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tsuraiwrites · 2 years

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How about a good old fashioned There is only one bed (maybe even a we have to stick together and share bodyheat) for Joyce/Murray/hopper?

thank you for your patience, anon! this turned out way longer than I anticipated but I hope you enjoy it, as smutty as it turned out.

title from I want you now by depeche mode

Fic: a yearning inside (and it's showing through)

Their flight is in six hours. Six hours, and Joyce can’t get the smell of ash out of her hair. Small mercies, she supposes, that it isn’t the smell of burnt flesh. She’d washed her hair three times until the shower in their shitty hotel room ran cold, but it wasn’t enough.

Nothing feels like enough, anxiety coursing through her whenever she thinks about the past few days, or wonders whether her kids are safe. She wonders, too, whether they’ll survive the night without Hopper throwing Murray through the window.

“I’m just saying, if we had taken the last exit, as I suggested, we wouldn’t be stuck in this situation right now.”

“That’s strange, I remember something about wanting to be closer to the airport,” Hopper grunts. His breath ruffles her hair and she feels bad, again, for how she still smells. She’s distracted from their bickering and her maudlin thoughts when Hopper shudders against her, body wracked with a shiver despite the blankets they’ve pulled over them. The air in the room is cold even with the heater running, the tiny thing in the wall shaking and rattling as she’d turned it up full blast to the point the knob came off in her hand.

Joyce curls further into him, sliding an arm over his waist, and is surprised to find inches of empty air on Hopper’s far side.

“Murray,” she finally snaps, interrupting their argument, “sharing body heat doesn’t work unless everyone is close, so get to cuddling.” Honestly, she’s surprised he can find room to move that far away in the king bed. Even gaunt as Hopper is, his broad shoulders take up a lot of space.

Her words get Murray to shift reluctantly closer, until the fabric of his worn shirt is pressed against the back of her hand. Hopper stiffens, but after a long moment he sighs, and she feels him relax back into her embrace as he slides an arm behind her neck.

Their eyes meet in the dim light eking its way through the hotel curtains. She can read his weariness, how much of him is still shattered and wary despite the fact they are back firmly on American soil. Still, the raw affection in his gaze overwhelms all that, and they blink at each other for long moments that make her far too aware of the pace of her heartbeat picking up.

God, Joyce wants to kiss him again, but they really do need to sleep. And her preoccupation with the face of the man Joyce never thought she’d see again doesn’t stop the occasional rustle, a shifting of weight making her all too aware of Murray’s presence at Hop’s back.

Then Hopper closes his eyes, sighing deep from his gut.

“Don’t think I can’t feel your hard-on, Bauman. Stop fucking fidgeting.”

The words spoken over the rattle of the heater make Murray practically jackknife away from Hopper, almost falling out of bed. Joyce blinks, because nothing in Hop’s expression had indicated panic, disgust, or more than a mild discomfort

“Don’t worry, it’s not for you. Some of us haven’t had much human contact in a while!” Murray spouts defensively, obviously ready to get up and take all the precious body heat they’d built in their cocoon with him. “You think I have?”

And there’s a shakiness to Hop’s voice despite the way he snaps, one that’s become familiar over the past days.

“Stop!” Joyce interjects before things can get out of hand. “Don’t get out of bed, you’ll waste all the heat. Lay back down.”

That makes Murray bark a laugh.

“Of course that’s your concern, but I’m afraid some things simply cannot be ignored! Including my body reacting to the fact you both want to go at it like rabbits.”

Hopper snorts dismissively, even as Joyce protests, “Hey!” and finally gets up on her elbows to look at him over Hopper’s shoulder.

Murray meets her eyes, and Joyce realizes he’s put his glasses back on at some point, casting shadows across his face as his mouth twists.

“Oh please, it’s impossible to ignore the sexual tension from this close up. Or even half a mile away. I’d go for a smoke, but I’m pretty sure I’d freeze my balls off ten steps out the door. You’ll either have to sit pretty and stew in it, or go for it; that’d be one way to warm up. Hell, I’ll even go to the bathroom-”

“We’re not going to kick you out of bed to- to have sex!” Joyce cries. They’re all adults, perfectly capable of exercising some self-control. Just because tension thrums under her skin doesn’t mean they need to do anything about it. “I don’t know, the longer he talks the more willing I am to boot his ass out in the snow,” Hopper says, sounding almost serious, but Murray is incapable of not having the last word. “There are better ways to get me to shut up, Jim.” Silence rings in the room, then the heater rattles.

“Just so you know, this is a proposition that extends to both of you. If you like.” Joyce isn’t breathing, mostly because she gets to watch the way Hopper’s face morphs from growing irritation to something close to contemplation as he turns his head from staring at Murray back in her direction. She isn’t sure what’s showing on her face, but when their gazes lock his eyebrows pinch together. Without conscious thought she reaches up to smooth the wrinkle from his face, smiling when his eyes, already wide and black in the dim room, darken further.

With anyone else, she would hesitate, hell, probably kick them out of bed for even making the suggestion that they could all share like this. It brings up too many memories of Lonnie’s shitty communication and shittier habits for her comfort.

But this is Murray, who just flew with her into enemy territory to rescue Hopper, defending them at every turn. Who has never once made Joyce feel unsafe in his presence, even at his most aggravating. Hopper must feel the same way, some measure of the bond they’ve built between the three of them—Joyce, Hopper, and Murray. If any part of this discomfited him, Jim Hopper would make that discomfort known to the world, verbally and harshly if need be. The fact that he isn’t protesting Murray’s assessment or his proposition says all she needs to know about what he wants. So.

She lets herself imagine his hands on her, how they might explore, joined by Hopper’s touch—the way he cradled her to him just last night—and her breath hitches.

They’re really going to do this, aren’t they?

They both turn to look at Murray, the man once again propped at the edge of the bed, and she catches a glimpse of his wariness before his shoulders drop from around his ears, expression blanking as his eyes dart between theirs. Then he smiles, the slow curl of his mouth a familiar expression that at one point in their friendship made her want to slap the hell out of him.

So smug at being right with his gamble, the absolute shit.

“Ah,” he says, almost a purr, and it shouldn’t make her hot under the collar, the way he rakes his eyes over both of them when they’re covered by several layers of blankets. “So what are we thinking? We obviously have to start with you first, big guy, you’re still shaking like a leaf-”

“Do you ever fucking shut up?” Hopper asks, and reels him in by the collar of his shirt.

Joyce can’t help the way she sucks in a breath as their faces collide in the most ungraceful kiss she’s ever borne witness to. Nonetheless, Murray turns his head to the side so their noses are no longer smashed together, loosing a low groan that sends a jolt of electricity up Joyce’s back. “I was thinking more along the lines of you sticking your dick in my mouth, but that works too,” Murray gasps when they finally pull apart, straightening his crooked glasses as Hopper growls.

“It obviously didn’t work if you’re still talking. Put your money where your mouth is.”

Murray laughs.

“Love it when they get bossy in bed. He like this with you? Don’t answer that,” Murray continues when she gapes a little at him. “Lets talk logistics, because we’ve already popped our little heat bubble and I’d love to warm back up.”

Hopper sucks in a long, irritated breath, but he sits up without wincing at the cold or how his body must pain him. He leans over her and turns on the light. Yellow from the bedside lamp floods the room, making Joyce squint in the sudden brightness. Their cocoon well and truly broken, she shivers at the sudden loss of warmth. Murray sits up too, and in the light Joyce can see his hair has gone a little wild on one side from being pressed against the pillow.

She wants to touch, so she does, leaning up and over slowly enough that he has plenty of time to pull back. He doesn’t, just lets her do what she pleases as she shapes his dark curls into a semblance of order—only turns to catch her wrist when Joyce starts to pull away. Murray presses a kiss to her hand, open-mouthed so she can feel the hint of teeth in it, the sensation enough to have Joyce biting her lip. He releases her before she can do more than catch her breath, and when she pulls back Joyce notices that his other hand is planted on Hopper’s thigh.

And then Hopper catches her too, this time with a hand that traces her cheek, turning her inexorably into him. His kiss starts soft, but quickly turns hungry and open, his stubble rasping against her chin as he devours her mouth. Joyce returns the kiss with fervor, just barely parting for air before she’s pressing up into him again.

All the wrecked months of picking up and moving on after Hopper’s supposed death, the anxious wait, and the abiding joy to see him again alive and mostly whole, well up in her until she’s thrumming with it. His hand comes around to cradle the back of her head, tangling in her hair and accidentally tugging on a few locks. She gasps, eyes flying open as sparks skitter from her scalp down her back, warming her from the inside and making her want to move, to take more.

The only reason she doesn’t immediately climb into Hopper’s lap is that Murray is already there, having moved when she was thoroughly occupied from Hopper’s side to sitting on his heels at their feet. Hopper, a little more aware than she’d been, already has his knees spread to let the other man move closer.

Murray’s glasses glint in the lamplight, but the shine isn’t enough to conceal the avidness of his eyes on them. Nor, she realizes with a jolt, the outline of the hardness growing between his legs through his pants.

The cold really starting to get to her now, Joyce shivers under his gaze but takes the top blanket off their pile, the resulting wave of cold air making all three of them shudder for a moment until she throws it over her and Hopper’s shoulders. Murray shoots her a wry look when she automatically reaches out to tuck the remaining sheets and blanket around him until he pulls them the rest of the way over his shoulders.

“You can keep going. I don’t mind just watching, if that’s what tickles your fancy,” Murray says, voice nonchalant, but even as he says it he’s setting his hand back on Hopper’s thigh and leaning in a little.

“You were saying something about sucking me off?” Hopper rasps, and the full weight of how much that wasn’t a joke hits her, the image of it conjuring in her head without conscious thought. Joyce bites her lip, leaning further into Hopper’s side to get closer to the heat of him. Movement attracts her attention, Murray shuffling further forward between his legs with his hand sliding halfway up Hopper’s thigh.

“I don’t suppose either of you have a condom?” he questions. At their twin flat looks he snorts. “Can’t say I expected more than that. Jim, have you been with a man before?”

“What’s this, a fucking interrogation?” The words crack too tense air between them for a moment before Hopper relents, the suddenly hard line of him against her side just barely untensing. “Yeah, during the war, but it was just hand stuff. Nothing… more than that.” Hopper pauses, starts, “You don’t actually have to-”

“Oh no, I’m going to,” Murray says, the edges of his wide grin almost disappearing into his beard. “Just gauging what I’m getting into here. Probably not going to swallow, maybe I’ll let it get on my face instead, hm? Ha, I see you like that idea.” His smugness is overwhelming in the worst way, but Joyce noticed how Hopper twitched in response, full bodied.

Their gazes lock, and Joyce waits, watching both of them as the tension mounts.

Then they’re moving.

It’s too cold to get undressed, and Joyce isn’t sure Hopper would in front of Murray, even in a warm room, so she’s not surprised when he only lowers his pants enough to pull his dick and balls out, leaving the rest of him still covered. He’s only half-hard, but Murray doesn’t seem to care, already leaning in.

He looks up at her, then, the hazel of his irises nearly gone from the way his pupils are blown wide, mouth wet when he licks his lips. Then he turns back to Hopper, reaches for his cock, and licks a stripe from balls to tip without breaking eye contact.

Hopper grunts, throws his head back hard enough it cracks against the headboard. “I’m fine!” he says even as Joyce turns to him in concern. “I’m just peachy. Keep… keep going.”

And because she’s looking at him when Murray complies a moment later, she sees his mouth drop open as he chokes back a groan. His whole body shakes again, and Joyce plasters herself closer to his side, both to warm him and so she can hear him better.

This definitely can’t be Murray’s first time with a man; his experience shows in his lack of hesitancy, the way that, when she turns back to look, he has Hopper already fully hard in his hand. He takes his time, obviously chasing whatever is getting Hopper to make the most noise, because he grunts as Murray takes the head of his cock fully in his mouth. Murray stays there, laving at the head as Hopper keeps choking back his groans. “You don’t have to be quiet,” Joyce finally says. Her voice is a little too breathy for someone who isn’t the one being touched, but she can’t bring herself to care. “Let us hear you, Hop.”

Murray hums in agreement, and maybe that’s what finally gets Hopper to relent.

The sounds he makes has heat bursting in her belly; Hopper’s long, guttural groans coming out of an open mouth, puffing into the side of Joyce’s cheek until she turns to him.

Then they’re kissing again, teeth clicking as he moans into her mouth and she licks up into his.

He pulls away a minute later with a bitten off, “Fuck!”

Joyce glimpses Murray with his mouth full, lips stretched as he swallows Hopper down completely, his free hand gently rolling Hopper’s balls through his fingers. Heat surges through her and Joyce wants to add to this pleasure, to coax more from his mouth and body.

She kisses his cheek, down his neck, pleased when Hopper winds an arm around her waist to hold her tighter against him. He tilts his head aside to give her better access, and she’s gentle on his bruises, barely ghosting her lips over them in favor of the areas he’s least marked. Pressed so close she can feel the hard angles of him, the rise and fall of too-stark ribs and wasted muscle—and he’s so unbearably, gloriously alive that it’s all she can do to touch him gently, to not clutch him close and harder than his injuries can take.

Hopper’s moaning aloud now, his hand flexing in its place at her hip. He’s not the only one making noise; Murray is loud and enthusiastic as his head bobs up and down. He only pauses once.

“You can put your hands in my hair, shove me a little. I’ll tap your leg if I need you to let up,” he croaks, not waiting for their reply before he goes right back to it. Hopper takes the permission, the hand he’d fisted in the sheets moving to the back of Murray’s head. His hand tangles there, exerting gentle pressure; both men moan audibly when Murray’s jaw stretches to accommodate his width.

He keeps it cautious, measured, but the sight and sounds are driving Joyce a little wild. She’s been ignoring the heat building between her legs in favor of watching, but the temptation to touch herself is becoming more difficult to resist as the minutes go by.

