thereafter. He didn’t stop until his death, last year.

“Nothin’.” Jason supplied the answer. A hard, bitter, sorrowful nothing. It burned cold, like an inverse flame.

“Batman doesn’t kill. He doesn’t kill, and killers do. So they walk, and keep killing, and he calls it justice.”

I let it all sink in. Batman was the only thing standing between Gotham and complete corruption. I saw, in my memory, all the people I’d helped. All the victims who’d ever clung to me or thanked me through tears. All the pride I’d ever felt carrying the mantle. Batman didn’t kill because you can’t go back from killing. If he did, it wouldn’t be vigilantes against criminals- it’d be dogs eating dogs. Domestic war. Jason had been Robin. Surely he understood the philosophy of it?

But, then, what did it get him? He took those philosophies to the grave. When he finally crawled back out, he did what anyone with a vendetta might do. He overcorrected.

“Tell me somethin’, little bird.” His eyes leveled steadily on mine as I looked back up. “You call that justice?” I swayed under the intensity of it. I was afraid to disagree with him, but I didn’t even know if I wanted to. There were a lot of times I watched Joker slip through Batman’s hands, free to blow up another shopping center, when he could’ve stopped him if he just-

“I don’t… I don’t know.”

He got up, cigarette hanging from his lips, gaunt eyes burning through the blue dark.

“I think you do.”

The sea hissed, and the wind writhed, and I watched as the night swallowed him up.

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fanficimagery · 5 years

Text

Flares

Summary: Imagine keeping a secret from your friends, but when you’re in need of a favor.. that secret you’ve guarded is now out.

Words: 2.9K Warnings: Cancer. The holidays have got me thinking about my mom and I just want to give someone the happy ending my mom never got.

Curled up on the sofa, no amount of TV has been able to distract you. It's been about a month since you've started chemotherapy and as warned your hair has slowly started to fall out. You had bawled earlier that morning when you noticed it, and then tried to distract yourself by binge eating and watching rom-coms. Unfortunately it didn't work.

Sighing, you pick up your iPhone to check the time. It's just after four in the afternoon and without second guessing yourself, you scroll through your contacts until you land on one name in particular. You're not as close to him as you are to others in your friend group, but you do trust him. So after quickly composing a text, you hit send on it and hope for the best.

[Hey, Jeff. When you have a free moment, can we talk?]

Surprisingly it doesn't take long for him to reply.

[I'm actually in neighborhood. Wanna grab a bite to eat?]

[Yeah. That's fine.]

[I'll text you when I'm outside.]

With your stomach in knots, you get up and quickly make yourself decently presentable for the public. You take two edibles that had been prescribed by your doctor when the nausea and anxiety became too much, and pray that you can keep your food down when out with your friend. Jeff soon texts and you quickly pocket some money, your phone, and your keys before leaving out the front door.

Then settling into the front passenger seat of Jeff's vehicle, you flash him a tired grin. "Hey, how's your day been?"

"Boring." As Jeff pulls away from the curb, you buckle yourself in and then try to sit as still as possible. "Had to film an ad for Old Spice, but that was over and done with surprisingly fast. How was your day?"

"Honestly? It's been a shit day," you say, chuckling softly. "It's kind of why I wanted to talk to you."

"Uh oh." He glances between the road and you. "This can't be good."

"You have no idea how right you are." Sighing, you then say, "I'm not sure I want to tell you right now. It's kind of an appetite killer and I already took two edibles."

Jeff frowns. "Edibles? I didn't know you were into that."

"I'm not, but they were prescribed by my doctor."

"Doctor? What the hell is going on, Y/N?"

"I'm sorry." Wringing your hands together nervously, you then meet Jeff's stare after he's pulled off into a gas station parking lot. "I'm sick. I didn't want to tell anyone until I absolutely had to and this morning I realized I was going to have to start because I need to ask you for a favor."

"Y/N," he starts, "the only time someone is prescribed edibles is when-"

"-when someone has cancer. When the chemo becomes too much and the patient can't keep food down."

Jeff's eyes close as he deeply exhales. "Jesus." A moment of silence passes and then, "what's this favor?"

"I need you to shave my head."

"What?"

"During chemo, hair starts falling out anywhere between two to four weeks. It's been a little over five for me and I noticed it falling out this morning."

He gulps. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah." Your voice wobbles and tears fill your eyes, but you're quick to wipe them away before they fall. "I don't want to go to a stranger for this. This is really personal and I would rather the person shaving my head be someone I trust."

"Then yes. I'll do it." You smile, but you can't help the tears. "Christ, Y/N, come here." Jeff opens his arms for a hug and you unbuckle your seatbelt so you're able to hug him over the center console. "You know you're gonna have to tell everyone. And soon."

"I will. I kind of have an idea of how I want to tell them, but you'd have to agree to it."

Pulling out of the hug, Jeff grins. "Okay then. We'll talk details over dinner because I'm sure you're starting to feel really hungry."

"I am." Jeff chuckles and then starts to drive. On the road to the chosen restaurant , you finally say, "Thanks, Jeff."

"Don't even mention it. I will always be there for my friends." He flashes you that dimpled smile of his and for a moment you feel like you can breathe again.

Letting someone in on this secret of yours feels like a weight has been lifted off your chest.

"So are you gonna tell me why we're doing a special edition of Jeff's Barbershop in my living room?" David wonders.

Zane and Heath are helping Jeff setup, pushing back the furniture and laying down some plastic so hair doesn't get caught in the carpet.

"You'll know soon enough."

"Can you at least let us know whose hair you're cutting?" He then asks.

Jeff sighs. "You'll know soon enough, man." David frowns, and Heath and Zane suddenly look interested in Jeff's vague answers. "Just- no jokes. Alright? This is going to be pretty serious."

"Jesus. What the hell is going on?" Zane nervously chuckles, attempting to cut the tension. It doesn't work.

"Okay. Well who's all coming?" David asks.

"Mariah, Erin, Carly, Y/N, Natalie, Jason, Todd, and Matt. Everyone else couldn't make it, so we'll call them afterward."

"Man," Heath sighs. "I've got a bad feeling about today. If Jeff isn't cracking jokes, something must really be up."

Jeff only shrugs, refusing to say anymore on the matter.

- X - X - X - X - X -

By the time everyone is gathered at David's and has calmed down from greeting one another, Jeff stands next to the chair in the middle of the room. He picks up the black cape from the seat and holds it in one hand, staring out at everyone. "Ready?"

Everyone then glances around the room, anxious to see who's going to stand, and you almost laugh at their surprised exclamations when you push yourself up to your feet.

"What?!" Erin shouts, smiling. "No way!" She then looks to Jeff. "I thought you didn't cut women's hair? You nearly panicked when I asked you buzz my baby hairs."

"This is a special occasion of sorts. You'll understand soon enough," he says.

Now standing next to Jeff, you stuff your hands into the pocket of your hoodie. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and you lean into him for some much needed comfort. "I know you're all probably confused," you start, "but I have something to tell you and I figured I'd tell as many of you as I can in one go because this is kind of hard to say out loud."

Mariah frowns and leans forward. "What's going on, girl?"

You take a deep breath, but it doesn't help. Tears immediately spring to your eyes, even as you try to screw your mouth and nose up to keep them at bay. The tears suddenly have everyone on edge. "I.. I have cancer." The entire group goes silent and those who'd been staring at their phones immediately drop them. "I found out a little over a month ago and have been having chemo sessions for about just as long."

"Why didn't you tell us sooner?" David wonders.

You shrug. "It was hard to process at first, but then I just got scared that you'd all treat me differently once you found out. And now that my hair is falling out and Jeff kindly accepted to do me a favor, I figured I'd tell you instead of surprising you with my bald noggin'."

Heath and David are the first out of their seats, the two young men sandwiching you in a hug. You laugh, but then your laughter turns into sobs as you cling to them. One by one, the rest of your friends stand to embrace you and whisper words of encouragement.

When they're done, you step back and wipe your eyes. "None of you guys actually have to stay for the cut, but you're more than welcome to. Jeff's gonna film as if he were back at his own place and I'm just going to talk about how I found out about the cancer."

"We're staying," Jason says. "We're gonna be here for you every step of the way."

You finally take a seat in the chair and Jeff wraps the cape around your neck. You gulp down the lump in your throat, inhaling and exhaling loudly to prepare yourself for what's about to come. The sound of the clippers turn on and you close your eyes when you feel the teeth of the clippers at the front of your hairline.

Then almost as if he's unsure, Jeff slowly drags the clippers atop your head. The moment you feel your hair being cut, you can't stop the tears that start to flow once more. This time, however, they're silent.

"So, uh, how did you find out about the cancer?" Jeff asks.

He continues to cut and it takes you a moment to find your voice. "It was stupid, really," you huff. "I was just feeling kind of worn down, but I wasn't sick. So after being utterly exhausted for no apparent reason, I went to the doctor where they drew some blood and found abnormalities in my blood."

"Didn't you lose your mom to cancer?" Natalie asks.

"I did." Shakily smiling, you take a moment to control your warring emotions. "Since my mom had it, the doctors urged me to get checked out early. I refused. And then I refused again when my dad's sister was diagnosed and my chances of having it as well were even higher."

"God," Erin sighs. "I don't think I could not know. I'd have gotten checked out as soon as possible."

"It's easy to say that if you haven't seen anyone go through it," you tell her. "But I watched my mom go through chemo several times and watched her health slowly deteriorate. I didn't want to get as sick as she did. It was horrible. So I came to the conclusion that if I didn't know, then it was okay. It'd take forever to actually show symptoms and I was fine with that."

"But the symptoms showed up early," Zane guesses.

You nod. "They did."

"What- what kind of cancer is it?" Matt asks.

"Breast. Exactly like my mom had, but nowhere as advanced as hers was."

"So that's a good thing. Right?" Todd wonders.

"I mean.." you trail off, shrugging. "My chances are better than hers were, but I'd rather not have cancer to begin with."

Everyone falls silent and the only sound for a few minutes are the buzzing clippers.

You let Jeff move your head this way as he cuts, almost missing his question. "Now that you know, do you wish you'd have gotten checked sooner?"

"Honestly? Yeah. Because if they had caught it sooner, then I wouldn't need chemo," you admit. "So my advice to everyone is, is that even though you hate doctor visits, schedule them for at least every six months. And if your family has a history of cancer, get checked as soon as possible and schedule appointments every three months to make sure nothing pops up suddenly."

"Okay. And we're.. done."

Jeff cleans you off and unlatches the cape from around your neck, but you're frozen in your seat. Your head feels a whole lot lighter and though you asked Jeff for this haircut, you don't want to see it.

"Y/N?" Carly's soft voice pulls you out of your mind.

"I'm okay." You shakily smile. "I just- it's just a lot to take in. Now I know how my mom felt when my brother cut her hair those three times."

Jeff comes around to stop before you, he grabbing your hands and gently pulling you to your feet. "Whatever you need, we're here for you." He wraps his arms around you, tucking you under his chin. "If you want to go to a wig shop, we'll go to a wig shop."

You sniffle, chuckling. "No offense to your fantastic cut, but we're definitely going to a wig shop."

"Hell yes we are, baby," Zane agrees.

The others slowly start to unwind from the serious situation you dropped into their laps, and though there are still tears in their eyes and pity in their expressions, they try to make the best of it.

Plans are made to keep you decently active, your friends wheedle more information out of you about your family's health history, and then before Jeff can leave you follow him outside.

"Hey," you call out, stalling him, the hood of your jacket pulled up and over your head. "I know how annoying some of your viewers are, so if you want I can make an intro or outro for your video to let everyone know the video was my idea and that you didn't make it for the views."

Jeff sheepishly smiles. "You watch my videos?"

"We're friends, aren't we?" You grin. "Of course I watch them. So what do you say?"

"I'd appreciate it. Thanks, Y/N."

"Mhm. And thank you. For everything."

Jeff's dimples make an appearance as he smiles, he nodding before getting in his vehicle to take his leave.

The news of your cancer took every one of the fans by surprise.

Jeff had edited his video as quickly as he could and posted it with your permission. Then as soon as his video was up, you took a couple of selfies and posted them to Instagram with a link to the video that explained everything. The love and support that had quickly followed left you in tears, and feeling quite content with yourself for your decision to no longer keep your illness a secret.

The chemotherapy eventually got the best of you and there were times when you couldn't even get out of bed. It went from your friends constantly checking on you to moving you into David's spare bedroom when they found you struggling to breathe one day from an anxiety attack. You hadn't wanted to become a burden, but everyone was in agreement that they'd feel better if you lived with one of them until treatment was over. And seeing as you lived closest to Natalie and David, it was their home you moved into.

You filmed bits for everyone's vlogs to talk about your journey with cancer and about the progress you'd made while getting treatment. But soon the treatments stopped and you had to endure yet more testing to see if the chemo was doing it's job.

Then a week later, you're getting ready to go visit the doctor for your results.

As you're sliding your feet into a pair of sneakers, David's just getting home.

"Hey, Y/N. Going out?"

"Yeah." Pulling a beanie atop your head, you fix it just right before meeting David's gaze. "Today's the big day. I find out whether or not I can stop chemo for good or have to have another round."

His eyes subtly widen. "Yeah? Can I go?"

"Sure. You mind driving? I'm a bit anxious."

"Not at all. Lets go."

The drive is mostly a relaxed one, David asking about your plans should you get good news. You told him that you'd be moving back into your own apartment and that you were going back to work as soon as possible because your job was still waiting for you.

David then proceeded to assure you that no matter what he and all your friends would be there for you to fall back on should you need it. Of course you knew that, but it was nice to hear it again.

The following wait in the waiting room is quite excruciating and David grips onto your hand as your knee bounces anxiously. Smiling sheepishly, you try to quit the knee bouncing, but it starts back up moments later.

When your name is finally called, you drag David with you into the back room. Hand in hand, you enter the doctor's main office and only have to wait another hand full of minutes. Your doctor's expression is quite unreadable and even David's knee starts to bounce anxiously, but when she beams at you, you break down.

Remission. You are in complete remission.

Your face is in your hands as you sob, David's rubbing your back, and it takes you a moment to calm down. Then when you're finally able to control yourself and glance up, even the doctor is teary-eyed. She tells you that all tests and scans came back clean, but she'd still like to see you every three months to make sure nothing suddenly pops back up. You're more than okay with that and after gathering some paperwork, and standing up to hug your doctor, you and David are soon on your way.

Outside the office building, you and David stare at one another before he opens his arms and you throw yourself at him. He's laughing, you're crying and laughing, and the two of you just hug it out far longer than a hug should last.

"So who are we telling first?" He wonders, grinning.

"Jeff. Definitely Jeff," you say. "He was the first to know I had cancer, so he should the first- well, second now- to know I'm in remission."

"Well alright then. But just so you know, I'm recording their reactions."

You laugh. "Of course you are."

#fanficimagery #imagine #vlog squad imagine #vlog squad x reader #vlog squad #jeff wittek imagine #david dobrik imagine #jeff wittek #david dobrik #heath hussar #zane hijazi #erin gilfoy #mariah amato #jason nash #natalie mariduena #matt king #toddy smith #todd smith #carly incontro

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theleigeofnerd · 4 years

Text

An Accident, Really…

Word Count: 1254

Moceit fic for the soul☺️

Also mama Janus

Also mentions of basically neglect/abandonment? And loneliness. So if you don’t wish to read that, scroll past please.

—————————————————————

Janus was in the Dark Sides living room reading a book, a rare moment of peace away from two little-

“Heya Deceit!”

“Jesus Patton!” Listen, just because the moral side popping in on him wasn’t a necessarily uncommon event as of late doesn’t mean it didn’t scare the shit out of him.

“Oh sorry!”

“It’s fine Patton, what did you need…” That didn’t seem to make the apologetic look Patton gave him go away, but the fun side explained himself regardless.

“Oh, I was wondering if you wanted to have some hot coco with me? Logan’s busy and Roman’s doing who knows what in his room, he’s surprisingly productive for a 10-year-old, (I don’t see either of them often anymore)... You're the only other side I know about so…” If only you knew what little horrors I hide from you… Wait is that why you come down here so often? Unfortunately, Janus has others to take care of...

“My sincere apologies but I have duties that require my constant attention on my side of the mindscape, I don’t think it would be wise to leave-“

CRASH

“-SHIT!” That would be said duties… Janus booked it upstairs he knew it had to be those little shits, he loves them to death but right now they were a pain in the ass. What he did not know though was that Patton had followed him.

Janus kicked the door open to the one room he knew the sound had to of originated. There, fighting in their shared room was a 10-year-old Remus and 7-year-old Virgil. The room was destroyed, almost beyond repair. Beds, dressers, desks, even Virgil’s posters, nothing was spared from what could have been a hurricane if the culprits weren’t right there.

“ENOUGH!” Janus screeched, hiss slipping into his voice, six arms extended from him, ready to tear his boys' fight apart. The younger two sides stared on in terror as they were grabbed by the collars and lifted to face him in the angry snake eye. Only in that moment did they realize they messed up.

“Hi Mom!” Remus said nervously, hoping to distract the angry side away from the carnage, it failed. At least I tried...

“Don’t you ‘Hi Mom’ me, what have you two done to your room?!”

“Would you believe me if I said interior decorating?” Virgil chanced, but only got an angry tired sigh from the mother figure.

“Definitely don’t have this cleaned up by dinner or you’ll both be grounded, understood?” Janus threatened, the two young Dark Sides nodded and scrambled away from Janus and got to work. Janus walked out of his son’s room, only then did he realize Patton had followed him.

“You have kids?! There are others?!”

“Yes Patton, there are others.”

“You’re like their Mom.” Janus could feel the smile radiating from the moral side without having to even look at him. Oh, this is not going to be fun...

“I found them in the subconscious some time ago, on different occasions of course. I found the green one first, then the purple one.” He didn’t want to give up their names, it’s too, risky, let alone personal for a side and he didn’t want to take that away from them before they could so much as comprehend the significance of a name. There was power in a sides name, yet none of them seemed realized it-

“You ok there?” Janus was ripped from his thoughts by a mildly concerned Patton. By now they had almost made it to the kitchen.

“Yes, indeed-“ Janus shook his head “-infact I should probably start dinner before those two get hungry and try to eat my cleaning supplies again…”

“Oh! Um, I can help! Logan and Roman don’t leave their rooms often so it would be a table for one otherwise…” Patton looked down, he’s sad? Does this happen often? Ok, please don’t make me regret this you two...

“Alright, I was thinking spaghetti? Does that sound satisfactory to you?” Patton looked up and it looked like he’d been holding back tears, Is he lonely? This must happen often enough… The deceitful side’s heart ached, he knew loneliness before he had his sons. It had been years of darkness and the recently increasing visits from Patton. Janus would be the first to tell you about how much loneliness sucked. Patton’s expression painfully reminded him of when he first found Remus and Virgil, they both had worn that lost expression.

Janus huffed out a breath of air, once again being dragged from his thoughts, he didn’t mind. He was engulfed in a hug from Patton and his six arms decided to make another appearance to return the bone crushing hug.

“Thank you Deceit…” It was broken, like a glass tea set a toddler got a hold of. Janus judged it had been a few months at least since the last hug the supposedly always cheery side had received. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy Patton’s company, he’s like the personification of a cinnamon roll. Neither of the parental sides knew it but the two little Dark Sides had watched from the top of the stairs.

“Oooo I like him! Do you think he’ll stay with us and Ma?!”

“Maybe Remus, maybe… We better finish soon, spaghetti doesn’t take long, and we don’t want a repeat of the last time we were grounded…”

“You’re right, I can still hear ringing in my ear sometimes…”

“I think it will be ok now, I like him too. He’s so… fluffy? Does that make sense?”

“About as much as a crocodile eating a birthday cake full of blood worms, when it’s not even anyone’s birthday.” Virgil rolled his eyes and dragged his brother to their room to avoid being grounded.

————————————————

Janus and Patton stood there like that for what seemed like hours, but could have been minutes. They basked in each other's presence. Feeling way too many emotions at once. It was silent for a long while until-

“Deceit, do you ever feel like you’re not enough, like you’ll always be alone-”

“Janus.”

“What?”

“That is my name…”

“Oh, I like it, it’s nice...”

“Thank you, but to answer your question, yes. But do you want to know what changed?-” Patton looked a little shocked at his answer, but nodded.

“-I found a family, one that cares and makes an effort.”

“Oh…” If only I could have that, I know Roman and Logan care but-

“Patton, you’re crying” Janus’ voice was soft and gentle. Patton hadn’t realized that he was crying. When was the last time he’d let himself cry? Janus took his gloved hand and wiped the streak of tears, but despite his efforts the dry face only lasted a few seconds.

“Oh Pat…’

“I’m fine, it’s fine, I know they care…”

“Pat please-“ Janus stopped for a few moments in thought, looking at Patton and nodded to himself. ”-Patton, do you- would you like to stay here?” Patton blinked away tears for a few seconds, then gained a look of resolve.

“I-I think I would like that very much…”

“Lovely, let’s make that spaghetti, ok?”

“Of course!”

To anyone else, the duo would appear to just be choosing to remain quiet while making the first of many family dinners, but it was a silent conversation. It was theirs, nobody else could have it. They reassured each other that it would be ok now, they had the other Dark Sides, they had each other...

————————————————————

#sander sides #virgil sanders #patton sanders #remus sanders #dark sides #janus sanders #moceit #ts fic #familial anxceitmus #momceit

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herstarburststories · 4 years

Text

Imagine Dean realizing that he feels happy with you

Dean’s arm still hurts a bit when he wakes up, probably a warning that is going to ache for a few more days ahead. It’s nothing compared to what he’s been through, the green-eyed man knows, but today is a new morning and it’s almost peaceful to worry exclusively about the annoying discomfort that comes from his arm. Therefore, he enjoys the mundane pain with a soft grunt.

You aren’t next to him in bed, which is pretty unlike. Dean usually wakes up first and you are smart enough to trick him into staying in the mattress for a bit longer. One of his eyes went open, while the other part of his face remains smashed against the pillow. No sight of you yet. The shower isn’t running, so you must be in the kitchen.

His minds goes full red alert, as when he is fighting a monster, for all the right reasons. (Y/N)? Attempting to cook? Disaster. He had been there, done that, got the t-shirt and watched it all burn.

Dean yawned, green orbs closing for a tiny amount of seconds-- the mattress under his body appeared a nostalgic comfortability, and the sweaty sheets from the night before gave him a reason to smile in the first minutes of the day, as well to have the first dirty thought regarding to you.

He got up without much of a resistance, dressing his foot with red slippers as he walked through the door. Dean rubbed his eyes as the ideal temperature of the bunker hit his sleepy face. The beat of his heart was calm, the body that is so used to be a weapon just following lazy steps towards a breakfast. It was good.

‘’Morning, sweetheart.’’ The words leave his lips so easily, it should probably scare him. Of course, the nickname rolled off his tongue in a natural manner even before you two met, but this time it seemed like he meant it. And he did. ‘’You woke up early.’’

There is that; worry about his beloved one. Not if you got hurt in the middle of a vampire’s chacine or during a battle with assholes with wings. But about the urban things; Did you sleep well? Are you trying to cook? Wanna go on an Old West Movies marathon?

‘’Morning, cowboy.’’ You greet him, turning around with a genuine smile on your face. You are wearing one of his shirts as usual. Although, it still makes the smile reflected on his face from yours grow bigger. No such thing as time moving too fast between supernatural problems, or too slow between combats. It’s just you, and the slightly smell of a burnt toast. ‘’You made me stay up late last night and messed up my sleeping schedule.’’

‘’You weren’t complaining.’’ Dean smirks, approaching you until his hands hold your waist. He can’t keep his distance from you for too long. Why would he? ‘’The opposite, actually.’’

Determination in your voice as you pull away is laced with a certain hint of humor, ‘’Nope. Not happening. You aren’t going to distract me this time. I’m making toast, it’s gonna be delicious.’’

Dean simply arches his eyebrows, glaring at the toaster that made a noise and popped up two black attempts of food. He can’t say he’s surprised, but he can’t say he doesn’t like that. His girlfriend could do anything but cook properly.

‘’Burnt toast. Yummy!’’ He says, picking up one of them with a wryly smirk. Dean puts it away with arching eyebrows and a true chuckle at your frustrated expression.

You pout like a little kid. He leans him, pressing his lips against yours. All the situation just seems like a light-hearted occasion. And perhaps it is. Something he didn’t believe he was going to get, mainly after Lisa. He had accepted what came with the hunting life, being satisfied sometimes? Sure. Proud, if he was a bit cocky. But happiness certainly wasn’t on the list - he should know, he read all the manual and tried to change the rules multiple times just to end in a cruel mixture of blood and tears every night. He grew merciless to anyone who hadn’t became family when he used to feel. He forced the warmth out of his body to engage the cold as deep as possible. Before. Not too long ago. Anyway, before still.

It’s been almost two years now. He can sleep without nightmares more often, with a record of three times in a row, while listening to the way you breathe in the quiet of the night. When the lights are out, his body quickly searches for yours and it’s surprisingly how it always finds you in his darkest moments. On the way home, Sam reading his book or listening to a boring podcast as the shotgun and you on the backseat chewing on your lip as you glance through the window, while he drives his father’s legacy in wheels and hums to one of his old tapes, he can feel it. Whatever it is; the sensation.

It’s been hitting him a lot lately. At times, like a metaphorical punch in the belly to make him dizzy. Or a giant urge to scream for no angry reason. When too strong, he even feels like crying without a sorrow to mourn.