She continues to observe, between kissing at Hopper’s neck and collarbone, as Murray leans into Hopper’s cock with enthusiasm, and after long minutes finally feels her resolve give way.

Fuck it, neither of these men are going to judge her.

The first swipe of her fingers through her pants, pressing the seam to her center, isn’t nearly enough until she puts her hand behind her waistband and reaches down. She isn’t trying to be discreet—that's the last thing she wants—and even with the blankets draped over them Hopper takes notice and follows the trail of her arm with his gaze.

“You getting off on this?” he queries heatedly, his free hand moving to her arm where he can feel the motion as she slowly strokes up and down the dip of her vulva. Motion that increases as she exaggerates the slow drag of her hand on herself.

“Yes."

So simple, but Hopper's arm returns to her waist, his grip like an iron band, and Murray groans around his mouthful.

“Fuck, Joyce, that’s-” he gasps, then, “Murray, I'm close. Fuck, gonna come!”

His hips thrust forward a few times before he releases the man's hair, but Murray is slow to pull back. One long lick up Hopper’s cock and Murray finally moves away with a gasp, both his hands working the man’s shaft. It takes only a few short moments more before Hopper hunches with a yell and a curse, his come streaking across the back of Murray’s hand.

A few drops hit Murray’s cheek as he grins, looking up at them both with heavy-lidded eyes. It has Joyce sucking in another breath, taken both by the eroticism of the sight and by Hopper coming so fast just because Joyce touched herself in front of them.

“Fuck.” Hopper collapses back against the headboard, though his grip around her doesn’t relent. “You good, Murray?” he asks after a few gasping breaths.

“Oh, more than. And I’m nowhere near done. We still have Joyce to think about,” he says, patting Hopper’s thigh.

Joyce slows her touch, pulling her hand out of her pants even as Murray sits up with that almost-manic grin still on his face. She’s not surprised when Hopper pulls her into another kiss, this time turning into her so his hand can skim up her back, just under her shirt. His fingers, cold not that long ago, are warm and rough against her skin.

The kiss doesn’t last long, Joyce all too aware of Murray watching them avidly. When they part and Joyce glances at their companion, Murray has already cleaned his hand and face. She hopes some poor maid doesn’t find a sticky corner of the bedsheets tomorrow.

He looks far too pleased with himself.

“Want me to go down on you, too?” Murray wiggles his eyebrows lasciviously.

“Maybe you should come kiss me first,” Joyce says, and Murray does, leaning in with little of his usual fanfare.

It’s strange, kissing one person so soon after the other, so she has direct comparison. Murray—understandably—tastes of salt where Hopper tasted mostly like toothpaste, and his beard moves across her cheeks differently than Hopper’s stubble. Still, his kiss is eager, and when he pulls away he sucks on her bottom lip with just the faintest graze of teeth.

He sets a hand on her knee, thumb stroking along the inside seam but moving no further up, stoking the heat in her belly to blaze higher.

“Yeah, okay,” she gasps, already moving to shimmy her pants off.

“C’mon, lean back against me,” Hopper says, gesturing between the vee of his legs after they’ve watched her ungracefully shuck pants and underwear to the floor while staying mostly under the blanket. If she’s breathing a little hard from the effort, no one mentions it.

“Are you sure? Your injuries-”

“I’ll be fine,” he assures. “I just want to hold you.” She melts instantly, and goes.

The cradle of his legs closes on either side of her hips, his arms coming up over her stomach and her chest as she settles back against Hopper’s broad torso. He’d taken the time to tuck his cock back in his pants, so it’s only Joyce with her junk on full display now.

She should feel vulnerable as Murray leans in to kiss her again, effectively pinning her half-naked between them, but under their attentive touches she feels safe, cared for. She also can’t give it much more thought when Joyce burns like a live wire with the current amping up.

Murray kisses down her neck and between her still-clothed breasts, his hands trailing up the outsides of her thighs where her and Hopper’s legs meet. Moving down, he skips over where she most wants him to start kissing up one thigh instead. His beard tickles just a bit, offset by the impression of teeth behind every open-mouth kiss, but when he reaches the apex of her thigh Murray moves over to the other leg and starts again.

“Don’t fucking tease me,” Joyce snaps, nudging him with her foot.

“Your wish is my command,” he says with heavy sarcasm, but he’s smiling when he finally moves to hover over her. His hot breath hits her a moment before his mouth does, a shiver working through limbs as Joyce jolts in place.

In response Hopper moves to better cover their torsos in the blanket. She snatches up his hands, bringing them under her shirt to cradle her breasts. His callouses snag at her skin even as she directs him to squeeze until the sensation builds, dueting with Murray’s tongue licking into her.

Murray brings one hand down to part her labia, spreading her wide so he can get his lips directly on her clit. Joyce gasps, leaning back into Hopper’s chest, even as her eyes fix on Murray’s face—his eyebrows drawn in concentration behind the glasses he’s yet to remove, his nose flaring with each breath he takes. Hopper kisses the top of her head, playing with her chest the way she directs him to.

It’s a lot, is what it is. Two people, their attention fixed entirely on her, leaving burning trails with their hands and mouths over her skin. It’s really almost too much.

“Hey, how you doing?” Hopper asks, laying his broad hand against her stomach.

“I’m good, fuck, so good,” she breathes, moaning aloud as Murray swirls his tongue around her clit and sucks hard. “Like that!” she says when he finally finds a rhythm with his ministrations that sends pleasure pulsing through her in slow waves. He hits a stride and Joyce discovers herself tensing and untensing over and over again, thighs flexing as she fights not to squeeze Murray’s head in an effort to get him even closer. Hopper’s hands move ceaselessly, cupping her chest again before trailing down her stomach, tracing her bare hips.

“I- I need-” she starts and stops, squirming under the assault of pleasure until the words escape her. Murray pauses to look up at her, waiting as her mind clears enough to make the request.

“Tell us what you need, sweetheart,” Hopper murmurs into her hair.

“Fuck me with your fingers while you do that,” she finally gets out, and the words snap more like an order than anything, but Murray only grins, mouth wide and wet as he complies.

The first finger goes in easy, pulling down just a little to stretch her entrance before slipping inside her vagina. It’s when the second finger joins it and Murray crooks them up that Joyce opens her mouth in a cry.

“There! Do that again,” she almost pleads, voice cracking as fire blazes through her. She clutches the bedsheets under them until Murray grabs one of her hands and brings it behind his head. It only takes a moment for her brain to get with the program, wrapping her fingers in his curls as he lowers his head again, spreading her wide on his fingers and tongue.

It’s all happening at once—Hopper tracing the sharp jut of her ribs even as his own chest heaves at her back; Murray’s hot, seeking tongue and clever, powerful fingers plying her inside to drive more moans out of her. They work her over together, the minutes stretching on and on as Joyce finds herself moving her hips up into Murray’s mouth, clutching his hair in her fist. He doesn’t protest, just fucks her harder, his fingers dragging hard over her g-spot repeatedly.

Then Hopper picks up her other hand fisted in the sheets and presses a long, lingering kiss to the back of her knuckles. That bit of tenderness, coupled with his free hand pinching her nipple, is what finally does her in.

White heat slams into Joyce as she clenches and comes with a wail that probably wakes their neighbors, but she can’t bring herself to care as both of them work her through it; Murray’s fingers especially send sparks of pleasure bursting behind her eyes.

All too soon, she becomes oversensitive, her clit raw and starting to throb unpleasantly. She pulls at Murray’s hair again, away from her this time until he moves back, uncrooking his fingers to slowly withdraw. Hopper doesn’t take his hand from under her shirt but it does settle, splayed across her stomach again as Joyce takes great heaving breaths.

Murray scrubs his face on the back of his sleeve but takes his time sitting up again, resituating his blanket with a nonchalance that looks entirely feigned.

She reaches forward, beckoning him without a second thought. “You don’t have to.” “Obviously, but do you want to?” She doesn’t understand why he’s playing coy now, traces of her own come still shining in his beard. Dark eyes pierce hers for a moment, flickering between them before Murray is shuffling up between her still-spread legs.

“What do you want?” It’s Hopper this time, his thumb drawing circles on the back of Joyce’s knuckles, but the focus of his heavy attention is obviously directed at Murray. “Just touch me. Either of you, both of you.”

She has no reason for hesitation, not after the way Murray had just fucked her into next week. It’s easy enough, once she catches her breath, to lean forward.

Joyce curls her hand around his cock, not prepared when Murray makes a sound like she’d socked him in the gut. It’s instinct to pull away, afraid she’s hurt him somehow, but Murray presses a hand to her wrist to stop her. “Just- just sensitive.” He takes a deep breath, chest puffing out. In the cold air she can almost see his breath mist. “Sweet fuck, Joyce, your hands,” he chokes out as she gently swipes a thumb at the tip of his cock, spreading ample precome over the head. It twitches at her touch, leaking even more and lubricating the skin between her fingers.

Murray shudders, his shoulders hunching in like he’s fighting not to curl over her hand as she slowly strokes him up and down. This endeavor proves fruitless when Hopper’s hand closes over her own, exerting more pressure overall and practically engulfing Murray’s cock.

“Oh shit, shit, shit,” Murray starts to chant, his mouth hanging open. His hands land half on her thighs, half on Hopper’s as he bows forward, almost folding over on their hands completely. “Shit, this is going to be over embarrassingly quickly-” “And yet somehow you’re still talking,” Hopper grouses, his hand over hers picking up speed. Joyce relishes the strangled noise Murray makes as his silky wet shaft slides through her palm. Hopper’s fingers slotting between hers as they move up and down feel obscene, caught up as she is the clarity of all her needs being met.

All but one.

“Come for us,” she says.

Murray pants hard, moans low, deep from his gut in a register Joyce hasn’t heard from him before, and comes over both their hands.

After, they clean up quickly, Joyce retrieving her clothes and throwing them back on hastily before they scramble to reassemble their heat cocoon and shut off the light. The air around them is still cold but Joyce is warm to her core, satiated in a way she hasn’t been in a long time. They settle back into their previous arrangement, Hopper on his back with her and Murray laying to either side. The only difference is this time, Murray doesn’t hesitate to throw an arm around Hopper’s waist, planting an obnoxious, smacking kiss to Hopper’s shoulder before settling in next to him. “I’d say my idea to warm up worked, wouldn’t you?” “So help me, the snow is still an option if you don’t go the hell to sleep right now,” Hopper says, but there’s no malice in his voice, just a tired lilt that says he’s already halfway to dreamland. True to Murray’s word, Hopper isn’t shivering, is in fact warm enough that he now feels like a furnace against her side.

As she turns into Hopper’s embrace, burrowing into his warmth, she realizes the smell of ash in her hair has been replaced by the scent of sweat and sex—a far more preferable option, if she’s honest.

They only have a few hours until they have to be up and making their way to the airport. Hours of interminable wait until she can see her kids again, but until then…

Until then, Joyce sleeps, and for once the nightmares leave her to her deserved rest.

#fic #stranger things #jim hopper/joyce byers/murray bauman #not beta read #murray bauman/joyce byers/jim hopper

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itsbeaconhillsbaby · 3 years

Text

misty morning || tom holland x reader

a/n: hello! relatively new to the tom holland fandom, and I wrote this lil 3am blurb/fanfic/imagine thing, so please enjoy! be kind, I hope you like it - also if anyone wants to talk tom - I'd love to chat!

word count: 1141 warning: one swear summary: promises and early morning wake up calls = cute park walks