He has never felt quite like this. Obviously, the problems are still out there and inside. Certain cases are difficult. They keep getting in enormous troubles. Dean still misses his mom and dad. Adam crawls in his mind some days. Occasionally, after one of his favorite series’s episode ended and the credits pass by, his mind traps itself and starts a sick game of regrets, which puts him in one of his moods for the rest of the day. Nightmares about hell, being a demon, seeing Castiel die, losing you and Sammy hadn’t disappeared totally, maybe they never will. Regardless, he’s found a sort of calmary in the chaos.

‘’Dean!’’ You giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck as he pulls you closer. Dean gives you tiny, sweet kisses as a kind of worship. Your skin feels warm like the summer against his and he can breathe so effortlessly for some reason. Sam is in his room, Cas is alive, his parents are in heaven together, you are in his arms, and he isn’t fighting to be alive right now. He’s full of damage, but he is plenty of good things, too. No, not mere good stuff. Great, awesome, fantastic.

The uncertain emotion caresses his whole body one more time, and a single man’s tear leaves him. It falls on your shoulder and you pull away a bit, just so you can cup his cheeks and kiss his him. You get it. You always does. Somehow.

Again, he has never felt quite like this.

Dean Winchester thinks it’s happiness.

A/N: I had a high desire of writing Dean x Reader fluff, so here you go! No beta’d. Honestly, I started it and I was like, let’s make it based on Lover by Taylor Swift. Then, it became more like You Are In Love (also by Tay) than Lover. Lyrics: You can hear it in the silence / You can feel it on the way home / You can see it with the lights out / Burnt toast / You keep his shirt

#dean winchester #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester imagines #dean winchester x you #supernatural #imagine supernatural #supernatural imagines #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester spn #spn fanfic #spn fanfiction #spn reader insert #spn #spn x reader #supernatural x reader #jensen ackles #dean x reader #dean x you

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mithranqueersmusings · 3 years

Text

I Think I'll Love You Too I

Chapter: 1/?

Rating: E

Summary: George and Ringo have been going out officially for a couple of months. Ringo anticipated that dating a stripper would be complicated, but he didn't understand exactly how complicated it would be.

Tags: Modern AU, Smut

Pairing: George Harrison/Ringo Starr (Background McLennon)

AO3 link here / Fic masterlist here

"Are you sure about this?" Ringo asked tentatively, running the strips of leather through his fingers gently.

George gave him a look which needed no further explanation, the severity of his gaze enough to silence Ringo's worries. It hadn't been too long ago that Ringo had fantasised about having George all to himself yet now that dream had become a reality, he was nervous. Nervous about what exactly, Ringo didn't know, but ever since George had decided to reveal his extensive sex toy collection Ringo had been dreading the day he'd actually be required to use any of them. It wasn't that he didn't want to use these array of objects on George - the images they conjured in his mind kept him up late on several occasions - but he worried he wouldn't know how to do it properly. George seemed far more experienced with kinks and toys and everything really.

"We can try something else if you like." George was lying on his bed in nothing but a silk - Ringo couldn't tell whether it was real or not - dressing gown that was a deep shade of blue.

"Like what?" Ringo put the whip he'd been holding down onto the bed gently as though it had a mind of its own then scooted around to peruse through George's box once more.

"How about..." George began, scooting down the bed to get a better view "Wax?"

It took Ringo a few moments before he spotted the candles tucked away in the corner, they were thick and red like ones you might see in a horror film. Candles didn't seem that intimidating, at least compared to some of the other contraptions in here. Ringo wasn't even sure what some of them were called, and he was far too embarrassed to ask in this moment.

"Have you ever done it before?" George asked, his voice soft and sultry.

Ringo shook his head and chuckled "How hard can it be? I mean... It's candles."

"Precisely my thinking." George smiled at Ringo, quieting any anxiety he had.

"So... Uh- how do you wanna do this?" Ringo asked feeling rather helpless, picking up two of the candles from the box and giving them a smell - cherry scented, he guessed.

"Well." George began, the excitement in his voice evident, getting up from the bed and crouching beside the box "We're gonna need these."

These referred to a pair of handcuffs and two pieces of ribbon-like material which were a dark maroon colour. Ringo couldn't help himself from staring at George's face as he concentrated, his dark brows knitting together with his expression serious. Even though they'd been dating for a month or two now, Ringo still couldn't believe his luck that he was able to tie down - no pun intended - someone as stunning as George. Light stubble was brushed along his sharp jaw, only accentuating the bone further, his hair was messy yet still enticing and the paleness of his skin was clear to see as the robe slipped over his skin freely.

"We could do a blindfold too, if you wanted." George lowered his voice in concentration "Maybe some... No, I'm getting carried away."

George laughed to himself and returned back to his full height, clutching the aforementioned items before chucking them onto the bed with little consideration. Then he rummaged through his bedside table for a lighter, there was always one in the bedroom due to the cigarettes they tended to smoke after sex. Successful in his search, George threw the lighter to Ringo without warning but he managed to catch it all the same. Ringo cursed himself for feeling so flustered, but it was difficult knowing what was to come. No matter how many times he slept with George, no matter what kind of depraved acts they got up to, he still felt as anxious as the very first time; that was just the effect George had on him.

"I'm gonna hop in the bath real quick, then we can start. Okay?" George threw off his robe casually, letting the fabric slide from his smooth skin into a pile on the floor.

"Sounds like a plan." Ringo nodded, finally putting the candles down beside the bed.

Ringo watched George with hungry eyes as he sauntered off into the bathroom, the way he swung his hips made it clear to Ringo that he knew he was being looked at. The door shut with a gentle thud, leaving Ringo alone to gather his thoughts and prepare for what was to come.

"Comfortable?" Ringo asked after clicking the handcuffs together, pulling George's slim wrists to the top of the bed.

George nodded with a small smile, wiggling his limbs to test the strength of the restraints then nodded again. This was a small moment of intimacy that occurred every time they ventured into kinky territory, the calm before the storm in many ways. Ringo smiled back then flicked the lights off, leaving nothing but a lamp in the corner to light the suppleness of George's body. Ringo's nerves seemed to dissipate in the relative darkness, his breath steadying as he moved back over to the bed. First, he captured George's soft lips in a gentle kiss that quickly grew heated. George wasn't the most patient when it came to the bedroom, his teeth already pulling at Ringo's bottom lip. It took a great deal of strength for Ringo to pull away, fighting the temptation to forget all about the candles and to start spreading George open.

The candles had already been lit, sitting on the bedside table flickering slightly, and it was now that Ringo made his way over to pick one of them up. The sweet smell of cherry wafted around the room, something usually so innocent now suddenly turned erotic. The look in George's eyes was hungry, his hands were already fiddling with the handcuffs as best they could from the awkward angle, watching Ringo experimentally tilt the candle sideways so that the wax began to drip down. First it fell onto the bed, Ringo didn't want to try it directly onto George's skin at first. How much was this going to hurt? Ringo supposed he didn't really have to know, George knew and more importantly wanted desperately to feel the sensation.

"Come on..." George whined, rattling his handcuffs against the metal bedframe in protest.

Ringo moved his hand further, hovering the candle over George's hairless stomach before tilting it once more. The wax dripped down instantly, burning the soft skin for a moment before solidifying; its rich red colour made it appear almost like blood, a sight which no doubt spurred further depraved fantasies in George's mind.

"More." George demanded, his pupils dilated both from the darkness and his exponentially growing lust "And take your fucking clothes off."

Ringo gulped, unsure as to which command he was meant to follow first. It was difficult to think with this enticing display laid out before him: George's cock was beginning to harden and it made Ringo's mouth water. He decided to carry on with the candle for a few more moments, teasingly tilting the candle back and forth so that the wax never fell when George was expecting it. Ringo slowly began making a pattern which gradually grew closer to George's erection, each drop pulling a sharp hiss from his lips.

"Clothes." George repeated impatiently, it was moments like this that reminded Ringo why he'd been so intimidated by George when they'd first crossed paths.

Ringo didn't wait to be told a third time, even though George was helpless to administer any punishment even if he'd wanted to, undoing his trousers and shirt sloppily and tossing them behind him. He hadn't realised how hard he'd become until his erection sprang free from his boxers, evidently George wasn't the only one enjoying this little experiment. Candle back in hand, Ringo carefully shifted himself onto the bed to straddle George's thighs - careful to ensure they were never close enough for their cocks to brush together, that'd be making things too easy - before he tilted the candle once more. This time Ringo aimed for George's nipples which were hard with the coldness of the room, only missing by an inch or two. The second attempt was successful, landing directly onto the target, leading George to groan breathlessly.

"Feel good?" Ringo asked with a raised eyebrow, his free hand rubbing over the clean nipple.

George nodded "Stop holding back. I can take it."

Ringo smirked, jerking his wrist swiftly to administer another hot drop of wax onto his nipples "You wanna tell me where you want it, baby?"

George growled in response, a noise Ringo only heard every so often "My cock." The word sounding so filthy in George's rough tone, his tongue playing with his sharp teeth.

"You sure?" Ringo asked after a pause, his nervousness returning only slightly.

"Yes, I'm sure." George whined, thrusting his hips upwards as best he could to demonstrate his desperation "Now, do it."

Ringo couldn't deny that George's bossiness was a complete turn on, although he'd never let George know exactly how much of a turn on it truly was. He tried his best to silence the anxious thoughts plaguing his mind. Before committing to George's demand, Ringo wrapped his fingers gently around George's erection which earned him a few soft pants. Now or never, Ringo told himself before tilting the thick candle once more and letting the wax fall onto the hard cock gripped in his hand.

The noise that left George's mouth was something Ringo had never heard before, a mixture between a gasp and a deep moan, though it was certainly one he wanted to hear again (and again, and again...) It was difficult to not admire the strange beauty of the wax trickling down George's erection, which was now rock hard.

"Fuck..." Ringo couldn't keep the words from spilling from his lips, only waiting a moment or two before spilling more hot wax onto the reddening skin.

George let out a grunt, sounding far more in pain than he had previously, and for a moment Ringo worried he'd taken it too far but the look on his face was of pure ecstasy.

"More." George moaned, his wrists struggling in the constraints.

"Now, now." Ringo teased, a sly grin on his lips "There's a nicer way of asking that."

The look George gave Ringo made him very appreciative of the restraints for without them, George might've slapped him. He knew George's aggression wasn't genuine, it was just sexual frustration, but that didn't make it any less terrifying. A few moments passed in which the two of them just looked at each other, George's mouth tight with anger as he waited for Ringo to give up this act and carry on following his orders, but the time never came. Ringo only raised his eyebrows further, tilting the candle just so that it never dropped any wax.

"I'm waiting." Ringo spoke with a lilt, his grin widening.

George rolled his eyes and scoffed, looking like a disgruntled child "Please give me more, Ringo..."

"More of... what?" Ringo pushed his luck, he decided he may as well make use of George being helpless like this for as long as he could.

George's stare was deadly but it melted away when Ringo gave his cock a few loose jerks "Please pour that hot wax on my cock, please. I've been good, haven't I?"

Ringo found it difficult to refuse George whenever he opted for the mock-innocent route, so he decided to stop the teasing and snapped his wrist suddenly which led to three separate droplets of wax falling onto the sensitive skin of George's cock. George practically shrieked, his body jerking upwards but failing to move more than a few inches off the bed.

"Fuuuuck." George breathed, his eyes struggling to focus "Do that again."

For a moment Ringo debated teasing George further, but his own erection was growing uncomfortably hard and he wouldn't be able to ignore it for much longer. In a quick motion Ringo grabbed the second candle, unleashing a shower of wax down onto George. The noises were pained yet still erotic, Ringo couldn't help moaning himself as he watched the pain and pleasure washing over George's face. When George and Ringo's eyes finally met once more, Ringo could tell that George's vision was a little fuzzy.

"Can you use wax as lube?" Ringo asked, his mouth opening before he'd even considered what he was saying.

George's hazy eyes lit up "We can try."

Only now did Ringo realise the commitment he was making with that question, although it would have been foolish to pretend the idea didn't excite him thoroughly. It wasn't the smoothest transition but Ringo managed to undo the restraints on George's legs and get him into a position where the wax could drop directly onto his entrance.

"Are you sure?" Ringo asked cautiously, his free hand running circles up and down George's thigh to soothe him.

"Do it." George ordered once more, biting down on his lip.

Ringo shut off the barrage of voices telling him to stop, that this was taking things too far, and let his wrist flop down. George was incapable of making a sound, his mouth agape with only sharp breaths pouring out. However much it hurt, Ringo was certain he didn't want to know, but it was clear that George approved of whatever it was he was experiencing.

"Jesus." George panted "Feels so fucking good."

"Oh yeah?" Ringo asked, letting another two drops fall onto his hole "Tell me."

"Fuck!" George yelped, his wrists rattling in the handcuffs "Hurts so much... Don't stop."

Ringo tried to ignore the potential contradiction, pressing his finger roughly inside before spilling more wax from above; a drop fell onto Ringo's finger and stung for a moment or two before the pain subsided. George was falling apart before him, sweat dripping from his forehead and sticking his dark hair onto the skin in strands.

"I don't need your fingers." George squirmed "I want your cock, Ringo. Now."

"It's not-" Ringo began but George silenced him with a glare "Alright."

Ringo shifted himself on his knees, pumping his finger a few more times before pulling it out entirely. It didn't take too long for Ringo to learn the telling signs of when George was getting close: his toes would start curling, he'd bite his lip just hard enough to draw a drop or two of blood and his eyes would grow so dark, the pupil engulfing the iris completely.

Even Ringo was getting too frustrated to be overtly considerate, letting the wax fall liberally down onto George's arse, coating his cock and his entrance as a cacophony of moans and shrieks filled the room. It was getting to a point that Ringo was concerned that George might break the handcuffs completely, the skin on his wrists clearly irritated.

"Ringo..." George cooed, it was impossible for Ringo not to be enticed by his own name being said so sweetly "I want you inside me."

No further words were needed, Ringo spit into his hand and lathered up his cock before lining up with George's entrance, now covered with red wax. Fortunately it hadn't solidified completely and Ringo was able to fashion a makeshift lube out of the soft wax and his own spit, it wasn't his most dignified moment but in the heat of the moment all he needed was to feel his cock stretching George out. As the head pushed past the tight ring of muscle George began clawing at the bedframe, sweat dripping from his skin as he moaned at the sensation.

"I swear you get fucking bigger every time." George breathed, his hand gripping the metal frame to expel some tension.

"I'm not getting bigger, you're getting tighter." Ringo groaned, thrusting himself in deeper as the smell of cherries wafted into his nose.

It was difficult to move at first, the lube was hardly effective and without any preparation it was a struggle. More spit was needed and eventually more wax, Ringo was as careful as he could manage to not drop any onto his own cock but it was only possible to a certain extent; the further they went the more he found himself enjoying the burning sensation although he was certain he wouldn't be able to endure as much as George had.

"Not complaining are you?" George cocked an eyebrow and pulling Ringo closer towards him with his legs.

Ringo moaned gruffly "You know I'm not."

"Fuck me harder, then." George began writhing again, desperate for his own cock to be touched.

It was a complete sensory overload: the cherry scent so strong now that Ringo's head was swimming, the wax occasionally catching on his skin which would cause him to suddenly thrust forward into George who was so tight that Ringo wanted to scream. George was practically wailing at this point, his lip smeared with red as he tried to keep his eyes locked on Ringo's as he fucked him deeper.

"I feel like I'm gonna pass out." Ringo admitted, the fuzziness of his mind slurring his speech just slightly.

George looked concerned for a moment, it wasn't often that his sultry persona was shaken but it was difficult to hide; Ringo reassured him with a weak smile, gripping onto George's thigh and quickening his thrusts. He was getting close, George seemed to have been on the edge of orgasm for an impossible amount of time.

"I'm close, I'm close." Ringo repeated, cascading more wax down onto the few areas of George's chest that were still bare before blowing out the candle entirely and chucking it onto the bedside table as accurately as he could manage.

"Touch me." George pleaded, barely able to keep his eyes open.

Ringo wrapped his hand once more around George's coated cock, the wax had started to crumble and create a mess all over the bed but neither of them paid any attention. The intensity of his incoming orgasm almost scared Ringo, he'd never felt anything like it before. George hadn't stopped babbling, whether he was whining for release or muttering incoherent yet clearly filthy things.

"Need your fucking cum." George managed to speak with some clarity "Fuck! Give it to me, give it to me... I want your cum."

Ringo gripped George's leg tighter for some stability, expelling his final burst of energy as he fucked into him roughly and sloppily. Both were groaning, dripping with sweat and wax and desperation. If Ringo had known this experience would be this enjoyable, he would've suggested it sooner.

"Shit, shit." Ringo panted "I'm close."

"Mmmm." George whined, his voice nearly wrecked "Come on, baby, give it to me. I wanna feel your hot cum deep inside me. Please, please, please, make me dirty. I wanna be dirty for you."

"Fuuuucking hell." Ringo's hips stuttered as he chased his orgasm, his eyes shut tight as the ever-familiar sensation began deep in his stomach "You're unbelievable, George."

Then he was coming, the orgasm striking Ringo with such an intensity that he released a noise he didn't even know he was capable of making. With these final shreds of energy Ringo desperately jerked George's cock until he was finishing too, shooting cum all over his wax-covered skin. The climax hit like a huge wave, crashing into the both of them as utter ecstasy washed over their sweaty bodies. It took several moments for the both of them to recover, Ringo hadn't even pulled out while they tried to catch their breath.

When Ringo finally felt capable of opening his eyes and returning to reality, George was looking directly at him with a smug expression.

"What?" Ringo asked, sitting down onto the bed and brushing his sweaty hair away from his forehead.

"Nothing." George replied innocently "I just can't believe you did all that."

"Is it really that surprising?" Ringo leaned over to finally release George's aching wrists from the handcuffs.

"Maybe not." George let his arms flop onto the bed "But if you'll do this, maybe there's some more shit in that box we can try."

"I'm gonna need at least 3-5 working days to recover from this." Ringo huffed, lying himself down beside George "Then we can talk."

#beatles fanfic #beatles fanfiction #the beatles #beatles #george harrison/ringo starr #george harrisonxringo starr #ringo starr/george harrison #starrison #starrison smut

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writingbakery · 5 years

Text

“tapewebs”; a series 🕸

hanta sero is just your regular everyday japanese-american immigrant college student, living in the heart of brooklyn. when miles morales collapses on the windowsill of his shitty one bedroom apartment, life gets.... a hell of a lot more interesting 🕷

[a spiderman! sero au one shot series, featuring class 1-A, hanta sero, miles morales, an assortment of marvel villains, & you, dear reader - the object of one tapespider’s affections ✨]

[pairing; sero x gender neutral reader 🕸]

[warnings; fluff, violence, action, angst, romance, & a lot of tape/spider puns 🕸]

“Sticky Note Origins”

───── ⋆🕸⋆ ─────

the city is prettier up high, sero realizes. granted, he wishes he’d come to that conclusion on solid ground, without his feet nervously planted on a skyscraper ledge, but still.

every whip of wind threatens to topple him over, send him careening down into a frenzied spiral of buildings and colors until he meets concrete at the bottom - and he’s supposed to willingly jump.

he wonders if he’ll pass out before his bones meet solid mass, cracking in so many different ways the coroner’ll have to play connect the fragments until he’s a person again.

behind him, an impatient cough sounds, bringing him back to the task at hand. fuck.

you’re probably wondering how he got here. let’s rewind a week.

one week earlier

at ten pm on a friday, the city is in its prime, bustling crowds of people laughing and stumbling through the brightly colorful streets. hanta’s just trying to protect his pad thai & dumplings, hugging the greasy paper bag to his chest as he weaves in and out of the chaos.

a day full of long classes & a quiet shift at the cafe-slash-bookstore halfway between campus and his crap one bedroom apartment leaves him exhausted, shoulders hunched as he makes his way home. nobody ever sees him regardless - the city’s too big for one lanky, always tired beanpole to be much notice.

despite living in brooklyn since he was four, he’s never felt a hundred percent comfortable here - he had an accent right up until he was thirteen, still trips over certain words and customs that don’t exist back home in japan. he’s awkwardly tall, not enough to be a phenomenon but towering over all his family. he just doesn’t quite fit anywhere - too smart and plain to be popular, too boring to be with the jokesters, too awkward for the nerds. he’s been a loner all his life, and while he doesn’t mind too much, he just wishes it was a little easier to belong.

a text rolls across his phone screen as he’s shuffling songs, skipping some j-pop rock song to settle on kendrick lamar as he smiles. you. he couldn’t lie and say he was completely alone, not when he had you in his life.

you were a year younger than him but twice as smart, skipping a year ahead and landing yourself in hanta’s high school freshman english class. the pair of you had just... clicked, from the very first moment he pointed to shakespeare’s likeness on the cover and mocked “what, you egg?!”

your laughter had left him on cloud nine the entire day, and he made it his personal mission to hear that beautiful little giggle at least once a day for the rest of his life.

a lovely friendship had bloomed from there, the two of you joined at the hip - if you were somewhere, hanta was bound to follow & vice versa.

you’d even gotten into the same college, albeit for drastically different majors - he was a biochem/engineering double major, while you were an english/history double major. you were opposite but similar in so many ways, and the way you both completed each other didnt go unnoticed by sero.

you were his puzzle piece, the bits of him he’d never been able to fill easily made whole by your presence.

he could never tell you, however; your friendship was too precious to risk, especially over his dumb, emotional heart.

sending a string of laughing emojis towards the meme you sent, he jogs up the seven flights of dimly lit stairs to his tiny, one bedroom apartment - living in the city wasn’t cheap, & while the elevator was always busted at least he had a doorman, and heat that worked on occasion.

stepping into his apartment, however, he can immediately sense something is wrong; the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, a heavy silence coating the darkness. the air feels wrong, tipsy turvy like the whole place is holding its breath - like something’s on the verge of exploding, catapulting him into chaos and danger.

quietly stepping through the living room, he peeks into the kitchen and bathroom, holding his backpack out like a makeshift weapon - his $200 biology textbook finally going to good use. finding nothing in either dark room, he slowly advances towards his bedroom, carefully measuring every step. at first, the room seems perfectly normal - nothing’s been moved, and it’s just as empty as the rest of his apartment.

and then he sees the blood.

dotting his windowsill in bright, red streaks, the window itself pushed halfway open - but that’s not what stops him in his tracks, eyes so wide it hurts.

spiderman is leaning against his windowsill, covered in blood and panting heavily, one hand held up in an effort to stop hanta in his tracks.

“i need...... help,” he whispers, voice rough and low; hanta’s amazed he can still speak.

he opens his mouth to react, somehow, even steps forward to catch him before screaming like a ten year old girl at a morgue, panic setting in like cold water.

never a dull night in brooklyn.

───── ⋆🕸⋆ ─────

once he’s made sure that spiderman - miles, as the young man bleeding all over his $12 walmart carpet supplies - isn’t going to die anytime soon, hanta’s quick to recover from his shock. bustling around his tiny kitchen to make cheap ramen and digging around in his closet to find his mini first aid kit, he’s in full fanboy mode - he’s got posters plastered wall to wall of miles morales on his bedroom walls, for gods sakes. not that he knew it was miles morales, but still.

miles morales is curled up in the fleece blanket hanta’s mom had sent him his second week at college, and he’s totally not freaking out.

he’d had to cancel his nightly facetime call with you, lying about a stomach bug - he hates keeping things from you, but this is just too big and messy and dangerous. he’ll tell you in due time, he promises himself, trying to ease the coil of guilt in his stomach.

“how did you end up on my windowsill, again?” hanta asks, gently pushing the bowl of noodles towards the injured man. he’s got his own pad thai long forgotten in the microwave, more focused on the superhero who’d gotten his ass whooped on his doorstep, so to speak.

“i told you. i’d been watching you for a while - you’re the most promising candidate i have.” miles’ voice is slick with humor, a sort of teasing confidence that’s clear even through the pain.

“which i’m still not understanding - candidate for what? blood services? biology questions? how to make $20 last two weeks??” he knows he’s being childish, too joking for the severity of the situation, but he can’t help it. the neighborhood’s - and his own - hero is sitting in front of him, eating shitty 33¢ ramen from the bodega around the corner, telling him he’s a prime candidate.

“to take the mantle.” all traces of laughter are gone now, miles leaning forward on the table to emphasize his words. “i’ve been doing this long enough to know when to quit. my body’s giving out on me - i got slammed into a wall last week and couldn’t shake the pain till yesterday. before, i’d be fine within an hour. the city needs someone new, young, willing to take the risks.”

hanta’s ears stopped listening the moment he heard quit. “me? are you fuckin’ joking?” he wheezes, coughing his way past the shock. “i get winded walking up to my apartment! an old lady beat me to the c train yesterday! a strong wind could kick my ass!”

miles is either willfully ignoring him or just can’t hear, plowing ahead with his explanation. “you’ve got the perfect build for webswinging, and you’ve got a good heart - you know when to do the right thing and when to step away. leave the rest up to me, and trust me - i know what i’m doing.”

hanta can’t believe his ears, pushing away from the table to pace around his kitchen in panic. “i don’t till you understand, you’ve got the wrong guy - there’s no way i could be spiderman!” his words are falling on deaf ears - miles is standing too, and he doesn’t seem to care about hanta’s impending panic.