It was a cold february morning in south west london, a light mist blanketed the city caressing the grass with its dewy touch, blowing its icy breath on the windows. You could feel a snuffly, wet nose squeezing it’s way between you and the cuddly furnace pressed up against your back. You give a quiet, soft laugh at the groan from your personal heater, as he shifts away from you, allowing you to turn around and come face to face with the very wet nose that rudely roused you from your cosy, dreamy sleep. “Good morning to you too, Tess.” You give her a scratch behind her ears as you lean back against the headboard, allowing her to potter about between the two of you, pawing at the duvet encouraging you to get out of your warm cocoon. “This is what happens when you promise her you’ll take her for a walk before your workout...” you murmur as Tom shoots you a sleepy grumble, “she’s very smart, she remembers these things.” Tess rolls over, tail thumping on the sheets as she lets you rub her belly. “I know I know, I’m getting up! But I’m not happy about it.” He mutters, tossing the sheets to the side as he gets up; stretching his arms up, committing to a huge yawn. You grin as he pats Tess’s head, receiving a lick on his palm in response and leans across the bed as he presses a soft kiss to your forehead and both cheeks, “Mornin’ love,” You close your eyes at the contact, relishing in the soft morning kisses - you may be biased, but it was forever the best start to your day. You heard him pad into the en-suite, getting himself ready for his early morning promise as you snuggled back down into the covers, Tess stretching out against your side - waiting patiently. //// You had succumbed back into the land of sleep when suddenly a light weight hits you. “Shit! What the hell” You rubbed your eyes, looking at the offending clothes that had been thrown your way. You glanced at the clock on the bedside table reading 5:45 (you’d drifted off for about 15 minutes before the second rude awakening of the day) and gazed back across at the man leaning against the bedroom doorframe, two flasks in his hands, dressed in his winter jacket and woolly hat, confused. “I forgot to say, I promised her you’d come too!” He dipped back out quickly, narrowly avoiding the pillow you’d pulled from beneath you and aimed straight at him. “THOMAS!” You rolled your eyes at his laugh as the pillow bounced off the wall, before heaving yourself out of the bed and into the t-shirt and leggings that had been thrown at you. Finishing up in the bathroom, you grabbed your phone and Tom’s pink hoodie before exiting the bedroom. He was leaning against the wall, holding out the coffee flask to you, “Forgive me?” “Get a move on holland,” you say once you engulf yourself in the oversized hoodie and take your first sip of coffee, before following your boyfriend down the hallway. //// Tess was running around in huge circles, the park completely empty except for the few squirrels that tess had already managed to scare away with her excitement. It was so early still, you knew half the city probably hadn’t even awoken yet - and whilst jealous over this fact - you were actually enjoying the peaceful outdoors that was sometimes quite rare to do when you dated who you dated. Tom threw Tessa’s ball again. You watched from the top of the picnic table as your goofy boyfriend raced his speed freak of a staffie for the ball, coming in last as Tessa grasped the ball in her teeth and set off for another set of zoomies around the cluster of trees. You sipped some more of your (slightly more lukewarm than hot) coffee before popping it back on the picnic table and rubbed your cold hands together. Tom hopped onto the seat and swung round, plopping down next to you on the tabletop gracefully before taking your cold hands in his and blowing some warm air into them before rubbing them between his own. You smiled, resting your head on his shoulder, as he tucked you tightly under his chin and pulled you into his side. “Mm, I love you,” you murmured into his neck, placing a couple soft kisses up his neck and along his chin before reaching his lips. “Even though I made you come a walk with me at 6 in the morning?” he joked, keeping one eye on the energetic staffie who had abandoned her ball and was now preoccupied with a big stick. You share one more kiss together before you pull away, Tom groaning as you did so. “And to think I almost forgot. You’re on a kissing ban for that stunt!” You pushed him back a little as you hop off the table, Tom mumbling “Oh hell no.” With your tiny head start, you take off across the field, Tom quick on your heels. Tess noticing the commotion, abandons her stick and barrels towards you both as Tom catches up behind you, embracing you from behind and whisking you up in the air. You squeal slightly as the cool air catches your breath, laughing as Tom attacks your face with kisses, Tess jumping up at both your feet trying to get in on the fun. “Okay, okay! Fine I forgive you!” You turn to him, stuffing your hands into his jacket pockets as he presses another soft cluster of kisses onto your forehead, “We should head back, if I’m late for training I’ll be in so much trouble.” You nod, sliding the leash off from around Tom’s neck where it was hanging and clipping it onto Tess’s harness instead, “Cmon Tess, let’s go.” Tom jogs back, grabbing the abandoned ball back from the tree before sprinting back down to the picnic bench and collecting the flasks that were left sitting before meeting you at the gates into the park. Tessa padded along beside you both as Tom entwined your free hand with his and nestled your clasped hands into his jacket pocket together, curling you into his side once again, the pair of you smiling and chatting about your plans for the rest of your day. “So that leaves time for a quick 3:30 nap right?” You ask, grinning up at him. “Are you kidding me?” You frown, your hopes of an afternoon snuggle thwarted. He catches your eye, winking “I’ve already pencilled it in.” You give his shoulder a playful nudge as the pair of you laugh, walking curled into each other back to your kingston flat. Tess’s little tail still wagging with excitement.

#tom holland #tom holland blurb #tom holland x reader #tom holland imagine #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland x you #tom holland imagines #tom holland fluff #I WROTE SOMETHING PLEASE BE KIND N DONT HATE IT TOO MUCH #lisa writes

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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

Text

WIJ: Hope

CW: Escaping whumpee, pet whump references, BBU, pretty much just fluff

@whumpmasinjuly prompt: Hope

“Are we here?” The boy in the passenger seat presses his face against the glass. It’s chilled against his flushed skin, and his eyes are wide, a warm and sparkling deep brown nearly the same shade as his hair, just a few shades darker than his skin. “Leslie? Is this it?”

“This is it,” Leslie confirms, smiling as they pass a gas station on the right - a man stands outside the car repair shop next to it, in a pair of oil-marked coveralls, rubbing his hands on a handkerchief as he watches them pass. She sees him pull a phone from his pocket, and she slows down so he can photograph her license plate. “We’re here, Esteban.”

When he sees that she’s braking on purpose, something in the mechanic’s shoulders relaxes, and he gives her a cheery wave.

She waves back. Esteban rolls down his window and sticks his hand out to wave, too. Then he jerks it back in. “Oh! It’s cold!”

The prettier snowdrifts outside the town fade as they head into it, becoming gray slush along the edges of the road, broken and built-up ice on the pavement. The car’s heater pumps out a constant comforting warmth, but Leslie can still feel the cold finding its way through the windshield even so.

The sky stretches overhead, a gray clouds making everything take on a dreary monotone, but the weather and the promise of more snow or ice to come can’t even begin to ruin the joy on Esteban’s face.

“It is,” Leslie confirms. “This far north, the winters last a pretty long time, and this is just the beginning. Sorry we couldn’t get you up here sooner.”

“That’s okay. You had to wait for the right time, I know.” He never stops smiling, and it’s hard not to smile back at him. “Are you going to stay with me?”

“Just for a night or two, I don’t need to be back in the car right away and my eyes could use a rest. You’ll get some people to stay with while you get your feet under you, I promise.”

“Great. Oh, good. Thank you, Leslie.”

“You’re welcome, kiddo. You’ve been a great road trip partner for me, you know.”

He flushes, looking down and away from her, but his smile widens even more. She smiles slightly sidelong at him. He’s a sweet kid, he really is, just barely eighteen if she doesn’t miss her guess, with the naivete they all come with at the beginning. He deserves better than life on the run.

Then again, who doesn’t?

“We’re here,” He breathes. “We really really are.”

“Took us a week, but we made it.” She takes a deep breath, pulling into the parking lot of a small diner whose sign flickers a little and just says EAT HERE. The open sign in the window blinks on and off like a lighthouse calling to nearby ships to warn them away, or bring them closer.

Depends on who steers the ship.

“Pull your coat on,” She says, twisting around in her seat to grab her own from the back. The pink puffy thing looks ridiculous - and she sees a twinkle in Esteban’s eyes that suggests he’s not immune to its absurdity - but the thermostat on her dashboard says it’s 28 degrees Fahrenheit outside and she imagines Esteban has never felt a temperature that low in his entire life. He’ll just have to live with what her coat looks like, for now. His own is plain canvas, too big for him but warm enough with the lining inside.

It’s taken her a week to drive him from Jacksonville, in the northern tip of Florida, all the way here to this tiny little town nearly a literal stone’s-throw from the northern border in Idaho.

Officially, none of these buildings exists. Officially, they all stopped existing in 1962, after the protests turned to bloodshed. After the people started an outcry, and the government swept it all under the rug.

Officially, everyone evacuated this town for good in 1965, during the Three Days’ Fight. Every town within an hour of the border on either side, or something, for like two hundred miles.

But there are a lot of things that don’t exist officially that absolutely do.

“Welcome home, Esteban,” Leslie says as she stands, feeling the crick in her back start to relax a little, the ache in her ass from the long days in the car, carefully keeping Esteban off as many main roads as she could.

Her spine audibly cracks as she places her hands at her lower back and arches. She winces a little - at the sound, more than the feeling. “Do yourself a favor,” Leslie says, groaning and rubbing at the base of her spine. “Don’t get old.”

“Beats the alternative,” He quips, feeding her own words back to her.

She can’t help but laugh.

Esteban stares around, the tip of his nose already starting to redden in the frozen air, hands shoved deep into the pockets of the thick canvas coat she’d bought him at a farm supply shop in Illinois. He’s got a weird little toy horse in that right pocket, he’d begged her for it, called it a lucky charm for the trip.

I used to dream about horses just like this, he’d said, looking at the little thing. It’s made of some slightly shining plastic, painted white with a black muzzle and hooves and black spots. Appaloosa, he’d called it. A kind of breed. Leslie had only nodded and smiled. I think we had horses.

She wants to know who we was - what family must be missing this boy. But it’s better not to ask, not until he’s been prepared for how hard it’s going to be to get those memories back, and how much it’s going to hurt.

For the trip, she let him say whatever came to his mind, and didn’t push. Just let his moments of memory roll over him like a gentle stream.

She’s absolutely certain he has family to go back to. He’s definitely one of those that WRU claims don’t exist, and she’d be willing to bet that he was a test of some handler’s mettle, proof they’ll do anything for the job. Even snatch a kid off a street.

They know it happens, after all. Reluctant handlers who end up committing serious felonies to prove their loyalty.

Then you end up with people like Esteban.

Leslie shakes herself a little, trying to come back to the present. Whatever had happened to him, he’s here, now, and that’s what matters.

She moves ahead of him, pushing open the door to the diner as he follows at her heels, looking around wide-eyed and interested. At either side of the door there stand two women with guns on their hips. One of them, tall, with broad shoulders and cropped hair, gives Leslie a grin.

“Hey, Pakele! Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Esteban mouths the words, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. Leslie grins back at him. “Just a work-name for the lib stuff. Don’t worry.” She looks back at the woman and shakes her hand. “Hey, Allie. Here to meet with Brock. You know his ETA?”

“He should be on his way. He didn’t tell us he was meeting you. Who’s this?”

Esteban ducks slightly shyly behind her, shoulders hunched. He really does drown in that big coat, Leslie thinks. It makes him look even younger. “I-I’m Esteban, Designation Platonic, 009865, Facility-”

“Just Esteban,” Leslie says softly. “You don’t need to say the rest anymore.”

“Oh. Uh.” His face colors, cheeks flooding with the embarrassed blush. “I’m sorry, I forgot.”

“Hey, you’ll get the hang of it.” Allie claps him on the back, briefly. “Took me like five months to stop doing it sometimes. You’ll get there. Used to be a Guard Dog, myself.”

“Me, too,” says the other woman, who hasn’t looked at them. She’s still scanning the road outside.

Leslie moves to slide into a booth, pulling her hair back into a ponytail with the elastic band she’s been wearing like a bracelet around one wrist. She slips the coat off as the humid heat inside the diner really starts to sink in.

Esteban slips in across from her, staring around. His eyes move over a woman at the counter placing a milkshake with whipped cream and a cherry in front of an older woman who says something, making the woman laugh. A man cooks something sizzling on the flat-top grille just barely visible through a cutout window.

Leslie sees the curiosity in him, the question he wants to ask, and she waits for him to feel ready. A server comes and takes their drink orders, chatting amicably with Leslie while he writes things down. When he heads back to get Leslie her coffee and Esteban his orange juice, she sees Esteban steel himself to speak again.

“So, everyone here is-... us?” He asks, and reaches up to nervously comb his fingers through his short dark hair. It’s mussed from dozing in the passenger seat after lunch. “Like me, I mean?”

“Right,” Leslie nods. The server returns, and Esteban leans over to sip his juice while Leslie adds three little cups of creamer and two packets of sugar to her coffee, sipping the sweet and milky warmth with a contented hum.

Nothing like shitty diner coffee after a long-ass drive.

“So-... so...” Esteban leans forward, hands out on the tabletop. Leslie tries not to look at how heavily scarred they are, that his pinky is permanently bent. He’d explained to the people who helped him get out of the house that his discipline usually involved his hands. “Can I ask you something? And you promise to be honest?”

“Cross my heart,” Leslie answers, looking over the menu like she hasn’t sat in this exact diner a dozen times before with a runaway across from her. Like the menu items ever change.

“Okay.” Esteban sits in silence for a second. A truck drives by outside, crunching through ice. Leslie hopes it snows again before she leaves, so she can see Esteban see it snowing for the first time. “Am I-... am I safe here, Leslie?”

She blinks and looks over at him. The slightly pale tan line around his neck where his collar was, the scars on his hands. The nervous eager-to-please expression he wears whenever he isn’t sure of himself, which is most of the time. The reality that her group stole him out from under the nose of a WRU executive on a family vacation, saving the kid they’d fucking bought to be their shitty sadist son’s best friend and perfect consequence-free victim when they left the hotel room without him. There are still bruises on his arms and back healing from life with ‘Ethan’. There were still rope burns around his wrists.

She considers how long he must have lived thinking there was no such thing as safe.

I think we had horses, he’d whispered in the farm supply store, running his fingertips over the tiny pointed ears of the little plastic models, one by one. Before I was Esteban. I had my own. His name was... Alba.

“You’re safe here,” Leslie assures him. She lays her hand over his, and she watches those dark eyes start to sparkle again. “This is the safest place in the world for you, Esteban. The safest people you’ll ever know. They used to be just like you. Everyone takes care of each other here. I promise.”

There’s a scrape of chair along the floor, and Leslie looks up to see Brock as he spins the chair around and takes a seat. He’s broad, too, an older man with salt-and-pepper hair, a permanent five o’clock shadow, and heavily muscled arms. In his flannel and jeans, he looks like everyone else does in this part of the state.

You’d never know he spent his early twenties a pet himself. And he never volunteers the information to anyone but the runaways themselves.

Leslie’s smile brightens to see him. “Hey, Brock. Here’s the new kid. Brock, this is Esteban. Esteban, this is Brock. He’ll be overseeing you getting settled in here. He handles all the logistics, and he’ll make sure you’re in with people as close to your age as possible.”

“He will?” Esteban looks so fucking happy. Leslie’s heart nearly shatters at the sight.

Brock holds out his hand. Esteban’s own hand all but disappears into it as they shake. “Nice to meet you, Esteban. Welcome.”

Brock leans over, placing his other hand over Esteban’s as well. There are tears in the boy’s eyes, and there might a glimmer in the man’s as well, even now. Even after all this time.

One more led out of hell and into-

“Welcome to Hope.”

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @orchidscript @symphony-of-greys @whump-tr0pes @doveotions @outofangband @whumptywhumpdump @boxboysandotherwhump

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dreamescapeswriting · 3 years

Text

One Summer In Paris ~A Small White Lie~ JJK

WORD COUNT: 3.9 K

GENRE: Fluffy, romance, ex-lovers to lovers,

PAIRING: Jungkook x Fem!Reader

DESCRIPTION: Jeon Jungkook had always loved Paris with its amazing views, incredible museums and the small Bookshop right across from the Effiel Tower. It was were he spent a lot of his summer breaks as a kid so he loved it well into his adulthood. There was one bookshop he rented a room in the summer that changed his life. It was a place where he felt happy and at peace whenever he had the chance to stay there. Where he fell in love for the first time and had his first heartbreak, a lot of firsts for him were in Paris. But what happens when he goes back to the same book shop four years later and finds the love of his life in the arms of another with a daughter who looks suspiciously like him…

THEMES: Single Parent, Jungkook x Fem!Reader, self insert, Smut will be included in a later chapter [Italics - Flashback]

MASTERLIST || PREVIOUS || NEXT

The rain was hammering down on the streets as you tried to make a decision about running out there or to stay under the small umbrella above the shop you'd just come out of, it was supposed to be summer but the rain made it seem as though it was in the middle of winter and a storm had hit. You knew sometimes thunderstorms hit whenever it got too hot but you never expected a downpour like this, you were soaked from head to toe after walking out in the rain for only a couple of seconds.

"Miss, we're locking up." You nodded taking your handbag and placing it over your head in an attempt to stop yourself from getting wetter and you began to try your luck at running to the bookshop you were living above for the Summer. Some summer this was turning out to be though, it had done nothing but rain today despite the forecast being nothing but sunshine and clear skies. Your phone had once again lied to you. Your only day off so far and it was being ruined by the rain, your new outfit was also ruined thanks to drivers splashing puddles up you.

As you ran by the riverside you noticed all of the couples sharing an umbrella together, coming to the city of love alone was something you'd wanted to do since you were a kid but seeing people like this made you feel lonely. Until you realised how cold and wet they must have been, then you thought about how stupid it was to just be standing out in the rain like nothing was happening.

Your legs felt like they were on fire at the rate you were running but you still weren't any closer to the bookshop, you'd spent your day off from work exploring the city alone trying to get used to your surroundings but now you'd wished you'd just stayed at home instead, curled up in bed with a warm cup of hot chocolate and one of the many books that you had to choose from. One of the many joys of working in a business where your passion and hobby came into one space and made it feel more like a pleasure than a job. Thunder sounds and you groaned jumping over a puddle and sprinting to hide under an umbrella at a new shop, you checked inside your bag to see everything was practically ruined, the book you'd brought with you to keep your occupied while you had lunch under the Effiel tower was drenched. In fact, the only things that weren't ruined were your phone, a couple of presents you'd gotten for your friends and a fridge magnet you'd gotten for yourself. You'd made a small promise to collect small fridge magnets over your time there, something your friends had done whenever they travelled somewhere new.

"Shit," You hissed realising the time, it was starting to get really, really late and you knew that the shop owner wanted you to be there when the next lodger would turn up to take the apartment above yours in the shop. Grace was kind but when it came to being late and tardiness she drew a line. Sighing as you looked at the sky, it didn't look like it was going to let up any time soon so you just began sprinting towards the shop so you wouldn't be too late.

The shop lights were still on so you began heading towards the door praying that Grace wasn't going to be too mad at you for being late. You were about to head through the door when you crashed into someone knocking your bag behind you and sending their suitcase against the floor, flying open with the contents spilling out.

"I'm so sorry! It- I wasn't paying attention." You rushed out as you began handing the boy bits of his clothing as you found them on the floor, he chuckled shaking his head and promising you that it had been his fault. He wasn't paying attention to what he was doing either, he was trying to figure out if he was in the right place.

"I wasn't watching what I was doing, I was wondering how to get inside." Your hands touched as you handed him a silk black shirt, your eyes travelled up his tattooed hands and up to his eyes, even though he was drenched in rainwater he still looked amazing. Your heart was thumping against your chest as you stared at him studying his facial features for longer than you probably should have but he was handsome, his jawline was sharp and yet he had such a round face. He had long black hair that was swept back into a half up and half down man bun that was sticking to his forehead thanks to the rain. He took a second to look back at you, noticing the way your hair was sticking to your shirt and face, how your eyes seemed to be lighting up even in the dark gloomy weather.

"You two will catch a cold! Inside!" You both began rushing to your feet scrambling to get inside of the bookshop, your boss - Grace - hit you around the back of the head with a thick book.

"I told you to be home hours ago, Y/n meet Jungkook. He'll live above you for the rest of the summer." Jungkook? Even his name sounded amazing to you. It was strange that even a name, something so simple could still sound so good.

"It's nice to meet you Jungkook, will you be helping out in the shop also?" You questioned as you took the book from your bag and went to place it over on the space heater that was behind the counter of the shop. It got cold inside of the shop despite it being summer so the space heater was constantly on behind the counter, keeping you or the other workers warm.

"No, I'm just here to look around the city, I have some time to myself." You nodded at him and Grace began to scold you for not offering him a drink yet. She'd taught you to be a great hostess and yet here you were, not putting those lessons to good use.

"I'll show you to your room, I get up the stairs easier." You laughed softly as you playfully teased Grace, you took his bag for him and showing him the way to the back of the shop and how he would get in and out of his apartment.

"I'll give you a key so you can get in and out easier, there's no shutter for the door so just make sure you lock it or who knows what I'll wake up to one morning." He nodded along to everything you were saying as he followed behind you up the three flights of stairs. The first flight was heading down, the next lead up to what he assumed was your floor and the last one was his.

"Your room is on the top floor, you have a balcony with one of the most astonishing views of the river and the Effiel Tower." You pushed the door open and his mouth almost fell to the floor as he saw everything inside, the apartment was plain but it was beautiful. Something he wasn't used to, the places he stayed were normally extravagant and overdone but this was just perfect. The furniture was all a cream colour and the walls were a soft cream and soft brown wallpaper, it was a nice place to call home for the summer.

"It's not much but it's just enough to call home for the summer," His heart skipped as you said exactly what he'd been thinking, from the moment he'd seen you outside the shop he felt as though alarm bells were going off in his head. You weren't screaming and crying at him so it meant you had no idea who he was, you had a beautiful smile that seemed to make his heart jump whenever you did it. You lifted a small silver key from around your neck and he watched you strolling over to the double doors beside his bed.

"It's not quite the weather tonight but you can sleep with the doors open and you'll wake up to a nice sound of birds and the local guitarist playing just down the street." He wondered how many times you'd done that, slept in this room just so you could wake up to that. It did sound like one of the most peaceful things in the world he smiled looking at the view through the rain stained windows. Even now, covered in rain and dark clouds the Effiel Tower looked breathtaking and as cheesy as it would sound to anyone else. The view outside was nothing in comparison to you, Jungkook felt as though he would look at you all day.

"I have a fireplace downstairs in my apartment if you'd like to come and get some hot chocolate." You weren't doing this just because he was good looking but you had knocked him over in the rain and wanted to make up for it. He was still drenched in water and the first place in his apartment was blocked off so that yours could run with ease.

"Sure, I'll just get changed and then I'll meet you down there." You handed him all of the keys he would be needing for the apartment and went down to your room to give everything a quick clean not wanting to look like a slob in front of someone like him. Holding your hands over your chest you tried to slow down your heart as you thought of him, thought of the way he looked, spoke and smiled.

"Y/n is she mine..." The question was repeated to you, you swallowed the lump in your throat as you looked up at him. Hand laid out on the counter, they were starting to hurt with how hard you were gripping the marble countertop but you nodded your head at him. He had every right to know now that he was back.

"Y-Yes she's yours." Jungkook's heart raced as he looked over at the staircase, Grace was walking down holding up a pair of Minnie mouse ears that seemed to sparkle in the lighting of the shop.

"She's waiting for you." You nodded at Grace as she kissed your cheek, putting the pair of ears onto your head and stared at Jungkook as she walked out of the bookshop,

"She doesn't remember me?" You shrugged your shoulders in answer to his question,

"It's been four years, she sees a lot of people in the shop." You mumbled playing with the sleeves of your thin jumper as he stared at you, the thought of him being there was finally starting to sink in and then you realised he was going to want to meet her.

"Why didn't you tell me? How?" Questions were running through his head at the thought of having a daughter...Or any kind of child. He felt as though he'd missed out on a lot, which he had. His daughter must have been four years old by now, he'd missed out on four years with his own daughter.

"It wasn't like I could contact you Jungkook. How do you think babies are made? We were active together Jungkook and it wasn’t as though we were the safest when we did." You spat out quickly and he looked down at the floor, he knew he deserved that for the way things ended between you so he shut up not wanting to start a fight right now.

"Can I meet her?" You bit down on your lip, you'd never even told her what her real dad was like or who he was because she'd never asked questions about it before. There had been one time when she was three, she questioned why her friend had two parents and she only had one. Now you were about to drop a bombshell on a four-year-old that her father was the famous Jeon Jungkook, a singer in one of the biggest bands and the reason he was never around was because of you...You didn't even know that he was famous when you met him, you just thought he was someone who did a lot of travelling, born rich and could do what he wanted. It wasn't like you googled every person you dated or wanted to date.

"I don't know-" The thought of him randomly meeting her without a warning was worrying you but Jungkook cut you off,

"She's my daughter-"

"She's also my daughter." You snapped back at him, both of you knew that you weren't going to get anywhere with this argument so you took a deep breath, closed your eyes trying to come up with something that would make this make sense.

"She's just a kid, she...I never told her who her dad was." He frowned at why you wouldn't just tell her that he was her dad but then he remembered who he was and what he did for a living. Telling a child that could make them tell other people and he assumed you didn't want drama starting at your door, which you didn't. It had been your whole reasoning for never looking for him again if people knew he was a father you'd never have a normal life again you'd seen the articles following Jungkook. You'd seen the stories about people the hung out with, it was terrifying to you/

"Were you ever going to tell me?" He questioned slowly as he looked up at you, your eyes were staring down at the countertop as you processed the question.

"How? Was I supposed to send you some physic message? Maybe use a magical Owl?" Your daughter slowly came down the stairs as she heard you yelling and she poked her head around the door watching you and Jungkook interact, she stared at the man wondering who he was and why you were fighting. She hated it when you yelled loudly since it never really happened that often.

"Mum? Is everything okay? Want me to call David?" You shook your head getting down onto your knees and motioning for her to come over to you. It was now or never.

"Darling come here, I want you to meet someone." She rushed over to you still dressed as Cinderella and she jumped up into your arms wrapping her tiny arms around your neck. You slowly turned her around setting her on top of the counter and turning her to see Jungkook. He began tearing up as he looked at her, the longer he stared the more similarities he saw in her that he had and it made him cry at the thought of missing the first four years of her life. You could tell by the look on his face you'd made a mistake by hiding her from him but there was nothing you could have done. He had his life and you had yours. Both drastically different from one another.

"Please don't cry Mr, I know books are boring but my mum can make them exciting." He chuckled wiping his face on a tissue she was giving to him from beside and you sighed knowing that you had to tell her,

"Baby, do you remember when you asked me why your friend had two parents, and you only had one?" She nodded looking up as if she was searching the air for the answer, it made you smiled softly at her as she thought back on what you had said to her that day.

"You told me daddy was away and I would know about him when the time was right." You nodded at her, tucking hair behind her ear as you swallowed the lump in your throat. Jungkook looked at you tearing up this time, you'd never thought the day would come, never in a million years had you thought he'd come back here and that you would have to be the one to explain this to her.

"Areum this is your dad, Jungkook this is Areum..." You waited to see what she was thinking of all this,

"You don't have to call me dad though...Not if you're not comfortable with it. I'm Jungkook." She stared at him tilting her head to the side as he held out his hand for her to shake,

"My dad?" You and Jungkook nodded in unison waiting for her to say or do something, she just turned to you and then back to Jungkook in silence. Studying him as she stood up on the counter and walked over to him, she touched his hair.

"Your hair is long." He nodded, it was longer than the first time he'd come to Paris. Now you could probably put it into two little buns on either side of his head, or maybe in a small ponytail.

"It is." He laughed softly, she turned her finger at him,

"Turn." He did as she said and she kept an eye on him, she'd learnt from movies and shows what she thought a dad was supposed to be and she nodded at him.

"Are you sure?" She questioned you sarcastically, she'd been watching too much television, you shook your head at her and picked her up blowing on her shoulder making her scream out as it tickled her. You placed her down onto the floor tapping her arms softly.

"Go and change for bed, it's late." Jungkook watched her as she came over to him and hugged his leg tightly, all she'd ever wished for was for a dad and now to her, it was finally coming true.

"Goodnight Jungkook." She whispered squeezing him tightly once more before rushing towards the staircase as you told her you'd be up to read to her soon. Jungkook's mind went back to the name that Areum had mentioned when she first came down the stairs,

"Who's David?" You froze as the name came from Jungkook's lips, the way he questioned it made you feel like you'd been caught cheating but you and Jungkook hadn't been together in years but it didn't explain the guilty feeling you had hanging over your chest. The guilt rushed through you as you thought about moving on from Jungkook and him not doing the same. It had taken you a while to convince yourself to finally start dating again, four years in fact.

"My boyfriend-"

"Is he close with Areum?" He cut you off quickly as soon as he heard the word boyfriend leave your lips. You stared at him as you began putting books away to keep your hands busy, you wanted nothing more than to smack Jungkook over the head for coming here and asking so many questions like this as if he had any ground to stand on.

"He's been here for about three months but he's close with her-"

"Where did you meet him? Is he just some creep you met in the middle of Paris? Is he safe to be around my daughter?" You slammed a book down onto the shelf and he stopped questioning you. He just stared at you as you paced back over to him rubbing your temples as though he was stressing you out, which he was.

"Is this what it's going to be like because you're here now?" He frowned at what you meant not following along with what you were asking him.

"I just want to know if he's good to be around my daughter-"

"You don't get to decide if he's good enough, you know what...How do I know you're good enough to be around her? How do I know you won't just run off again?" He looked down at the floor and shook his head it wasn't like he had a choice last time. He had to leave before, his break was up and he had no choice but to leave you and Paris.

"I'm staying around, I want to know my daughter, I want my daughter to know me." He looked at you and you bit down on your lip feeling guilty for throwing that in his face. You knew deep down that he didn't have an option to stay last time that he had to leave.