“you’ve got to trust me on this, alright? meet me tomorrow, at this address - 12 pm sharp. the city needs you, hanta - hell, i need you. just have a little faith.”

hanta scoffs at that, throwing his hands in the air. “faith?! i met you an hour ago, bleeding all over my windowsill! that’s not exactly the most- hey! where the hell...” there’s nothing but a blanket, a hastily scrawled address, and an empty bowl where miles had sat, leaving hanta alone with his thoughts.

damnit.

───── ⋆🕸⋆ ─────

hanta pushes through the crowds of people at eleven am the next morning, half asleep but wired enough to power the whole city - hell, the whole goddamned country. he’s running on no sleep, adrenaline, two redbulls & the guilt of lying to you again, his “stomach bug” keeping him from class. he’d told you he was going to visit his parents for the weekend to recover; your sweet messages in response only made him feel worse.

he’s tossed and turned over this decision a million times & yet, he’s still not sure where he stands - it’s so little information, so much responsibility in so little time. he’s still half convinced he’s being punked, if he’s honest.

and yet, somethings drawing him to the address miles had left him, something deep in his gut that tells him he needs to be there. clearly, miles had seen something he himself is woefully oblivious to, and it couldn’t hurt to find out more.

apple maps leads him to a tiny shed somewhere behind a deli & a nail salon, not too far from his apartment, and he’s completely confused. “stupid gps, probably got me lost,” he whines, leaning against the door of the shed to zoom in on his location.

the pigeons in the alley are the only ones to hear his panicked yelling as he phases right through it, tumbling all the way down a metal chute into the dark unknown.

at least, for ten seconds. he lands on a remarkably soft pad of foam, a glass panel separating him from a brightly lit, fancy looking room lined wall to wall with computers, parts and half made suits, spiderman suits. he doesn’t know where to look first.

a robotic, feminine voice brings him out of his shock, the glass panel lighting up with code and writing.

“please enter your name.” hanta is floored.

“uh.. hanta sero?” the voice trills lightly, before a red grid-like laser scans him head to toe. he’s proud to admit he only squealed in terror once.

“identity confirmed. welcome, hanta.” the panel slides away to allow him access, his careful steps alerting the rest of the room’s computers to light up at his arrival.

“you came. i knew i chose wisely.” miles comes into view slowly, limping heavily as he smiles. it’s almost familiar, like he & hanta have been friends for years; he finds it comforting.

“well, not everyday you get to be spiderman,” hanta jokes, fidgeting a little where he stands. “you gonna fit me for a suit or something?” miles just laughs, shaking his head.

“that comes later. first, we’ve got to get you bitten.”

bitten?

───── ⋆🕸⋆ ─────

for the third time in 24 hours, hanta’s screaming like a man who’s just been told he has two days to live.

“you want me to let that thing bite me?! have you lost your mind?!”

miles sighs patiently, holding up the little glass vial to the light; inside, the spider races up and down the glass, an odd orange color to its patterning.

“it’s the only way. no offense, but i saw that lady beat you to the c train. she was like, 85.” hanta’s pouting now, crossing his arms.

“she had a cane and she was agile- hey hey! you keep that thing away from me, so help me god-“

“you’re being dramatic, it’s the size of a pea-“

“that’s a fat ass fuckin’ pea-“

“stay still-“

“i will not- ow! jesus fuck, that thing has tarantula jaws!”

miles carefully shepherds the spider back into the glass, chuckling a little. “it’ll take a moment to cause effect. the original spider was cross-bred with a more agile, lanky species - perfect for your body type. i’m hoping it’ll be most effective in your transition.”

“hoping?” hanta squeaks, staring at the red welt forming on his hand - his visions already starting to blur out, a throbbing pain traveling up his arm.

“well, it’s the first time i’m experimenting with this-“

“you used me as a guinea pig?!”

“it’s perfectly safe! my mentor-“ but hanta’s not listening anymore, the world swimming in front of his eyes before the ground rushes up rapidly to kiss his face.

god. damnit.

when he comes to, he’s wrapped in about half the blankets in brooklyn, a cold compress against his sweaty forehead. he’s burning up, and his elbows hurt for some reason - his skins gone all itchy, and he’d probably kick a pigeon for a glass of water.

sitting up alerts miles to his newly conscious state, the man quickly scanning his vitals with a smaller version of the glass panel hanta’d been fascinated with earlier. “thought you were gonna croak on me. how do you feel?”

“itchy. and my arms hurt.” hanta’s pushing off the blankets as he speaks, attempting to get comfortable - his body feels weird, like he’ll burst out of his skin at any second.

“alright, don’t panic. i need to see how it’s mutated your body. stay still.” miles’ fingers delicately press against his neck, shoulders, before jabbing at his ribs without warning. hanta’s arms shoot up on impulse, a trail of sticky, precise webbing escaping him from his...... elbows?!

“what the fuck, dude what the fuck look at my elbows, they’re all puffy and red i’m gonna die, and the coroner is gonna leak my story to the press and my moms gonna see me in the paper with fucked up elbows-“ hanta may or may not be panicking, poking at the tender, slightly swollen skin around the bends of his arms. miles just rolls his eyes, clearly amused by his antics.

“you’re not going to die. japanese tape spiders shoot webbing from the bends of their eight arms; its a thicker & stronger strain of web. clearly, your elbows are how your body has adjusted.”

“that doesn’t make it better.” hanta’s too busy staring at himself to notice the other changes at first, but slowly, they’re trickling in. heightened eyesight and hearing, an odd balance to his feet he hadn’t had a day ago, even itchier fingertips - making it easier for him to grip flat surfaces, or at least as miles says.

“come on. let’s get you a suit.”

───── ⋆🕸⋆ ─────

a week’s worth of planning & adjusting has led him right here to this rooftop, suited feet firmly balanced on the ledge. he likes his suit, thinks it’s unique - he’d modeled it after the spider who’d blessed him with these powers, orange and black and white [miles sort of thinks it’s ugly, but who cares.] he’d been in & out of the fondly nicknamed “spider-lounge”, getting fitted for his suit & honing his new abilities; he’d also been avoiding you whenever possible.

he couldn’t suck you into this world, not when he was barely comfortable in it himself; he kept promising himself he’d come clean, but the guilt’s eating him alive with every sad look & evening alone you spend.

another impatient cough brings him back to the present, miles sitting in the middle of the roof & watching hanta’s nervous stalling. “you’re going to have to jump eventually, you know,” he calls, and it takes everything in him not to turn tail and run.

he has a duty, a responsibility now, and he doesn’t take that lightly. he thinks of you, sitting in your ratty little apartment off campus and remembers that your safety is all but in his hands now; he’s got to protect the city, for your sake at least.

“i absolutely will not hesitate to kick you off this rooftop,” miles threatens, but its empty - they both know hanta needs to do this himself.

one step back, then two, the nerves racing up his spine as he prepares himself to meet cold concrete [a dramatic thought, miles would catch him far before he reaches ground. a bad knee wouldn’t stop him from that.] he says a silent prayer to every god he’s ever heard of and closes his eyes, taking a step forward into the air-

and trips over the ledge, falling ass over heels into the air. nice.

the rushing wind only heightens his panic for a moment, before one arm snaps up to blindly shoot into the air; his spider sense kicks in from there, aiming without even realizing and latching onto a nearby ledge. he swings aimlessly for a moment before finding a new ledge, then a railing; slowly, he finds a rhythm.

he’s soaring through the city before he realizes, laughing at the sharp roar of the wind in his ears - he feels like he’s flying, weightless as a bird. the only thing he can think of is you, how much you’d love this.

one day, he’ll take you webswinging. one day.

for now, he relishes in the fact that he’s one step closer to being brooklyn’s - & new york’s - new spiderman, fresh faced & determined to bring peace to the city.

he’s going to do it for you, even if it kills him.

#bnha sero #sero hanta x reader #sero hanta #spiderman au #sero x y/n #sero x you #sero x reader #bnha x y/n #bnha x you #bnha x reader #boku no hero fanfic #evywrites #tapewebs #one shot series #tapewebs series

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perseusjackson-jasongrace · 4 years

Text

Kingdom Collisions VII

masterlist

This is a fic i’m writing to try and incorporate more description into my works. You will be happy to know that it’s working ;) There are no pre-written chapters so updates are sporadic and i am just as in the dark as you about what happens next. Please enjoy!

Percy Jackson traces the insignia under his fingers, feels the gravelly texture of the stone and the way each word engraves itself into his skin.

militat omnis amans

He hears Jason's words in his head, let's the conversation loop in his mind.

"What are we doing here?"

"I needed to take a walk in the gardens. I can't stay in that stone monstrosity for another second."

"And you wanted me to come with you?"

"If you don't want to be here you can leave." His husband snapped.

He just hummed in acknowledgment.

"Sorry," The Prince mumbled, "I'm just a little volatile right now."

"What does this mean?" Percy figured it was time for a subject change.

"Our motto?"

"Yes, I've seen it everywhere and I've never managed to ask anyone about it."

"Every lover is a soldier."

He looked at the blonde, caught those dull blue eyes. "Really?"

"It's a long story."

"Shall we sit on the bench so you can tell me?"

And then someone had called them inside to go over the details of the King's address that would be happening in the coming week.

"Another time." Jason winced.

Now Percy sits in the garden on a wooden bench, basking in the warmth and protection of an Arrowood tree in full bloom. The soft pink flowers catch on the wind and shower him with petals every so often. The sky is unusually blue for the winter but the chill in the air makes up for it. It is a deadly bite, waiting for any piece of skin to be exposed. The grass is green and cushioning under his feet and the soft cashmere pants his wearing are keeping the icy breeze at bay. He takes a deep breath in. This weather is dopamine in his bloodstream; is full of new beginnings and life.

His fingers brush against the engraved insignia again and he cannot help but wonder the tale behind it. The story of his own kingdom's symbol is one he keeps close to his heart, treasures with every blink of his eyes. His emblem flashes across his mind: a silver sword slicing through a cresting wave, the droplets from it turn bronze in the sun and fall to make their maxim: datum amore ad defendendum. The story is gruesome and bloody and full of honour. Percy's father used to tell it to him on the rare occasion he would tuck him in bed.

There was once a man, brave and strong.

Like you dad?

His father laughed and ruffled his curls. Shh my Starfish and listen to the story of Arroyo the Saviour.

So Percy snuggled into his cotton sheets, a panda pillow tucked under his chin and blinked up in anticipation.

Arroyo was a little boy who lived with his mom and his sister and his sibling, near the ocean. Everyday little Arroyo went down to the docks with his sibling and they would stand there selling bracelets their family made. It was the only way they could get money to eat.

Did their king not give them food dad? His green eyes were wide with horror.

Not everyone is kind my son. Some days little Arroyo and his sibling came back with no money and his mom would smile at them and say "It is okay. Today we eat fish and tomorrow we feast." So they sat down at the table and ate their fish just like they did every night and not once did Arroyo or his siblings complain. For they knew that a tomorrow would come where the feast would be greater than the fish and it was no use leaving today's meal in the hope of tomorrow's promises.

Little Percy frowned, confused at what his father was trying to say. But the King was lost in his own world now, matching ocean eyes far away from this bedroom, in this time and place.

One day Arroyo's mother got sick and his siblings stayed with her while he went to sell bracelets. But when he got home, a small pouch of coins rattling in his pocket, his house was rubble and his family were gone.

Gone? Percy gasped, Where dad? What happened?

His father snapped his head to the present, looked down at his son. They died my Starfish. Someone killed them.

Tears pooled hot and fast in his little eyes, Why dad?

Because Starfish Arroyo's mother was not who she claimed to be and people do not like what they do not understand. But nobody knew that Arroyo was safe, that he had made it out alive. And when he finally grew up, his mother's blood strong in his veins he came back to the village. And there he demanded to see the people who had layed his home to waste all those years ago. The people trembled before him, his might and vengeance a force they could not tame. Arroyo only asked once. And when nobody could tell him anything he smiled with his teeth and drowned the town. His tail creating waves that engulfed the world.

Arroyo was a mermaid? Percy didn't like it when dad told stories, he always left things out and it was confusing to listen to.

He was a beast my Starfish. His father said softly, eyes glittering with excitement, For you see his mother was the Exiled Queen of the Ocean and she had fallen in love with a mortal man. A forbidden romance.

So what happened to Arroyo? Did he kill everyone?

He drowned the village but saved one person. A little girl by the name of Mare for she had looked at him, with his burning anger and broken soul, and offered him the pearl she kept in a pendant at her neck. For her he bowed down and accepted the gift.

Did she become his queen dad?

No Starfish, she was much too young. Instead Arroyo took her to his home deep deep in the waves and she lived there as his friend, as his family. But sometimes Mare had to go to land for she did not have the blood Arroyo did and she could not survive in those brutal waters for long. Arroyo would take her there every full moon and bring her home every new moon. One night when she was due back on land a terrible, terrible force lurked in the water. But Arroyo didn't feel it and Mare could never have known. They said their goodbyes as they always did, promising to see each other soon.

Percy squeezed his father fingers, little lip trembling slightly.

Arroyo dived back in but something slammed into his side. He smashed into the rocks of the village and the whole town quaked. The creature attacked Arroyo, its huge body and spiked tail hitting him everywhere. Mare screamed but there was nothing she could do. And then Arroyo came up to look at her because he knew in his heart that he was not to survive this fight. He waved to his friend, his family through the years and when she waved back the monster rose from the waves and bit Arroyo. He went down so softly it was almost as if he had chosen to sleep. Mare knew the monster would come for her village next and she would not allow it to destroy the only other thing she loved. So she grabbed a sword, sharp gleaming silver, and ran across the ocean. Her feet light and swift against the rolling waves. The creature burst out in a flurry of rage but it was not prepared for the strength of Mare and when it met her sword it let out a shriek so vile the dead curdled. Blood sprayed everywhere as the sword fell from her hand and into the waves below.

Did Mare live dad? He yawned, fear giving away to sleepiness.

Mare is the spirit of the ocean my son. She lives in here. His father tapped his little chest softly before bending down to place a kiss on his forehead.

I hope I'm brave like Mare dad.

You are braver still my Starfish. He whispered.

Percy blinks out of the memory, rubbing at the ache in his chest that accompanied every thought about his dad. It has been more than a decade since that fateful night but the missing never gets easier.

He hugs his knees to his chest and watches two birds fight over a small peach dangling precariously from the tree. Such simple pleasures and petties. There are at least sixty other peaches, just as perfectly red and ripe, on the tree but these birds continue to chirp indignantly at each other. He wonders if it's purposeful. If maybe they just want the connection. It's not really about the peach. It's about having someone to argue against, talk to, be with. Gods, he scowls at himself, he must really be lonely if it's come to this.

The bench suddenly becomes uncomfortable, like every splint of wood is trying to pierce his skin. With a heavy sigh he pulls himself up and strolls towards the stone castle. In the week that he's been here it still hasn't felt any more friendly. He misses his castle, misses the home he has there. But his husband is here so he must be too. At the very least Grover will arrive this afternoon and they can spend some time together. He needs this meeting, needs to see his friend and some semblance of normal. A little voice in his head argues that he's the one who's been straying from his angered promises. The one that's been sleeping besides Jason under the pretense of nightmares. He pushes the little voice deep down, buries it in the darkness where it can shiver and cower without his knowledge or concern. As if his thoughts summon the man, his husband appears around the corner and offers him a swift smile.

"I was just coming to find you."

"You've changed." Is his reply.

Prince Jason did indeed don a new outfit. Perfectly pressed tunic the colour of the sky and a gold chain attached dangling from the small square pocket on his left breast to the first button of the coat. His pants are a deep blue, the same golden threads glinting in the sunlight. But it's the small white rose tucked into his chest pocket that Percy is focused on.

"What is that?"

"When we mourn in the kingdom we wear white roses to signify gentle death and prosperous living."

He nods stiffly, unsure if it's appropriate to ask if he may participate in the custom. Luckily he is saved when Jason's blue eyes pin on him, "Would you like to wear one?"

"Please. This is my Kingdom now too. I feel it would be a great disrespect to not."

The prince looked at him, blonde hair ruffling softly as the breeze caressed their skin and flittered between his dancing fingers. He stood there unmoving while his husband studied him like a Rubik’s cube that needed just the right pattern to fix it.

"Come with me."

They walk together, through the field of poppies bursting with colour, past the grove of fruit trees equally bright and heavy with sweet delights, over the small bridge that marks the Pond of Storms, or at least according to the plaqued waterfall that fed it.

"Why that name?"

"Just before a storm hits the water goes pitch black like storm clouds."

He stares at the clear, brilliant aquamarine of the pond, his rippling reflection staring back and wonders if it's a lie, or a wives' tale.

"You still owe me a story."

"About?"

They cross the bridge and turn a corner.

"About your insignia."

"Why do you like them so much?" Jason turns to him, curiosity burning in his expression, "Stories I mean."

"They're the easiest way to understand the core of something. A language only the lived know how to speak."

"I've heard about yours, your symbol."

"How?" He's the intrigued one now.

"My father liked us to know about the neighboring kingdoms. I never understood it then, always managed to fall asleep in our history lessons, but I guess it's been helpful."

"My mother didn't know yours." He says softly, "She is the Keeper of Worlds so she was able to tell me all kinds of tales but she said she never knew the origins of Caelum."

The Prince shakes his head, "It's only passed down from king to to descendant. Sharing it with anyone is a crime against the kingdom."

Percy's head snaps back in shock, "For telling a story?"

His husband just shrugs like its the most normal thing in the world.

"Why would you tell me then?"

"Sometimes tradition is bullshit."

"But you'd still be committing a crime?"

"Gives life a little thrill." His smile is wicked as he winks an aquamarine eye and steps through the small wooden door built into the hedge.

"Welcome to the Garden of Hearts."

Spread out before them is a sea of roses so glorious in their beauty it makes Percy's soul stutter. There is every colour under the setting sun. Starting with bleach white the roses lay across the field bleeding into cream then yellow then orange then red then pink. Rows upon rows of soft love and romance.

He doesn't manage to hold in a gasp as he drops to his knees and caresses a maroon petal. The tears in his eyes go unacknowledged even when they spill over and water the earth. He's almost certain the flower blooms in his hand.

"This is..." He breathes. He doesn't have the words. They are dust particles violently swept under a rug. They are grains of sand smashed into the earth under the weight of feet. They are simply gone.

"I'm glad you like it." Jason smiles at him and the halo of sun around his head makes Percy weak at the knees.

"Who did this? Who planted this?"

"My sister, Annabeth." The blonde looks around, caught in a time long ago, "She did it in memory of our mom."

"It reminds me of mine."

What he doesn't tell his husband is that more than that, it reminds him of a friend he left far behind. Of a friend he was willing to marry. A friend he was willing to love.

He reaches forward and plucks a satin white rose from the small bush. But as he's pulling away his finger catches on a thorn and suddenly the rose is disintegrating to the floor and those pure white petals are splattered with rubies.

"Fuck." He mutters sucking on the wounded skin in an attempt to stop the blood.

"Here," Jason winces in sympathy, holding out a bleached pocket square.

"Thank you," He offers a gracious smile through the sting of pain. "And I'm sorry about the roses."

"It's okay, the blood will wash off with the next rains."

He just nods and cradles his throbbing digit.

"Are you okay?"

"I've been stabbed before but somehow the little cuts always hurt the worst."

For the first time in well maybe ever, he hears his husband laugh. And it is godlike, a thing of beauty and splendour. Something deep in his chest unfurls gently.

"We'll go inside and get some disinfectant and a plaster on that." Jason promises before bending down to cut another rose, carefully extracting it from the web of thorns and leaves it buried itself in.

"Here," He offers it.

Percy takes a step closer, still clutching his finger, and silently asks if he can put it on for him. Those blue eyes widen slightly, but that's all the surprise the Prince shows.

They step together and the blonde softly places the flower in his emerald green tunic. Jason smooths his hand over the area distractedly and stares up at him. Their eyes clash in a look of confusion, and curiosity, and something wholly unnatural.

"We should go." The Prince whispers.

He swallows hard and nods but neither make a move. He can smell his husband’s fresh minty breath and see the micro flecks of grey in those eyes. Gods, how has he never noticed how strong his jaw is. How there's the tiniest beauty-mark on the bridge of his nose. And the small crease in his brow that makes his whole face look so much older, look like the king he will one day be.

A cacophonous shriek from above rips them apart in a jump of fright. The low gliding hawk over head seems to narrow its eyes at the pair before flying back to its master. Report on the Princes: they've almost started tolerating each other.

Jason turns away and starts for the carved door once more. Percy stares at his back, trying to gather himself, swiping the borrowed pocket square across his bruising skin. His kingdom's maxim flashes in his mind again. Datum amore ad defendendum. Given in love for protection. He takes a shaky breath before following his husband back to the castle.

The Pond of Storms flushes charcoal. And behind him, where his blood had spilled, the petals of an ice-white rose turn crimson.

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

If you missed it: militat omnis amans means every lover is a soldier; Datum amore ad defendendum means given in love for protection.

Tags (if you want to be added to/ taken off the tag list just let me know, all my channels of communication are open):

@nishlicious-01

@queen-of-demons-and-hell

@leydiangelo

@sparkythunderstorm

@aalikun

@makos-bi-awakening

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violetwolfraven · 4 years

Text

Pass Out

38 for sprace—requested by @just-a-gay-meme

I’m injured and I came to you because I didn’t want to tell my mom/Jack/whoever.

((So I guess this would be canon era, pre-strike when Race was selling at Sheepshead, so he and Spot did know each other, but they aren’t really even friends yet. It’s not the same universe as the one fic I’ve written with her in it, but it includes one of my ocs. Don’t worry, you didn’t forget about her. Bluebird just isn’t canon.))

...

Race would normally not be confused by the fact that he was waking up in a Lodging House, but today, he had an excuse, because he was waking up in the Brooklyn Lodging House.

“Well, well, well,” a voice said, and Race jumped, “He lives.”

There was a little girl sitting by his bed, holding a bowl and a wet washcloth that was suspiciously red, and Race didn’t think it was because that was Brooklyn’s territory color.

And Race was only 15, but this girl couldn’t be any older than maybe 10, so he got to call her a little girl, even though, as was visible because she was wearing one of Brooklyn’s signature red tanktops, she was probably stronger than he was. She had features kind of similar to Romeo, with black hair and brown eyes, so Race guessed she was Asian, or at least one of her parents was.

“What the fuck?” Race mumbled under his breath.

“Oh, no,” the little girl said, sounding genuinely concerned, “How hard did you get hit? How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three,” Race said, because she clearly was.

“Hmm...” the little girl tilted her head as she put her hand down, “Do ya remember how you got here?”

“Brooklyn Lodging House? No. Got no clue. What the fuck am I doin’ here?”

“You got your ass kicked,” the little girl said flatly, “At least, I think ya did. You kinda just showed up, asked for help, and passed out. That was two hours ago.”

“Thanks,” Race said, “Um... what was your name again?”

“Bluebird. Ya didn’t know it in the first place. You’re Racetrack Higgins, right? The ‘Hattan boy Spot lets sell at Sheepshead?”

Race shrugged sitting up halfway and leaning back on his elbows, “The one and only.”

Bluebird wrinkled her nose, “No wonder ya got your ass kicked. All you Manhattan boys can’t fight to save your lives.”

“Hey!”

“It’s true! Manhattan’s probably the—“

“Blue.”

Bluebird looked at the floor as Spot called to her from the doorway.

Race sat up all the way as Brooklyn’s King walked over, putting his hand on the little girl’s shoulder.

“What did we say ‘bout antagonizin’ people for no reason?” Spot asked.

“To not to,” Bluebird mumbled.

“You’s a big girl, now, right, Blue? Your cute factor ain’t gonna get you out of fights much longer. Ya gotta learn not to pick fights you can’t win.”

“Bet I could win against him.”

Race laughed, “She’s probably right.”

“Maybe,” Spot reasoned, “But, Blue, appearances can be deceivin’. Race, here, happens to be really good at makin’ friends. Which means he has friends in every borough, this one included. Half the Newsies of New York’d go to war to defend him, so in short, Racetrack Higgins is either a good friend to have or a bad enemy. Take your pick.”

Bluebird snuck a glance at Race, “I’d rather be friends.”

Race smiled, “I’d rather be friends with you, too, kid.”

She smiled at him, and Race didn’t at all see what Spot meant. She wasn’t losing her cute factor. She probably wouldn’t for a couple more years.

“Run along, Bluebird,” Spot said, “I think Hotshot’s waitin’ for ya.”

“I’m sellin’ with Rafaela today!”

“Raf’s... busy. Go find Hotshot.”

“Okay!”

Bluebird hiked up her skirt to run faster, and Race laughed.

“So, I’m guessin’ I know what you meant by busy?”

Spot shrugged, “Yeah, she’s got a sweetheart, but I don’t know who it is. I’m pretty sure it’s either York or Joey, but Raf ain’t the talkative type, so I don’t know which. She asked me to watch Blue this afternoon, but I don’t need a little frontin’ for me.”

“And Hotshot does?”

“He’s an intimidatin’ lookin’ kid. He probably don’t need her, but with winter comin’ up, I’d rather be safe.”

Race nodded, then winced as that hurt, “That makes sense.”

Spot stood there silently for a couple seconds, then asked.

“So, what happened?”

Race shrugged, “Wish I knew. Thinkin’ back, it’s all kind of fuzzy.”

“There’s been some thugs ‘round Brooklyn lately, thinkin’ it’s funny to beat up on workin’ kids,” Spot muttered, “They targeted my kids at first, but learned to avoid us when we soaked them instead. I probably should have sent someone over to warn ya. Bluebird’s right. Only one of you Manhattan boys who can fight good is Cowboy.”