"David is a good guy, he's good with Areum that's all you need to know." He nodded at you calmly, telling you that he wanted to meet him before David got to spend any more time with his daughter. Jungkook at least wanted to get to know the man that had been helping look after his daughter.

"I don't think you're in a place to decide if he gets to see her or not Jungkook...He's been around longer than you have-"

"Because I didn't know she existed...Don't throw that one in my face Y/n." You knew it was harsh of you to use against him so you nodded your head, agreeing to let him meet David in the future but not yet.

"Can I come to see Areum tomorrow?" You nodded at him again,

"It's Saturday so she'll be free from everything. She normally helps me around the shop so it'll be nice for her to get out of that." You watched him as he walked towards the door of the shop getting ready to leave again. It brought back that sinking feeling of never seeing him again,

"Jungkook," You called out, right as his hand touched the door handle he turned to look at you and at the moment it was like looking at him for the first time. The way he stared at you, the way his eyes looked, it sent shivers rushing down your spine. You noticed he had more tattoos than the first time you saw him and you wondered if he'd covered up the one you'd given to him.

"Yeah?" He called out when you didn't respond to him just looking at you, you shook your head to get rid of the daydream you were having and you smiled weakly at him,

"Did you rent the room out for the summer?" He nodded his head as he thought about the place above yours.

"I wanted to stay somewhere familiar to me, have you been up there since the last time?" You shook your head even if it was a lie, you spent the first few weeks of him being gone up there. You'd smashed most of everything up and replaced it when you calmed down. The whole place felt wrong after he left, you hated that he'd left almost everything behind. The guitar you'd gotten him at the boot fair one time, photos of you together drawn by a man by the river. Everything was broken and trashed since you never wanted to see him again.

"No." You told a small white lie, he nodded and pulled the door open walking out into the street and making his way back to his hotel room as he thought about everything going. A week ago he had no idea his daughter even existed and now he was wondering what his life was going to be like now, how he was going to tell the boys. If he even wanted to tell the boys but he knew deep down inside himself that he had to let someone know.

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stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale · 3 years

Text

[against all odds, your hand is in mine] [1/4]

Seasons change, and with each comes a different story. In a world where the dead roam around, romantic companionship seems unlikely. Yet Ericson stands, and within it are four couples who are proof that it's possible.

Spring: Briolet | flowers, picnics, blueberries, running river

Read on AO3

Notes: Sometimes I get the urge to write four oneshots over the course of two days. This is the first of those oneshots. It’s briolet in spring, but be careful: there is so much hand holding and some smooches. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

[screenshot used is from the lovely @pi-creates]

---

Brody pricks her finger again. It's easy to avoid that, but she doesn't have a thimble, and her hands refuse to stop trembling.

No blood, and really, it didn’t even hurt. It more startled her, a bit of panic sparking in her gut at the idea of staining the martial and ruining her project. She stops her work to rest her hands and the fabric in her lap, closes her eyes, and sucks in a deep breath. It does little to calm her nerves or her impatience.

“Don’t rush,” she mumbles to herself, readjusting her position on the bed. She crosses her legs and notices a long strand of thick, pale blue thread stuck to her pants. Great, she needed that color an hour ago to finish one of the flowers.

Doesn’t matter now, the floral design is complete and all she has left is to sew the pieces together. If she can finish soon, there’ll be more than enough time to clean up, gather the basket she made up the night before, and head down to the greenhouse. Violet should still be there.

Brody smiles, setting down her needle and holding the handmade eyepatch in her hands. She rubs a thumb over one of the little white flowers. She embroidered them just this morning, a final touch to the overall design. That feeling strikes her gut again, exciting her nerves.

The idea came to her one night after Violet found her in the common room. It was late at night, and the two shared a blanket on the couch and drank tea. Violet's ruined eye was covered with bandages despite being healed over. No one was able to find her an actual eye patch. The best they found was a plastic one used for a children’s pirate costume, so she kept it bandaged.

Violet never complains about it. She considers the bandages her patch, even though they're not the most comfortable to wear every day.

Brody decided at that moment that she would make her one. She tore through her closet the next morning, sorting through old shirts until she found one she never wore. Taupe in color, a thicker material, something she could easily work with.

Though she had no idea how eyepatches were made, figuring those things out came easy to Brody. She made several patterns, testing each one out on scraps until one worked. From there, it was all about creating a design should could see Violet wearing. It wasn't difficult- sewing and embroidery work came easy to her.

A family thing that stuck, she assumes.

Her grams used to do embroidery and cross-stitching work. She made a living off sewing intricate designs, all more beautiful than any painting. If Brody closes her eyes, she can still see the doorway into her gram’s cabin. The framed design of a flowery cottage with a stone path, rural trees and a cloudless sky hung up on the wall. Her gram’s final masterpiece. She worked on it for months, pouring every ounce of love she had into each stitch. It was something Brody admired every time she walked through that doorway.

She learned to hunt and skin animals from her dad and uncles, and sewing from her grams. Best of both worlds, she supposes. Two skills that became handier than she would’ve ever thought at the time.

Though her flowers weren’t as flawless as her gram’s once were, she still put her heart into each stitch just as she did. She hopes that when Violet sees it, she’ll feel the unspoken words Brody threaded through the fabric.

Purple, white, and blue flowers of all sizes, each with a yellow french knot in the center, standing bright against the muted taupe. She sewed a thicker piece beneath it, used a tiny bit of stuffing from an old, ripped pillow to give it some comfortable cushion. A piece of a silky shirt lines the inside so Violet’s skin won’t get agitated while wearing it.

After weeks of work, all she has left to sew is the straps she made. She had no way to measure the fit for Violet’s head since she wanted this to be a surprise, so she figured she could make them extra long enough to tie comfortably while wearing. If she needed to adjust anything, she could do that later.

Brody picks her needle back up.

It doesn’t take long to finish, even with her forcing herself to take her time.

With triumph, Brody sticks her needle back into its rightful container and hops off her bed, singing, “Ta-daah~ !”

Her mind is all over the place. Wrap up the patch-- does she have a box or even a bag?-- and hide it at the bottom of the woven basket she found in the basement, stuff the blanket in as much as she can so the two cups don’t clank together, and start boiling water for tea-- where the hell did she put the jar of blueberries?

She flicks a match to light the heater she borrowed from Clementine, letting the water come to a slow boil as she searches around for the mason jar. It’s right under her nose, of course, sitting in plain sight on her shelf.

With the greenhouse running smoothly and the trading they’ve done with the traveling caravan that comes around, they're able to plant seeds for several different fruits and vegetables. This week, they finally got their first bunch of blueberries in. She managed to pick a bunch and seal them away in a jar yesterday without Violet noticing. She thought they’d make for a refreshing picnic snack to pair with tea.

Brody’s been planning this picnic for a while now, all while she was working and spring came to chase the cold away. Her favorite time of year where it’s finally warm, but cool enough to not overheat everything. Grass grows greener, flowers bloom all over the place, the river flows, and the sun shines bright in the sky most days. Other days, like yesterday, it rains. She was worried it would rain today as well, but there isn’t a cloud in the sky today.

She lets the tea steep in a large mug and squeezes what she can from an old container of mostly crystallized honey. When it’s cooled down enough, she pours it slow and steady into an empty water bottle. Sure, they can’t have iced tea given they have no way to actually make ice once winter ends, but lukewarm tea would be just as good.

Basket in hand, Brody looks out her window one last time before leaving the dorms. With every step she takes, she grows closer to the greenhouse and her heart thumps gaily against her ribs.

Outside, everyone is out and about, enjoying the warm weather. AJ and Tenn color together at the table while Mitch works on sharpening his favorite knife. Willy sulks on the couch beside him with Ruby attending to his bleeding knee. She's going on about him needing to be more careful.

Clementine and Louis sit on the steps leading into the admin building. She sits a step lower, leaning back into his chest as the two talk. Brody waves at them as she passes, and Louis gives her a knowing grin when he eyes the basket.

It’s not a long walk to the greenhouse from there. She stops when she notices the wildflowers growing by the fence of the rabbit coop. Bees buzz around the white flowers, landing in their yellow centers. She hates to disturb them, but these flowers were part of her inspiration when designing Violet’s eyepatch. They're too perfect not to pick. She shoos away a fat bumblebee with pollen sticking to its little black legs, and gathers eight of the flowers, leaving plenty for the rest.

A simple bouquet, if she could even call it that, but it works.

Once inside, the fresh scent of wet soil and leafy greens hits her. Not as refreshing as the sweet air outside, but still, it fills her lungs with warmth. Or perhaps that sensation is from seeing Violet standing beside Omar, watering what Brody believes are the potatoes.

Most of her hair pulls back into a hair tie, apart from the bangs that fall over her forehead and bandages. She hasn’t had a haircut in a while, letting it grow long enough past her shoulders. A surprise, actually. Violet hasn’t had long hair since they were kids.

Not that Brody was complaining- she likes it very much.

Violet breaks her attention from the potatoes to meet her gaze. She grins, and yes, that warmth is definitely from her. Omar continues on about some sort of new stew he wants to try making, only stopping when he notices he’s lost Violet’s attention.

“Everything doin’ okay in here?” Brody asks.

Violet gives a shrug. She sticks her hand out to run along the wooden planter to steady herself. She meets Brody halfway, replying with, “Eh, nothing too exciting. Willy biffed it while watering the rabbits this morning, but other than that...”

“He about crushed one of the babies,” Omar adds with a shake of his head. “More upset about that than he was about his skinned knee.”

“Aw, poor little guy,” Brody laughs. “That why he looked so miserable when I passed him?”

“Probably. He tried to catch it to apologize, but it was too quick even for him, and Ruby didn’t want him getting a bunch of muck all over him with an open wound, so…”

Apologizing to a baby bunny that they’re eventually going to eat? Sounds like Willy, Brody thinks. But never mind that, she has more important things than rabbits.

She reaches out to grab Violet’s free hand, her lips involuntarily curling into a bright smile as she asks, “Are you almost finished ?”

“Yeah,” Violet says, raising a questioning brow. “Why?”

“We’re going on a picnic!”

Violet pauses, only now noticing the basket in Brody’s grasp.

“We are?”

“We are!”

“That’s news to me.”

Brody lets go of her hand to present her with the flowers. Violet stares at them for a moment as her skin flushes, starting at her neck and blooming along her cheeks. If Omar weren’t standing over there, Brody would lean over and kiss that lovely blush.

“And where exactly would we have a picnic?”

“By the river. Already got a spot in mind.”

Violet holds the flowers close to her chest and clears her throat. She glances back at Omar, and says, “Uh, I don’t-”

“Go ahead,” he interrupts with a wave of his hand. “I can take care of the rest. Go have your picnic, be careful. And Brody,” he points to her, putting on a stern voice, “have her home by eight, and don’t have too much fun.”

Brody laughs.

“Yes, sir!”

Violet shakes her head, but her smile betrays her amusement.

“Well, okay, I guess we’re going on a picnic. There better be peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in there... that's what people eat on picnics, right?”

“Yeah, but no. Close, though.”

Locking their hands together once more, Brody leads Violet out of the greenhouse and through the gates. Soon, they’re outside the walls of Ericson. Heading down the path, she makes sure to keep watch out for any obstacles to warn Violet about.

Brody knows that Violet’s other eye works perfectly well, but given that her depth perception isn’t what it used to be, she can’t help but be extra careful. She used that excuse to hold Violet’s hand before they were together, both still recovering from their respective injuries. Better safe than sorry, use the buddy system, and that system requires hand-holding. Brody didn’t make the rules.

“Never been on a picnic before,” Violet breaks the silence.

“No? Not even before?”

“No.”

“We used to go out on picnics to eat and play games all the time. Me, my grandma, my daddy and uncles, cousins- if it was warm out, we were out.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Most times it was,” Brody says, giving Violet’s hand a squeeze. “ Just because those days are gone doesn’t mean we can’t do that kinda stuff now, y’know?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Though there are more walkers around than there were back then.”

“True, but that shouldn’t be a big issue today,” Brody smiles. “I asked James to check the area and he collected the walkers he found. The river should be clear.”

Even without looking at her, she can sense her surprise. Violet’s quiet for a moment, turning her head to peer around them before saying, “You planned this.”

It’s not a question, but more of a realization.

“I thought this was a spur of the moment thing,” Violet admits. “I, uh…”

When she doesn’t continue, Brody says, “ Not many opportunities to take you out on a date,” the word makes Violet blush and repress a smile, “and when one does arise, you bet your bottom dollar I’m gonna take it .”

Violet says nothing more, but her grip on Brody’s hand tightens.

They make it to the river without spotting a single walker. She kept her knife handy in case, but James was thorough, it seems. Brody makes a note to thank him again for helping her out.

The running water is soothing and the grass colors with golden dandelions. It’s nice to be down here without the intention of working up a sweat while fishing, she thinks. They find a flat piece of grass, kicking rocks, sticks, and pinecones out of the way to lay the blanket down. Together they sit side by side with the basket between them.

Rubbing her hands together, Brody digs in to pull everything out. Except for the eyepatch. It remains, wrapped in a pillowcase she found. Hopefully Louis won’t notice she snuck it from his horde of pillows.

“Alright, we got tea and blueberries,” Brody says, handing one mug to Violet and opening the mason jar of berries. Their sweet scent escapes into the air, making her mouth water.

“How’d you manage to sneak these past Omar?” Violet asks, popping a blueberry into her mouth. Her face twists at the taste, and for a moment Brody worries they might be sour, but Violet shakes her head. “They’re good, just not used to that.”

By now the tea is completely cooled, and while not cold, still delightful to sip on.

“Open wide,” Violet says, holding up a blueberry. It misses Brody’s mouth, bouncing off her chin. Violet laughs. “Pfft, c’mon.”

“Okay, okay, I’m ready, try again.”

Another miss.

“Aww, nope!”

“Well, let's see you try!��

Brody throws up a berry, and Violet misses it completely.

“Damn depth perception,” she grins, grabbing the berry and tossing it up herself. It hits her cheek, lost to the grass. “Damn it!”