Race decided to ignore that last comment, “I don’t think I got soaked.”

“Hmm. You’re probably right. It’s just the one head wound, right? Nothin’ else hurts?”

Race shrugged, “It hurts to breathe a little, but...”

He looked down his own shirt to check.

“Not that many bruises.”

“I should check for broken ribs, anyway.”

Race honestly didn’t know what to think as Spot Conlon, the King of Brooklyn, sat down on the edge of the bed Race was still sitting on, putting up one hand.

“Can I? I know what I’m doin’.”

“I’m sure ya do,” Race admitted, knowing Brooklyn’s reputation for getting in fights with local gangs, other boroughs, even each other.

Of course, his mind was hyper-focused on the fact that Spot wasn’t known for being friendly, and he also happened to be less than a year older than Race.

He was kind of attractive. If Race was the type to go for badasses, he would be very flustered right now, which... he wasn’t. He totally wasn’t even a little flustered by this.

In the end, Race nodded, “You can check, but I’m pretty sure nothin’s broken.”

“Okay. Tell me what hurts.”

Spot gently put his hand against Race’s lower ribs, slowly increasing pressure before moving up, then checking the other side. And sure, it twinged in some places, but nothing hurt enough to actually be broken.

“Why’re you helpin’ me?” Race asked as Spot finished up.

The other boy shrugged, “Ya ain’t one of mine, Higgins, but you sell in Brooklyn. That makes ya at least partly my responsibility.”

Race wanted to protest that—he was one of Jack’s seconds, for fuck’s sake—but Spot was still talking.

“Also, that head wound wasn’t so bad that ya forgot what borough you’re from. If you really wanted to go back to ‘Hattan, you at least would’ve tried. Probably gotten run over on the way, but you’d have tried. Ya came here. Judgin’ by what little I know... you’s close with Kelly, right?”

Race nodded, “He’s like a big brother to me.”

Spot shrugged, “There ya go. Winter’s rough on every leader who actually cares about their kids, and it’s comin’ up fast. Jackie Boy’s probably stressed enough as it is, makin’ sure everyone sells as much as they can before it gets really hard, and ya didn’t want to worry him. So, you came here instead of goin’ home.”

Honestly, that sounded about right. Race still didn’t remember everything, but not going home when hurt so as not to worry Jack sounded like something he’d do.

“Well, that explains what I’m doin’ here,” he admitted, “But it doesn’t explain why ya actually helped.”

“Like I said, you’s partially my responsibility.”

“Bullshit. I’m Manhattan and you know it. Hell, I’m second in command along with Crutchie. Ya didn’t have to help me beyond makin’ sure I don’t die on your doorstep, so why? Do ya just want me to owe you a favor?”

Spot shrugged, not looking Race in the eye, “I might collect a favor later, but that ain’t why I did it.”

“Then why?”

They locked eyes, and Race could see that he was being completely serious.

“Genuinely nice people are few and far between. Bluebird ain’t the only one who’d like to be friends with you.”

Race smiled, “Well, if ya wanted to be friends, you could’ve just said so. I’m always open to new friends.”

Spot snorted, “One of these days, that’s gonna get ya killed.”

“Possibly... but I should probably be gettin’ back to Manhattan. Before I do, I have one question to ask you.”

“What?”

Race pointed vaguely at a throbbing area just above his temple, not wanting to actually touch it.

“How bad is it?”

“Your hair covers it, mostly, and Blue cleaned off the blood. It ain’t super noticeable, so if you avoid Cowboy for a bit to give it time to heal, he probably won’t have to find out.”

“Okay, great. Thanks, I guess. Thank Bluebird for me.”

“I will.”

Spot stayed close as Race stood up, probably expecting to have to catch him.

Race didn’t actually feel that bad. His head hurt, sure, but he didn’t feel like he was going to pass out anymore.

“I usually hang out under the stands when I take a break from sellin’,” he said, “If ya ever wanna... hang out, or whatever, come find me.”

Spot nodded, “Yeah. Sure. Maybe I will.”

Honestly, given that Spot Conlon was known for being hostile to pretty much everyone outside of Brooklyn, Race hadn’t expected to ever be able to befriend him. He was friendly on the rare occasion they saw each other, but he’d always seen Spot as kind of cold and distant.

Maybe it was just being in his own Lodging House—home turf—that made him drop his guard a little.

Whatever the case, Race couldn’t deny that a part of him was thinking about how if he could be friends with Spot Conlon, maybe he could slowly get closer and maybe even be more someday, but—

But this was a thought train for another day.

Well, this should be interesting.

#newsies #sprace #spot conlon #racetrack higgins #race x spot #violet’s writing

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amyscascadingtabs · 5 years

Text

when i’m feeling alone, you remind me of home

Three different years, three different Christmasses, and three different reasons Jake's awake all too early in the morning on December 25th.

(or, did anyone say CHRISTMAS FLUFF???)

read on ao3

december 25th, 2014.

06.08 a.m.

“Oh my god, have you been here all night?”

Jake's not sure whether Amy’s about to laugh at him or tell him off about how he needs to take better care of himself. From the incredulous look on her face, like she can’t believe her eyes when he nods at her from behind his desk, it could be either.

“Jake, that’s insane. Have you ever heard of, I don't know, sleeping during the night?”

(It's the second alternative.)

He has heard of sleep, and he’ll confess the thought of his bed with its good mattress lump and too-soft pillows is more tempting now than when he first considered going home about eight hours ago, but he also just drank a can of artificially blue energy drink and might never sleep again. All the better - it’ll give him more time to catch his arch-nemesis, who sent him yet another rant about omelets yesterday that left Jake none the wiser and all the more frustrated.

“I’m trying to get a trail on Doug Judy,” he shrugs in response to Amy. “You think a person can disappear into thin air?”

“I’ll go with no on that one.”

Jake groans. “I swear that’s what he’s done. It’s infuriating.”

“I’m sorry he got away,” Amy tilts her head to the side with sympathy, “but I promise you’ll catch him. Just go home and get some sleep.”

“You go home and get some sleep.”

“I have! I’m just stopping by to get a couple of hours of work done before I have to go back to my brother’s place.”

“Why are you going to your brother’s place -” He makes note of the red and green stripes on her knitted sweater and her red bauble earrings. “Oh, right. Christmas.”

Never one for family-centered holidays or one with a particular skill for keeping track of time, Jake could have sworn the occasion wasn’t happening for another few days at least, but Amy nods. Her earrings sway with the movement.

“So you’re working on Christmas?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re working on Christmas,” she retorts simply.

“Yeah, but I don’t celebrate it. You like being with your family.” Jake snaps his computer shut and leans over his desk instead, hands clasped together and chin resting on them. “What’s the mysterious deal here? Has there been a juicy scandal in the Santiago family? Please spill.”

Amy sighs, her cheeks turning a shade of pink he recognizes from the last time Captain Holt complimented her work on a case in front of the bullpen. “There’s nothing juicy. I just needed some time away from my brothers if I’m going to survive today.”

“I thought you liked your brothers?”

“I have seven brothers, Jake, and I like all of them. Except for David. Perfect David,” she says, screwing up her face like it pains her to say the name. “David is planning to take the Sergeant’s exam this year. David is looking at buying a house. David’s proposing to his girlfriend. Aren’t you thinking of getting married to your boyfriend, Amy? Oh, that’s right - you two broke up! Such a shame. You two made an adorable couple!”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.” She bites her lip. “Sure. Ouch.”

She starts writing on her computer, fingers tapping over the keyboard with speed and only stopping for brief moments when she looks out the window like she’s taking a break to think. Jake decides to give her a moment alone and dives back into his own poorly structured document of barely existent and equally far-fetched leads. He doubts he’s writing anything coherent at this point, but the thought of Doug Judy out there taunts him too much to allow himself to stop.

He feels guilty whenever Amy mentions her breakup with Teddy. It’s been three weeks since the most catastrophic double-date in history, and most of the time, they’re cool, but then there are moments where he’ll mention Sophia and notice how Amy’s eyes will turn away and her expression will morph into a smile so different from her natural one. He can’t decipher what it means, or if it’s nothing and his mind’s playing tricks on him from when he had a little bit of a crush on her. It’s not like it would matter, he reminds himself. He’s with someone, he’s happy, and Amy’s over him anyway.

It doesn't stop him from wishing he could read her thoughts sometimes.

“Are you having dinner with your mom tonight?” Amy asks, jolting him back to reality. The tapping of her fingers against the keyboard has slowed down, and the tension that radiated from her before seems milder. Jake thinks he can note the hint of a smile on her lips.

“How do you know I’m having dinner with my mom?”

“You told me last year?”

His memory flashes back to a late-night, dead-end stakeout last December. “Right. Right, yeah, I am - Sophia’s away visiting family, so.”

Either Amy's smile turns more wistful, forced, or he’s imagining it. “That sounds nice. Are you planning to get any sleep before then?”

“Sleep is for the weak,” he tries joking, but because his body is cruel, moving his face triggers a massive yawn that makes Amy giggle.

“Actually, sleep deprivation is linked to a weaker immune system, higher risk of cardiovascular diseases and trouble with concentration,” she lists, ignoring his eye-roll. “Seriously, Jake. Go home and rest, then come back with a clear head tomorrow.”

“Nah,” he shrugs. “Just need more coffee.”

“I pity your doctor.” Amy shakes her head. “But hey, it’s Christmas - if you promise me you’ll go home and sleep after, coffee’s my treat.”

“Really?”

“Consider it my Christmas gift for you. “ She’s out of her seat and taking on her coat before he’s even had a shot to ask why he’s willingly going outside in the cold when there’s perfectly acceptable, free coffee in the break room. Then again, he’s not one to say no to a surprise. Especially not when the words on his computer are getting blurrier by the second, and he’s lost nearly all faith in his own skills as a Detective thanks to the failed capture of Doug Judy three days ago. Caffeine will help him stay awake; maybe long enough to come up with at least one more idea. Something - anything - and he’ll let himself go home. As soon as he’s made progress, he’ll rest.

“Gingerbread lattes. Sickly sweet, so suits you perfectly.” He gives Amy a quizzical look as she puts down the red and white Starbucks cup in front of him. She blushes. “I mean, because you eat what I believe is a dangerous amount of sugar. Nothing else.”

Jake grins. “That difficult to hide your crush on me, huh?”

“I don’t have a crush on you. If you’d like to give me a Christmas gift, I’d very much appreciate you quitting bringing that up.”

“Uh-uh, it’s a no-can-do.” He unscrews the lid from his cup, licking up the sweet foam. “This is great, though. Thanks, Amy.”

“You’re welcome. Merry Christmas,” she says, and he thinks he sees a glint of that shy, covert smile again. “For what it’s worth, I really think you’ll catch him. I believe in you. Just get some sleep first.”

“Merry Christmas.” He lifts his cup like he’s making a toast. “I believe you can survive Christmas lunch with your family. Maybe even without strangling anyone.”

Amy snorts. “Now that would be a Christmas miracle.”

“So would Doug Judy surfacing again be at this point.”

She holds up her own takeaway cup, touching it to his. “Cheers to Christmas miracles, then.”

“Cheers,” he laughs.

In the corner of his eye, he sees his phone light up with a Merry Christmas-text from Sophia. He can’t fully explain the guilt that follows when he waits a few minutes to reply, or why he’s struck with a sudden desire to tell Amy another joke first so he can make her laugh again, but it's probably just sleep-deprivation.

december 25th, 2017.

05.33 a.m.

Jake wakes up not knowing how to breathe.

It’s not happening as often anymore - not nearly as frequently as it did during his first weeks home - but often enough for it to no longer surprise him. The dreams before he wakes up are almost indistinguishable from each other, always another version of Romero’s gang having him backed into a corner with their shivs pointed at him. Melanie Hawkins is watching the whole thing go down from the other side of the cell, her laugh nefarious and causing his blood to freeze to ice. In every dream, he screams for help, but no one ever comes to save him.

It’s fine, he tries to tell himself, forcing in air through his mouth. His chest hurts, his heartbeat’s far over the healthy bpm and a sense of instinctive dread is pooling in his stomach, but he’s fine. He’s home.

He listens for the sound of cars driving past outside her window, a trick he’s learned after too many of these nights, and reaches out his right hand to touch his nightstand. A second wave of fear floods him when he realizes he can't hear a single car, and when he reaches out his hand, all he feels is a wall that doesn't belong to his bedroom.

He sits up so quickly it makes him dizzy. He doesn't remember where he is, and can't distinguish the room in its encapsulating darkness, but if he's back in prison or Romero or Hawkins have somehow manifested in his real life, he's all too aware he doesn’t have anything to fight with except his bare, trembling, hands.

This is where you die, a voice in his head wheezes, and his lungs feel tighter. This is where it ends.