Violet’s laugh, while rare, is as bewitching as it is infectious. It’s been so long since Brody heard her laugh like this, and to know that they’re here together, comfortable together…

Emotion builds in her throat, and she has to eat berries to suppress it. She aims the blueberry just right, and Violet catches it this time. As she chews, they both let out victorious giggles.

Once the laughter dies down, Violet brings her knees to her chest as she watches the river.

“Think we’re missing out on a fish haul?” she asks.

“Nah,” Brody pulls the basket closer to look inside, biting her lip as she runs her fingers over the covered patch. “And if we are, I’m sure the traps’ll make up for it.”

Should she do it now? They did just get here, did she want to surprise her early, or…?

Brody grabs a flower instead, bringing it up to her nose to inhale the soft scent. An idea occurs to her as she admires the girl before. Scooping up the flowers, Brody breaks off most of the stems. The flower slips in through Violet’s hair, right where the hair tie is.

Violet jerks her head around to look back, but Brody says, “Don’t move.”

“What are you-?”

She doesn’t need to answer the question, she merely secures a few more flowers within the light strands of hair before leaning back to admire her work. She even tucks one behind her own ear so they match.

Violet remains quiet, but lays her hand on Brody's. A silent, content thank you.

Brody doesn’t know how long they sat there watching the river, sipping tea, and listening to the birds chirp from the trees . A small butterfly flutters by them, and for a moment, Brody forgets the world around them. Forgets the walkers, forgets Ericson, too swept up in the way the warm air blew against her skin, in how Violet’s hand felt in hers, and the strange sense of wonder, a desire to kick off her shoes and run through the river.

It took Violet kissing the back of her hand to break her out of it.

Violet grew sheepish, glancing away as if she needed to come up with an explanation for the kiss, and that was it.

“Vi,” she started, pulling her around to face her. “I have- I made ya somethin’.”

The nervous pounding in her chest thumps in her ears as she reached back into the basket, pulling out the pillowcase.

“Aw, from Lou’s stash,” Violet grins, amused. “You shouldn’t have.”

“No, no, not the pillowcase,” Brody fidgets with it until she finds what she’s looking for. Her thumb brushes over the flowers beneath the thin material. With a deep breath, she goes for it. “Listen, I’ve been thinkin’ a lot about you. Us... just everything, and- Remember that night we stayed up in the common room talkin’? I thought… well, I wanted to do this for you.”

Brody hands her the pillowcase. Not once does she take her eyes off Violet’s face, noting the curiosity and confusion playing in her features as she accepts the gift.

The eyepatch is finally brought out into the sunlight, laying in Violet’s palm.

Neither of them speaks. Violet’s lips part, eye widening.

Brody lets the air out of her lungs slow, and then the words spill from her lips before she can stop them.

“We couldn’t find you anything to wear other than that stupid costume patch, and I know you said you didn’t mind the bandages but then I got to thinkin’ ‘bout how bandages might not always be the comfiest-”

“Brody…” Violet’s voice is quiet, trembling as it breaks.

“-and I want you to be comfortable in somethin’ that you like, so I made this for you- the whole thing, hand sewed it myself. I- but y’know, if it’s maybe too much- I wasn’t sure if it might bring too much attention and you wouldn’t like that-”

She’s cut off when Violet practically throws herself at her, burying her face in the crook of Brody’s neck and holding her tight. Brody doesn’t hesitate. She embraces her back, pressing a hand to cradle her head.

“I… don’t know what to say,” Violet's voice quivers.

“You like it?”

“Yes.”

“Then that’s enough.”

Violet pulls back, and without warning, her hands cup Brody’s face. She presses their lips together in a way that’s anything but gentle. It’s firm, purposeful, and loving. All tension from her body melts away, and Brody truly believes she could kiss her all day and that tingle? The one that coursed through her veins, the butterflies that fluttered in her belly? It would never go away. It wouldn't even lessen.

They break apart, and Violet’s staring down at the eyepatch in her hands.

“Holy shit. It’s… I don’t-” she tries again. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I wanted to,” Brody assures her, brushing the bangs that fell over her face.

“No one’s ever made me anything like this before. I mean, not a patch, just … you know.”

“Want to try it on?”

Violet nods, and Brody’s undoing the bandages with ease. Her eye's healed from the damage the raiders inflicted, leaving only angry scars. The patch is a perfect size, covering everything.

“Does it feel okay?”

“Yeah, it’s… nice. Soft.”

“Does this feel tight enough? Like it won’t fall off, but not too tight?”

“Yeah, it feels good.”

“Couldn’t figure out a good way to clasp it together, so it ties. If ya want me to change it or anything, I can make adjustments... There!”

Violet turns back around, avoiding her gaze. Brody studies her face, the way the colors of the embroidered flowers make the green in her other eye vibrant, how the taupe of the fabric flatters her.

“Beautiful.”

Violet scoffs, ducking her head to hide the flustered smile that betrays her lips. This gives Brody the perfect excuse to place a quick kiss on her forehead.

“You’re so mushy,” Violet says, embarrassed but trying to force a playful tone. “Y’know that?”

Well, to be fair, Brody could be mushier, so she replies with an over-the-top, sweet, “Only with you.”

Violet groans and they laugh once more.

They know their little picnic will wrap up soon, so together they sit close and enjoy the comfort of nature for a few minutes longer.

“Thank you, Brody… really.”

Brody responds with another kiss.

Yeah, she thinks. She could kiss Violet all day.

#[against all odds your hand in is mine]#twdg briolet #twdg violet #twdg brody #briolet #violet twdg #brody twdg #spring: briolet #thank you for reading #it's always super appreciated :D #twdg fanfics #twdg fanfiction

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scullydubois · 3 years

Text

Only the Light Ch. 19

Fate touches Scully's life, as does her own free will.

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

Can you still call something a miracle when you could not have gone on without it? When, if it hadn’t happened, the death knell would have sounded in your memory? Is that really a miracle, or is it just what had to occur? Certainly what keeps you breathing wouldn’t be so highly esteemed if the chips fell the other way. It would be called a tragedy, and no one wants to live in a world where every moment is caught between the two.

Scully existed there for a little while, but she’s escaped. Maybe for good. Because this--the Lace’s sacrifice, her signature on the adoption paper, her baby in her arms--is no miracle. This is God realizing she’s gotten her fair share, that he owes her a break. This is her fate.

In more normal circumstances, the foster family and the adoptive parent would have no contact. Social services would handle the transition. Since those barriers are already broken in Emily’s case, the state allows the Lace’s and their son to accompany Emily as she’s turned over to Scully. The nondescript woman in the polo shirt joins them as a witness to the custody change, and so they all find themselves at Bill Jr.’s house--of all places--for one grievous goodbye and a destined hello.

Mrs. Lace passes Emily to Scully moments after the family walks through the door. Her red-rimmed eyes reveal the depth of her agony.

“Take her,” she says. “I need to start letting go while she’s still in my sight.”

Scully bites her lip, feels Emily’s pudgy hand press into her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Lace. I can’t imagine how hard this must be. I’ll make good on my promise to send pictures and updates, I swear.”

“Thank you, Dana.” She sighs. “It’ll be an adjustment.”

Her husband taps the head of the little boy by his knee. “This is Andrew, our son. He wanted to make sure Emily has the best life possible, so he made you a guide to her favorite things.”

The boy--no more than five--holds up a construction paper booklet with crayon drawings of him and baby Emily. How To Mak My Sister Smile, his stilted handwriting reads. Scully’s heart skips a beat as she accepts it from him. She kneels down so he’s level with her and Emily.

“Thank you, Andrew. This is so sweet and I’ll be sure to read every bit of it and make sure your sister smiles every single day, okay?”

He nods, but tears cloud his vision.

Scully turns Emily so that she’s perched on her knee, facing Andrew. “Tell me--what’s your favorite thing to do with your sister?” she asks him softly.

He rubs his eyes and nose. “I like to show her my cars,” he stammers.

“Your cars? Wow!” Scully effuses. It’s not often that she gets to work on her kiddie voice, and she’ll need that now.

The color returns Andrew’s face. “Yeah, yeah, my race cars! I have a mat for them, and I push them around the track, and she watches. She likes the races. They make her laugh sometime.”

“Wow! You sound like a great big brother.”

“Yeah, and I like her bouncy thing too,” he sputters. “It was mine before.”

“An activity jumper,” Mr. Lace clarifies. “From Fisher-Price.”

“Ahh.” Scully’s happy to get any insight she can into her daughter’s early life. The Lace’s offered to send some toys with Emily, but Scully will only accept a couple onesies and Emily’s beloved stuffed rabbit. She doesn’t want to take any more from them than she already is.

She adjusts Emily on her knee, looks to Andrew. “Do you wanna give your sister a hug?”

“Okay.” He moves bashfully toward her and wraps his arms around Emily. He holds on until Emily begins to fuss, then steps back like he’s been caught sneaking away from time out.

“Emily’s lucky to have a big brother like you,” Scully tells him. “Your parents have my phone number, and you can call and talk to her whenever you want, okay? I know she can’t say much yet, but she’ll grow into it, and besides, she’ll recognize your voice.” Scully offers him a spirit-boosting smile. “Does that sound good?”

He nods, hands linked behind his back. Stranger shyness has taken over.

“Good. She’s gonna need her big brother to stick up for her.”

Scully stands up, clutching Emily to her chest.

“Mr. and Mrs. Lace,” Scully addresses them, “it’s impossible for me to sum up how deeply, deeply grateful I am for you and your sacrifice. It is no exaggeration to say that you have saved my life. I can already tell that Emily is so lucky to have been raised by you--that you have done an incredible job--and I hope that the two of us will continue to be a part of you and your son’s lives as Emily grows up.”

Mrs. Lace dabs her cheeks with a tissue. Mr. Lace frowns at his wife’s pain. “That means a great deal to us, Dana,” he replies.

“We feel blessed to have led Emily through her formative months,” his wife murmurs through her tear-strickenness.

The man nods. “She’s a wonderful kid, and I’m sure some of that comes from you.”

Scully smiles tautly. “I could say the same of you. Thank you for giving her the start I was denied from providing her.”

“You’ll let us know if you need any help, won’t you?”

“Of course. I’ll have your number on speed dial by the end of the night.”

The Lace’s formal goodbye had taken place at home, they said, and dragging out their visit would only make matters worse. They leave Bill Jr.’s house after a few short minutes, advancing down the front steps like a funeral procession.

When the door shuts and Scully’s baby is in her arms, she realizes that this will be her life for the rest of her life. What joy--! What horror--!

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

The heater’s gentle sigh provides a generous rush of white noise as the girls settle for sleep. It’s the time of year when San Diego’s nightly temperatures start drifting away from perfection, when sleeping with the windows open no longer has such appeal. According to Bill, it’s not cold enough to turn on the heating system (surprise, surprise) so he pulled a dusty space heater from the closet for the “girl’s room” to share. Like a gentleman, Mulder took the couch (as if he had any other option), leaving Scully, Missy, and now Emily with the guest room. A family affair, one generation rounded out by another.

It’s a convenient arrangement, really. Bill doesn’t have a crib and it’s not worth buying one for a single night, so Emily will be sleeping on the bed like a grown-up. If Missy weren’t there as a physical barrier, Scully would be taking the chance that Emily might roll off the unattended side. Instead, the little girl’s mother and aunt will be an arm’s length away for her first sleep with her new family. A symbolic gesture of the protection they hope to provide for the rest of her life.

It’s a wonder how smoothly the transition has gone. Emily hasn’t shed a single tear since the family she knew left her in this strange house. Then again, Scully has never seen her daughter cry; like her mother, she must not be prone to it.

Tara served a ham for dinner while Scully spooned mashed carrots and peas into Emily’s mouth, her helicopter parenting beginning early. Mulder made some joke about gourmet baby food, and everybody laughed except Bill, and Scully felt that she finally understood what was meant by family--some who share your blood will never fit into it, but some who were once strangers will more than make up for that absence.

And now, as Scully lowers her onesie-clad daughter onto the guest bed, there is peace. Terror, too, lingers in her mind, but it’s the unwarranted kind. She is the mother to a healthy baby girl. Yes, there will be challenges. Yes, a person loved separately from yourself is a person you could lose. But the summit has been reached; the worst did not happen, and now everything else pales in comparison. As far as Scully’s concerned, she can never be truly hurt again. Because if anything happens to Emily, well, this is what Scully asked for, and what gives her the right to complain? Beggars can’t be choosers, and she begged God for this...The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. This happened in the opposite order for her, so she can only assume more loss is to come, and she will accept it. She will.

Scully slides beneath the comforter, snaking her arm out from under to rest a hand on the small of her baby’s back. A comfort very familiar to her, and one she will bequeath to her daughter. They have the bed to themselves for now. Missy is in the living room downing a beer with the boys and trying to compete with (or mediate?) their trash talk. In the past, a situation like this might worry Scully, but those old concerns look so small now.

Only a few hours in, and she already feels much more at home with the title of mother, much more deserving of it. The first diaper she changed rivaled some of the operations she witnessed in med school, both in its gruesome nature and in requiring multiple pairs of hands. Mulder would help if Emily was a boy, he swore, but he claimed to be “out of his depth with her plumbing” as he put it. Missy quipped that you sure are and it made even Bill laugh and life was wonderfully rose-colored through Dana Scully’s eyes.

She hopes for sweet dreams for herself, but much more so, for her daughter, and she is aware that this is how it will be for the rest of time. Having been half-asleep when she was put down, Emily lulls into even-breathed dozing before Scully can decide on a lullaby. No harm done; Scully’s vocal cords haven’t seen regular exercise since college karaoke, and she’d hate to disappoint so soon.

When she opens her eyes again (she hadn’t realized she closed them, but apparently she had), Emily is deep in sleep, her eyelids twitching to the rhythm of her unseen dreams. And Missy has joined them too, her mouth drooping like it did when the sisters shared a bed every Christmas Eve. Scully doesn’t know what time it is, and with such a picture perfect view in front of her, she won’t dare to roll over and check the bedside clock. How nice it is to exist beyond time’s constraints, even for a moment.