The sound of another person’s breathing sharpens his focus. It could be someone from Romero’s gang standing behind him, breathing down his neck, but the only thing he feels is droplets of sweat trickling down his back. It could be Hawkins, standing somewhere in the room watching him, but this breathing seems too slow and peaceful. Nervously, he looks to the side, and even in the darkness of this room, he recognizes the silhouette of his fiancée sleeping next to him in bed.

The puzzle pieces seem to fall into place, mitigating the waves of panic as they go. He’s not at home, because he’s with the Santiagos, celebrating Christmas upstate with his in-laws-to-be and their many kids and grandkids. He and Amy drove here yesterday, celebrated Nochebuena with all her family, and they’re staying for Christmas dinner today.

Everything’s fine, he tells himself instead, and finds that he’s able to force his breath into the pattern Amy taught him after one of his first attacks. In, out. You’re not in prison. Inhale. You’re okay. Exhale. Repeat until it works.

As his eyes become more and more used to the darkness, he’s able to make out the contours of Amy’s face. She’s on her side facing him, her hair draped across the pillow and her hands holding onto her part of the blanket. It doesn’t seem like he’s managed to wake her up. She’s fast asleep, and Jake pats himself on the shoulder for having learned to ride out the panic attacks on his own. It’s bad enough that he can’t sleep; he’s wrecked with guilt when it affects her, too.

He presses a kiss to her forehead. The corners of her mouth twitch into a small smile, and the aching in his chest is replaced by a comfortable warmth.

He’s careful not to try and disturb her when he gets out of the bed they’re sharing, finding a hoodie and a pair of pajama pants he’s thrown on a nearby chair, and sneaks outside.

The snow shocks him. He’s used to a gray, rainy Brooklyn during December, a polar opposite to the Winter Wonderland surrounding their rented cabin. It's still a couple of hours away from daylight, but the porch lighting and bright snow are enough to make him feel safe. He scrapes clean a spot on the edge of the porch and sits down.

The air is cold in his lungs, but it’s the refreshing kind of cold, the kind that feels healthy and makes you realize how polluted the air you breathe on a daily basis is. It’s far from the signature prison smell of mildew and fear, far from the stuffy atmosphere in the courtroom during their trials, far from any of the memories that haunt him during nightmares and nocturnal panic attacks.

He’s safe. He’s free. He’s okay.

He grabs a handful of snow, squeezing it and feeling it shape after his palm. If someone had asked him during a night he laid awake in his cell, whether he thought he’d ever see snow again as a free man, Jake’s not sure what his reply would’ve been. There were a lot of things he wasn’t sure he’d ever get to experience, but here he is, living them. He forms the snow to an imperfect snowball, then throws it against a tree. It gives him an odd, childish sense of having achieved something, so he does it again.

“Having a snowball fight with yourself, are you?”

He turns around to see Amy standing in the door opening. She’s in pajamas, bathrobe, and her winter coat, but despite her Michelin-man-like appearance, she still looks like she’s shivering when she sits down next to him, handing him one of two steaming mugs of coffee.

“I just needed to get some fresh air. Sorry, I tried not to wake you.”

“You didn’t. I only noticed when the bed got cold. You’re an excellent source of heat.”

“Where would you be without me?”

“I’d be colder,” she states simply. “And sadder. Worse in every possible way. But you know that. Let’s not talk about it.”

“Yeah. Let’s not.” He takes a sip from his mug. The coffee burns the roof of his mouth, but he can tell his cup has been doused with the perfect amount of sugar, so he keeps drinking. “What time is it?”

“Nearly six. I bet all the kids will wake up soon, and the quiet in this house will turn into chaos as everyone’s opening their gifts and trying to capture reactions and thanking each other,” she laughs. “Get ready for the annual Santiago Christmas chaos.”

“I’m excited,” he says with full honesty. If he had to think of a good opposite for prison, a crowded living room of families with children opening gifts on Christmas morning is a strong contender, and it’s made even stronger by the fact that he’ll have Amy by his side for it. “Merry Christmas, babe.”

“Merry Christmas.” Her face is cold, but her lips are warm from the coffee when she kisses him. “Now do you think we can go back in and snuggle under our comforter until we actually have to get up?”

Jake doesn’t know if he’ll ever be free of the nightmares, but he knows that for as long as he’s laying forehead to forehead with Amy Santiago, pretending to complain when she rubs her ice-cold feet against his, tickling her as revenge just so he can make her laugh, they seem further and further away from reality.

december 25th, 2020.

05.17 a.m.

Although she's only been born for a mere five weeks, Jake’s already certain his daughter is a flat-out genius. For example, even though it's her first time celebrating, she's got one of the staples of Christmas celebrations down to a T; she's waking up far earlier than should be allowed.

“She's way too excited about her presents to sleep,” he suggests with a yawn as the infant’s crying wakes them up for a third time that night. “Truly my daughter.”

“More like she's hungry and wanting attention,” Amy mumbles as she reaches for the nursing pillow, trying to find a comfortable position for both her and baby. “Still your daughter, then.”

“Guilty as charged,” he says, and in the low shine of the table lamp on her nightstand, he can see her rolling her eyes at him. Leah’s grunting in complaint as Amy takes a few seconds to unhook the strap of her nursing bra, bordering dangerously close to a cry when she can't seem to figure it out, but then it works. The sound of Leah's content suckling fills the room, bringing with it a novel feeling of peace they've come to know in the last weeks.

When she's crying, their hearts are shattering. When she's happy, they're floating on air. And because their daughter is barely a month old, they're on a constant rollercoaster between the two absolutes.

“You can go back to sleep if you want,” Amy offers, not for the first time that night. “I’ve got this under -” She yawns. “Control.”

“I know.” He could, and considering the low total amount of sleep he's gotten this week, he probably should, but he has another idea. “This is nice, though.” Leah’s pajamas has reindeer heads on the feet, and he holds them in his hand. “I can’t believe it’s her first Christmas.”

“I think you’re more excited than she is,” Amy laughs. “We’ll see what she thinks about it after the two-hour car-ride to my brother’s place.” “She’ll sleep through it. You’ll worry.”

She grimaces, stroking her fingers over the tiny hand Leah is holding on her chest. “Touché.”

“Merry Christmas, babe.”

“Merry Christmas.” Amy stifles yet another yawn. “You don’t mind getting up with her while I close my eyes for just a little bit longer, do you? Or else I might actually fall asleep in the middle of Christmas dinner.”

“No, of course not.” Jake doesn’t tell her he was hoping she’d ask. He can’t risk ruining the surprise he came up with at work two days ago. For someone so sleep-deprived he almost took Charles’ lunchbox from the precinct fridge two days ago and was about to start chewing before Terry stopped him, he feels it’s some of his finest idea-work.

Leah finishes eating and Amy burps her, handing her over to Jake like she’s the most precious of goods - which, to be fair, is accurate. Their daughter finds her favorite spot with her head on his shoulder near immediately and he gets out of bed almost as fast, only stopping to give his wife a kiss on the cheek before leaving their bedroom.

Even a year ago, he would have laughed in the face of whoever had told him he’d ever willingly wake up at 5.30. He would have called them insane if they’d suggested it would become the routine it has, or that he would like it. Every morning when he gets up for work, he’ll wake up extra early and take Leah for a couple of hours, giving Amy some undisturbed sleep and himself some quality time with his daughter. She is, without exception, in her happiest mood in the mornings. Sometimes she’ll give him what sort of resembles a smile if he makes a funny enough face, or she’ll wave her hands when he sings to her. Jake can’t imagine a better way to start his day - if he has to spend a whole workday away from her, at least he gets these moments first.

He’s not going to work today, but he still has plans for their morning together. It’s the first-ever Christmas they’re celebrating as parents, which he figures calls for a more luxurious breakfast than their usual coffee and toast, and Amy may have suggested no big gifts this year, but she didn’t say anything about ones addressed from their daughter - loophole. She insisted they’d get a tree, though, so now there’s an over-the-top decorated fake tree in the corner of their living room with a whole of three Baby’s First Christmas-ornaments. Two of them were gifted by Charles. As was five other gifts, and he only stopped because Amy made him.

“This is the Christmas tree,” Jake tells his daughter as he shows it to her for the one-hundredth time, only for the way her eyes light up when she gets close enough to see the lights and baubles. “It’s not real, because your mom’s allergic to those, but it looks pretty nice, right?” Leah coos. “Yeah, I know. We’re being extra this Christmas. It’s all for you, you know.”

“But it’s what you deserve,” he adds, kissing the top of her head and breathing in the baby scent he just can't get enough of. “Even though you’ll never remember this. I guess it’s mostly for us. But you’re a great excuse.”

She whimpers like she understands and is offended by what he’s saying, and he laughs at the timing.

“Don’t worry. It’s been fun. You’re going to have amazing Christmasses. I’m kind of jealous, actually.”

He sits down with her in the armchair placed in front of the three, putting his feet on the footstool so Leah can lay against his knees. “I never liked celebrating holidays much, because my dad was either drunk or just wouldn’t show up, so me and my mom were alone for most of them, which sucked.” Jake pouts his lip, and Leah moves her head in a way he decides to interpret as nodding. “You’re never going to have that. You’ll have gifts and people everywhere, a billion cousins to play with and food for days because your grandmother is an amazing cook. You’ll love it. I sort of feel like I’m getting revenge for all of my failed holidays by making sure yours are perfect.” He rubs his nose against hers in an eskimo kiss. She makes a noise that is not quite a laugh but leaning towards it, like she’s trying to figure the motions out. “I guess you could say we’re discovering the traditions together, huh?”

The beauty of being an adult is you can make a new family with new traditions, a memory of Holt’s words from a Thanksgiving seven years ago comes to mind. Jake’s always considered the squad his family, and he’s made traditions with Amy in their years together, but he’s never been this excited about them before. He’s already humming to himself when he plays the Taylor Swift Christmas album on his phone, putting Leah in the baby bouncer and pushing it so it moves by itself. He googles the recipe and narrates his actions to her as he goes, mixing eggs with sugar and melting butter and stopping every now and then to bounce her seat again. He takes an involuntary break to change his daughter’s outfit, finding an even more festive one he couldn’t stop himself from purchasing when he walked past it in the store last week. It’s a baby Santa suit, complete with hat and all, and he takes about twenty-or-so pictures of her in it before remembering what he was doing before.

It takes twice as long as the recipe suggests, but eventually, Jake’s looking at two plates of saffron french toast that’s only a little burnt, matching Super-Mom and Super-Dad mugs - also gifted to them by Charles - filled with an attempt at a gingerbread latte that he’s sure will taste decent with enough whipped cream, and the Christmas gift addressed from Leah is imperfectly wrapped sitting next to Amy’s plate. It might well be one of the proudest moments of his life, and he gives himself a mental pat on the back for being such a natural talent at the whole festive traditions-thing.

He contemplates singing as they enter the bedroom. The idea falls flat, because he doesn’t know any Christmas songs well enough to avoid completely butchering them, and the act of balancing a baby, a gift and a coffee cup without dropping either is enough of a challenge, but he does manage some humming as they go to wake up Amy.

He wonders if she’s heard them, because she sits up in bed way too fast for someone who just woke up, but she’s smiling at them with a glee that seems to erase all traces of exhaustion when he sits down on the side of the bed, handing her the coffee.

“You dressed her as Santa,” she laughs, tickling Leah’s belly with her free hand. “Oh my god, she looks so cute.”

“Bought the outfit myself,” he grins. “Merry First Christmas as a mother, babe.”

“I’m loving it. I thought we said no gifts, though?”

“It’s not from me, it’s from Leah. Loophole!” Jake half expects his wife to roll her eyes at him, but she simply grins wider.

“She might have one for you, too.”

“Oh, Lee. You shouldn’t have!” He shakes his head at his daughter, getting a confused look in return. “You’re too nice to us.”

“Well, she does keep us up all night.”

“True, true. She’s lucky she’s the cutest.” He kisses his daughter’s cheeks not for the first time that day. “She might have fixed another little surprise for you out in the kitchen. Well, her and I. Mostly me. But she was very supportive!”

This time Amy does roll her eyes at him, but affectionately, before putting down the coffee on her nightstand and reaching over to kiss him.

“Merry First Christmas as a dad, Jake.”

He still considers himself a beginner in the area of Christmas traditions, but as he and Amy take turns eating their French toast and unwrapping their Leah-themed gifts while the other one bounces a suddenly fussy baby in their arms and Taylor Swift’s Christmas album keeps playing on a loop in the background, he’s certain he’ll be able to learn.

He’ll do anything for the two people who are already his greatest gift of all.

#my writing #b99 #brooklyn 99 #brooklyn nine-nine #peraltiago #jake x amy #b99 fic #brooklyn 99 fic #brooklyn nine-nine fic #b99 fanfiction #brooklyn nine-nine fanfiction #jake x amy fic #jake x amy fanfiction #peraltiago fic #peraltiago fanfiction

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