Scully is as present, maybe, as she’s ever been. She’s touched by the past and the future, ironically giving her a heightened awareness of now. One side of her consciousness is borne back into childhood and the many nights she slept by her sister’s side--in this very city, in fact. The other sees a path of hope unfurling in front of it, finally. She wonders whether her happiness might multiply, like a drop of food coloring unleashed into water. Might Emily be the shield that she’s needed?...Maybe the loss she expects will not be what comes.

And what that could mean...she has meant, for a long time now, to plant Mulder firmly in her life. Partner is much too fleeting--the Bureau could close the X-Files tomorrow, and then they’d be nothing but ex-coworkers. They’ve established where they stand through silences that say more than words ever could. She loves him, he loves her, and my god, neither one wants to lose that. It’s only now that Scully is realizing that they haven’t--or she, rather, hasn’t--embraced what they have, and so there is nothing to lose, and very little to cherish.

With all this change in her life, she thinks, why not add that to the list?

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

They fly back into DC on Emily’s first birthday. November 2nd. Or at least, that’s the date that was left on the note at the foster agency. Scully isn’t sure exactly what she was doing last November 2nd, but she wasn’t having a baby, that’s certain. It was around the time of Aubrey, Missouri and BJ and nightmares, she remembers that. Plus, the phantom pregnancy, and the fear. The universe has a way of echoing itself.

They’re off to Mama Scully’s as soon as they make it off the tarmac. She’s aching to see her granddaughter, as she let Dana and Melissa know through a barrage of phone calls. I even made cupcakes and bought decorations for a warm welcome home! she insisted. Neither one of them can remember their mother being this excited about anything since...honestly? Ever. And they can’t blame her; Emily is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to their family. If only their father were here to meet her.

This is the sorrow that Scully has not had time to pick at. Her hero, her role model, the blueprint for all she wants Emily to be, not around to see it happen. She can’t think further than that; it’s the loose string that would unravel the sweater.

Mama Scully opens the door before they make it up the front steps, armed with yellow balloons and a party hat for the birthday girl. What a way to meet your grandmother.

“Hello dear!” It’s unclear whether she’s referring to Emily, one of her daughters, or the three as a unit. “Look at you…” she cups her hands around Emily’s head, and now they’re pretty sure who she’s referring to. “You’re like a little princess!”

Scully smirks. She’s glad to witness her mother’s happiness, of course, but they’ve just finished five hours of travelling with a baby. “Mom, please, could you save the theatrics for inside?”

“Oh, I have a whole other set of theatrics planned there,” Mama Scully quips. She clears the way, ushers the group into the house.

She touches Mulder’s shoulder as he passes. “Fox! I almost didn’t see you there.”

“Well, I can’t compete with Emily, so I don’t blame you.”

“She is precious, isn’t she?” Mrs. Scully gazes toward the doorway that Scully and Emily have since deserted. “There’s a place for you in Emily’s future, you know.”

Mulder shoves his hands in his pockets. “Oh.” He doesn’t know what else to say to that, and besides, it should be up to Scully.

“Unless there’s another woman in your life…?”

“No, no, I just--” he chuckles. “I didn’t expect that.”

Mama Scully lays a hand on his arm. “I care about you, Fox. Your well-being is deeply connected with my daughter’s.”

“Yes, of course…” He really, really would like to go in now.

“And it’s important to me that she has a strong support system throughout this ordeal. Raising a child is a tremendous challenge, and I don’t want her to feel that the burden is hers alone.”

“I completely agree.”

“That’s why you should adopt Emily, too. Give her the gift of a father.”

Mulder’s brain short-circuits. “I--what? Mrs. Scully, I don’t know--”

She puts a hand on his back and leads him inside. “Think about it. You and Dana, forming a family for this child that needs one. It would be a little untraditional, of course, but the wedding could come in due time, no need to rush.”

Mulder’s head is spinning. This is a practical joke, right? The hidden cameras can feel free to reveal themselves any time now.

The pair stops in the front hallway, a safe distance from everyone else in the kitchen. Mulder tries to mold his thoughts into cohesive sentences.

“Mrs. Scully, your intentions are good, but I think this solution is a bit extreme. I’m more than happy to help with Emily as much as possible, but becoming her father would just make things more complicated for all involved. And trust me, even if I were onboard, there’s no way Dana would go for it.”

Mama Scully nods. “I anticipated that. I’m going to talk with her tonight, straighten things out.”

Mulder does an awkward side-to-side shuffle. “If there’s one thing I know about her, it’s that her mind is not easily changed.”

“Yes, well, I doubt this is something Dana has given much thought to. I’m hoping to get my argument across before she takes sides.”

“Mmm.” Mulder looks off toward the kitchen, where he would like to be.

“I’ll let Dana know that we’ve discussed my proposition,” Mama Scully continues, “and then you two can talk it over, alright? I don’t mean to force you into anything. It just feels like a logical step. I’m sure you’d agree that your relationship is deeper than that of many married couples.”

“Sure, but it’s very different too,” Mulder mutters. This is not a topic to delve into with his partner’s mother, of all people. “I don’t know that they can be compared.”

“Perhaps you should consider it.”

Mrs. Scully holds her hardened glance for a long second, and Mulder is the one who breaks. He scoots out of her direct line of sight, then gestures for her to go before him into the kitchen. “Shall we?”

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

They celebrate Emily’s 365th day around the sun like they’ve been by her side for every one of them. Before the crew arrived, Mama Scully whipped up vanilla cupcakes with chocolate frosting and rainbow sprinkles, or as she put it, “a little bit of everything since I don’t know what she likes.” She even bought a happy birthday banner and sharpied in Emily’s name--not to mention five birthday hats and a humongous 1 candle that a single cupcake can barely hold up.

It’s a testament to Emily’s character that she’s so unbothered by it all. She lets Mama Scully slip the hat into place, shows no visible distress to the admiration she receives from the room. She prefers her mother’s arms over anyone else’s--they are, after all, the most familiar of the unfamiliar--but she’s content anywhere that welcomes her. And this is a place where she is most welcome.

Scully reminds herself to capture these little moments in her mind...Emily’s effervescent giggle as Missy tickles the bottoms of her feet, Mulder helping Mama Scully add extra sprinkles to each cupcake, the warm hug of a family’s company. Love, love, there is so much love here.

The time comes for cake and singing and blown-out candles. Well, candle in this case. Mulder performs the honor of lighting said candle as everyone gathers around, Emily nestled in her mother’s arms.

“Ready?” Mulder inquires. He conducts in time with his countdown. “One, two, one, two, three…”

The rendition is not in tune on anyone’s part (though Missy is the closest), but at least their intentions are harmonious. Scully’s heart swells. Mulder and Missy throw in a zany “and many more!” for the cherry on top of a joyous moment. Scully mourns its end; the birthday song is much too brief.

“Make a wish!” Missy chirps, and Scully leans forward and blows out the flame for her daughter. Safety, happiness, love...these are the things she asks for. These are the things that everyone deserves.

Scully’s not surprised when her mother pulls her aside a few minutes later and leads her to the library, leaving Emily at Missy and Mulder’s mercy. Her mother is fond of sentimental speeches, but not brave enough for an audience. Scully steels herself for a mushy-gushy outpouring.

Mama Scully shuts the door, turns to her daughter. “I’m overflowing with joy. Aren’t you?”

“Yes, mom,” Scully answers, tiresome already. “I’m a bit afraid this is all a dream that I’ll wake up from at any moment.”

“Pinch yourself. You’ll see that it’s not, I promise.”

Scully pinches her bicep, more for her mother’s amusement than anything. This is, in fact, reality.

“You must be very overwhelmed, I imagine,” Mrs. Scully remarks, beginning to pace. Scully follows with her eyes.

“There is a lot that I haven’t sorted out yet, yes,” Scully replies, her suspicion about her mother’s intentions growing. “Work, for example. I only have one more day off, and then I have to explain everything to Skinner, and hopefully I’ll qualify for maternity leave. But the Bureau isn’t very good about that, it’s only two weeks.”

“Just remember that I’m always available to babysit Emily if you need it.”

“I know, mom.”

Mama Scully allows herself to get side-tracked for a moment. “You have a crib though? And diapers, and a high chair?”

Scully nods. “Required for the home study.”

“Good.” Mama Scully sweeps back a wayward piece of her daughter’s hair. “I don’t ever want you to feel like you’re all alone in this.”

Her mother’s soft gaze unearths a sudden swell of emotion; tears prick at the back of Scully’s eyes. “I know, mom.”

“And I know that you’re gonna say you are Emily’s only legal guardian, and so you are technically alone, but you know what? You don’t have to be,” Mama Scully asserts. “There is someone out there who is willing to fill that void for you.”

Scully rolls her eyes, her brief emotional trance broken. “Don’t tell me you're gonna set me up with the Prizatskys’ son again.”

“Oh no,” Mrs. Scully laughs. “Besides, he’s engaged now.”

“Oh.” Scully tries to miss the patronization in her mother’s voice.

“What I’m saying is,” Mrs. Scully continues, “there is a man in your life who is loyal, trustworthy, hard-working, and in the perfect position to provide for you and Emily.”

“If you’re referring to Mulder,” Scully starts, an eyebrow raised, “I’m not exactly planning to shun him anytime soon.”

“Yes, but have you ever truly let him in?”

Mrs. Scully has aimed her arrow and hit her target, a stunning blow. The most damning parts of Scully’s inner dialogue have just been echoed back at her.

Wounded, she swallows hard. “That’s really none of your business. And just because he’s in my life doesn’t mean that he magically fills the role of Emily’s father. How would that even work? Emily would have to be shuttled back and forth...She’d be split between one parent and the other...It would make her life more hectic.”

“Dana, Dana…” Mama Scully pulls her daughter close, recognizing that she’s struck a nerve. Scully stiffens into the hug. “Remember when you were little, and your father would be gone on long deployments, and you’d draw pictures of him in his uniform, and tell your class about how your father was a Navy captain, and you were so proud? You barely had a sense of what that meant, but you knew he was doing something important.”

Scully relaxes into their embrace. “And when I missed him the worst, you’d let me wear his old sailor hat.”

“Yes.” Mama Scully takes a hearty breath. “I was there every day, feeding you, bathing you, sending you off to school...and you loved me, I don’t doubt that, but I wasn’t the one who put stars in your eyes.”

Scully nods against her mother’s shoulder. Damn, if she isn’t winding her way toward a convincing point.

“Emily’s gonna love you whatever you choose. But the fuller her life is--the more love she’s surrounded by--the more she’ll have to give, and the brighter her light will shine.”

Scully sniffles, shaken by the truth of this. God, to know as much love as she’s known in her life and resist it still. That’s not the way a life is meant to be lived.

“Thank you, mom,” she whispers in her mother’s ear. It’s an imprecise affirmation--encompassing everything and yet a specific something that she can no longer reject.

Scully pulls away, smiles at her mom. “No more meddling, okay? I’ll sort this out for myself.”

Mama Scully laughs. “You just needed that push. Now that the ball’s rolling, I’ll leave it alone.”

“You’d better,” Scully teases. She gestures toward the door. “I should get back to my baby.”

“Yes,” Mama Scully grins, “you should.”

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

The knock on the door comes at a quarter to noon, as Scully expected. She didn’t expect that she’d be scrubbing grape juice off the tile when it happened, but hey, these are the disruptions everyone in her life will have to get used to. Including--especially--her.

“I’ll get it!” Missy’s voice breezes through the apartment.

A moment later, Scully finds herself level with a pair of black dress shoes. Big ones. A twelve if she had to guess.

“Scully, if you wanna know my shoe size, just ask,” Mulder jests, and has he read her mind? She feels like she’s been caught in a compromising act, though she’s done nothing but wipe up a sticky purple mess. She cranes her neck, looks up at him.

“Good morning, Mulder,” she mumbles, running her hand over the spill area. Coming up clean, she finds her footing. The top of her head is even with her partner’s collarbone.

Scully thumbs toward Emily, who is gobbling cheese crackers in her high chair without a care in the world. “Apparently she doesn’t like grape juice.”

“Grape juice?” Mulder jeers. “She knows orange juice is where it’s at.”

Scully ignores him, but makes a mental note to add OJ to the grocery list. And apple too, just to be safe.

“Let me get my shoes and I’ll be ready to go,” she says, shuffling off in her pantyhose without waiting for a response.

They have a lunchtime meeting with Skinner to explain...well, everything. Mulder doesn’t need to be there--as his partner was quick to remind him--but he insists on advocating for her. No amount of I’m not a damsel in distress, Mulder will put him off. She’s so much more than that, he knows. Hence why he’s got to do all he can so her life isn’t defined by its crises. Besides, he’ll take any excuse to sneak down to the office on his day off.

He told Scully he’d pick her up because it’d be easier on her, sure, but also because he has an important delivery to make. He nods to Missy, and she grabs the goods off the front table. He wanted to make his entrance before the big moment. His presence known, he’s ready to go.

“Emily, Uncle Mulder brought something for you!” Missy sing-songs as she places the gifts in Mulder’s hidden hands. The girl looks up, her attention easily diverted here and there.

Mulder tries to tip-toe forward--hands behind his back--without coming off as creepy, which is harder than it seems. He takes it as a good sign that Emily doesn’t spook and wonders what it means that Missy called him Uncle Mulder. Did she and Scully have a conversation about it? Is this what he’ll be known as? Or was that just a last minute reach to fill the space?

He pushes these thoughts away, focuses on the blue-eyed girl in front of him.

“Emily,” he begins, and it rolls off his tongue like a devotion, “I thought your bunny might like some friends.”

He reveals the fox first, then the UFO. His personal mark on Emily’s budding stuffed animal collection. She lets out a peep of astonishment and reaches for the fox, fascinated with its bushy tail. She hits it back and forth so it wags like a dog’s.

Mulder chuckles, his brain lighting up in places it never has before. Missy hangs back and waits for her sister to reemerge. Sure enough, Scully melts at the sight, stopping short so she doesn’t interrupt it. She clutches her heart. She and Missy share a smile.

“My, my, look at this,” Scully saunters in, ruffles Emily’s hair. “Do you know what this is, Em?” she asks, patting the fox. “This is a fox.” She points to Mulder. “And this is a Fox, too!”

Emily doesn’t get the joke, but that’s okay.

“And do you know what this is?” Mulder prompts, picking up the flying saucer. He moves it through the air like it’s flying. Emily reaches for it, and god, Mulder knows the feeling.

“This is a UFO, Emily,” Mulder tells her sweetly. “Aliens!”

“No, no.” Scully plucks the UFO from his hand. “No aliens, Em.”

She lays the saucer on the high chair tray. “Mama’s gotta go away for a little bit, but I’ll be back soon.” She kisses Em’s temple. “Auntie Missy will be right here.”

Missy steps forward. “We can play with Mr. Fox and the al--” Scully shoots her a look. ”The UFO!” she corrects, winking at Mulder. She scoops her niece out of the high chair. “Say ‘bye Mama!’”

Emily doesn’t have that grasp on words yet, and they all know it, but Missy gets her to wave. “Okay, now ‘bye Uncle Mulder!’” Another wave. Smiles all around.

Mulder and Scully move reluctantly toward the door. Scully groans as Missy and the baby girl slip from her view.

“They’ll be okay,” Mulder assures his partner.

“I know,” Scully sighs, “but will I?”

Mulder rests his hand in the familiar spot on her back as they exit her apartment. “Absolutely. Skinner will grant you the leave, and you’ll be back with your baby in no time.”

She nods, bites her lip, and slows, suddenly wistful. Mulder stops, turns to her. “Scully…?”

“Mulder, did my mom have a conversation with you?”

He nods.

“And...did you think it was kind of crazy too?”

He nods again.

She takes a breath and rises to her tip-toes. She could pretend not to know what she’s doing, but she does. Oh, she does.

“But not out of the realm of extreme possibility…?” she coos, eyes centered on his lips.

Mulder smiles shyly. He always expected it would be this way: Scully the coquette to his boyish ineptitude. Who knew she’d be stealing his lines.

His hands find her waist, pulling her closer there in the hallway. “No, no,” he muses, “I think it’s pretty solidly in the realm…” He nuzzles her neck, breathes in her sweet smell, and nibbles her ear, all in the beat of a hummingbird’s wing. “...of extreme possibility,” he purrs into her ear, satisfied with himself.

It reminds Scully of do you believe in the existence of ~extraterrestrials~ and how she knew then that he was a little bit unhinged, whip-snap smart, and too goddamn charming for his own good. That either fate or her own unconquerable desire would bring them together. She knows now that fate conspired to keep them apart. What’s unfolding is neither an act of its hand nor a last-ditch effort of a dead-end life. It is one choice among many, undertaken out of sheer belief in the happiness it could bring.

She looks into his eyes, which look back at her with a caramel-drizzle melt. Yes, yes, this is right. She fans a hand out on his cheek, runs her thumb over his mole. She has always wanted to touch it, but could never come up with a good excuse.

They’ve delayed the inevitable long enough. Scully leans in, still on her tip-toes, and Mulder bends to close the distance. Their lips meet, and there’s no fireworks. No, it’s simple serenity. Like coming home after a long time away--though this is a house they have never walked into until now, they have a feeling they will be walking into it for the rest of their lives.

And then Scully pulls away, and it’s over but it’s just beginning.

#a moment of happiness among all the angst <3 #thank you as always for reading #kinda sorta almost done #but i have one last angsty twist cause that's who i am #only the light fic #missy and scully fic #the x-files #txf #txf fic #fox mulder #dana scully #melissa scully #mine

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milstrim · 3 years

Text

The Wound Won’t Sew Itself

Penny Parker was afraid of abandonment.

That was a fact. It had stemmed from an early childhood loss and only heightened to an extreme after her uncle had bled out from a gunshot wound in front of her. It made her nervous, a lot. Her aunt and friends knew, and would often not mention it when she curled a finger into their belt loops or entwined her fingers with theirs. Every once in a while, they'd offer their hands too, allowing for her to attach and not make her feel weird about it. It was a gift, she'd decided, to have a family that anticipated for her.

Problems arose when Mr. Stark started to become part of that family.

Mr. Stark wasn't mean, but she knew their relationship was rather precarious. One wrong move and she was sure that he'd take the suit and cast her out, leaving her without her mentor and the man that had slowly become...like a father? He was like her uncle, but not. No one could replace Ben, but Tony had taken up a space in her heart she hadn't known was empty until he came along.

So when she felt nervous, Penny instead shoved her hands into her pockets, or bundled them up into her sweaters, refusing to even mention her discomfort or her fears to her mentor. She'd only been going up to the compound to work with him on the suit for a few months ever since the whole Homecoming incident, and losing him was terrifying beyond belief. It kept her up at night on bad days, the unthinkable nightmare of him dying or casting her out. Thus, she kept to herself, she made sure she was the perfect intern and mentee, quiet but enthusiastic when necessary and with no mental health problems at all.

When she arrived at the compound for her internship that Friday afternoon, waving goodbye to Happy and stepping into the elevator that took her up to Mr. Stark's lab, she flinched at the shiver that ran up her spine. Penny glanced around the lab as the doors opened for her, squinting nervously through the glass entrance to the high tech room, the dread attacking her gut and stuck in her throat only growing stronger.

Mr. Stark wasn't hunched over at his desk, or dancing around trying to keep up with the speed of his own ideas, a broad smile on his face whenever he turned around to greet her like he usually was. Instead, he stood ramrod straight, staring intently at a small hologram in front of him that she couldn't see the contents of. She thought she saw a glimpse of her face.

Penny pressed her hand on the scanner to the door, flinching back when it beeped a harsh red instead of its usual welcoming blue. The noise caught Mr. Stark's attention, who swirled around at the noise, throwing the hologram to the side defensively. Penny found herself rooted in place from his intense stare, another tremor racking her body, ending at a pounding thrum at the base of her skull.

"I, uh--hey, Mr. Stark!" she greeted, waving nervously from behind the door, "The uh--sorry--the door didn't let me in. I didn't mean to disturb you."

Mr. Stark stared at her for a moment longer, trancelike, before he seemingly snapped out of being a robot and walked over. But he still wasn't...Mr. Stark. He was too quiet. Immediately nausea churned in her stomach at the off glint in his eyes. Had she done something wrong? She didn't think she had. She'd been so careful! She hadn't disturbed him or Happy as much, she hadn't done anything too crazy, she'd even stuck to curfew!

...Most of the time.

Her good behavior didn't stop her from feeling like she was about to puke out her entire soul as Mr. Stark spoke, opening the door.

"It was supposed to do that," he said.

Penny shuffled nervously, shoving her hand in her hoodie pockets, "Do--do what, Mr. Stark?"

"Not let you in."

"What--why?"

"Because I don't want you here." She flinched. Her face heated up as tears swelled in her eyes, her mouth falling open in shock, "I guess I forgot to give Happy the memo, so let me remedy that here. I. Don't. Want you here. Plain and simple. I expected more from you by now. I offered for you to be an Avenger, and you're still saving cats from trees, or helping little old ladies across the street."

Penny took a halting step back, shocked. She stared up at her mentor. She'd never seen him like this, even during the Ferry, he'd said he expected more than too, and if she hadn't been as hurt as she was, maybe she would've thought about Mr. Stark's sudden 180 about her skills. About her. But as it was, she was just sad, and scared. Her worst fears coming true and bursting forth.

"I'm--I'm sorry," she stuttered.

"Sorry isn't good enough," he bit, holding out an expectant hand, "Give me your bag."

"What?"

"We tried this, it didn't work out. Sorry not sorry, give me the bag."

Working on autopilot, she did. He ripped it open, tearing out her suit, the red and blue sticking out painfully against the background of his dark gray blazer. She let out a cry of protest as he took, but he didn't respond other than throwing the bag roughly into her hands.

"I'll be taking this, since you're clearly not worthy of it," he said. She stared at him, unable to stop the tears that escaped down her cheeks. Wrong move. "What are you still doing here? The transaction is over. Get out of here. Go! And don't try to contact me again. Don't even call Happy."

Penny swallowed, stepping away hesitantly, as if this was all a cruel joke and someone was going to jump out and yell 'Surprise!!' But this was real life, and Mr. Stark had really told her to leave. He'd taken the suit back and...and everything.

"Yes, sir..."

She left.

Penny cried a lot that night.

May was covering a shift at the hospital, having expected for her to be at Mr. Stark's until late, so Penny came home to her dark apartment seeping with the December chill of New York. All the shock came rushing forward. All the pain.

She dropped her bag the moment the door clicked shut behind her, choking on a confused sob. She ran her hands through her hair, pulling too roughly at her curls and sliding down on the door. She mumbled through thick tears, "What did I do? What did I do? What did I do?"

There was no answer to her question. No way of knowing. There was no one to answer, no one but her own fear.

She hadn't been enough, she concluded, and really, why had she ever thought she could be? Her former mentor was Tony Stark! Iron Man. A superhero who'd escaped terrorists with nothing but scraps and wits. And what was she? A science experiment. A poor kid from Queens who could barely hold her own in a fight even with superpowers practically just gifted to her. She could barely take down bank robbers.

Mr. Stark's words hurt, but they were right. She wasn't worthy to be his mentee.

But it still hurt.

Confident that May wouldn't be home until late, she allowed herself to stay a crying heap on the floor. She didn't move for an hour, crying herself dry, gasping for seething air that refused to come, blocked by the lump in her throat. She dug her nails into her palms, leaving little crescents of blood. She bit her lip in an attempt to stave her pitiful cries, a trail of blood following.

By the time she picked herself off the floor, the city was dark.

Weeks passed by, and Penny heard nothing from Mr. Stark or Happy. Stupidly, she'd stare at her phone, anxiously waiting for hours on end. Maybe an apology, or just an assurance that she wasn't a screwup. Something. But of course, nothing ever came.

Penny didn't retell the exact events of what had happened to anyone, but she'd proclaimed to her friends that she no longer had the internship--much to Flash's great delight, and even she had to admit how much like a lie all of it sounded--and refused to delve into the details. Telling May had been a bit more difficult. A teary eyed afternoon in which Penny had said that Mr. Stark thought that she wasn't right for the superhero role and had taken the suit back. The woman had been furious and had attempted to call Tony, but found little success other than an automated voicemail.

They'd spent the whole night watching romcoms and planning how to make Penny her own homemade suit. Not as good as the Starksuit, but still a hell of a lot better than her old one. It didn't have Karen, and it definitely didn't look as cool, but Penny had outfitted it with her own tech that helped her senses and webshooters that did their job. She refused to stop trying to help the community. Not even Tony Stark could put her off from it.

The Daily Bugle didn't like her new suit, tearing her down for it despite having criticized her for 'mooching off of Iron Man' a couple months prior, but it was whatever. Life was...life was okay.

Her nerves had only shot higher than before, and the teenager often found herself texting her friends and aunt at odd times to make sure they were okay, grabbing onto Ned's hand between every class that she could, and even slipping into bed with May every once in a while. She felt horribly clingy and unworthy of their time and patience, so many nights filled with laying in bed and staring out the window, unable to stop envisioning May telling her what Mr. Stark had. Ned leaving. MJ abandoning her.

Sometimes eating felt like too much. By the time Christmas had come and gone, she'd gained as much bags under her eyes as she had lost weight. Exhausted and fatigued all the way down to the bone wasn't enough to describe how she felt. How on edge and worried she constantly was. But at least she was still Spider-Woman. At least she still got to help people, to save them. With or without Mr. Stark. Even if it hurt.

Penny let out a sigh that billowed out in front of her on the cold January air, rubbing on her arm as she tried to block out the cold. She hadn't managed to give her suit a heater in a cost effective way. Her eyes still narrowed with her though, which had honestly been her favorite part of the suit.

The vigilante had been patrolling for most of the day now--eating from street vendors and unfortunately going to the bathroom in porta-potties--since school was still out. Until tomorrow anyway. Oh the woes of waking up early once again and having to face Flash and his unending taunting. She was ready to see Ned again, and maybe chemistry class would distract her from Mr. Stark.

She shook her head, scolding herself. She was doing it again. Thinking about the man she'd thought as a father figure. No matter how hard she tried, his words always came back to bite her in the middle of the night. In the middle of a panic. And even while she sat atop a building while snow sprinkled down around her.

With a worn sigh, the girl leaped and began to swing her way back to her apartment, which was sure to be a while away since she was at the edge of the city. Well, first she had to stop to get her bag (and pray that it was still there) and then she'd head home. Maybe make some hot chocolate. It was freezing.

Spider-Woman swung for only before a few minutes before a chill ran up her spine, and not from the cold. She spun in midair, grabbing onto an outstretched flagpole of the building her senses directed her to and planting herself nimbly on top. She listened.

"--verything's going fine, I suppose. Crushing the brat didn't completely get rid of her though. I thought she cared about what you said, Stark."

"Don't you dare talk about her," snarled a familiar voice. Penny flinched at Mr. Stark's tone, narrowing her eyes and beginning to creep around the building. The windows were boarded up over broken glass, but the warm yellow light still slipped through the cracks. She continued to listen as she tried to find a better spot to perch.

"I could've been a lot worse, you know. Be thankful I just made her think you hated her and thought everything terrible about her to make her feel like shit instead of just killing her. Though that would've made quite the fuss. Too much to clean up, don't you think?" the voice asked, rich and smooth and terrible. It sent shivers down her spine. She finally came across a window with a large enough gap for her to slip through and cling onto the rafters in the ceiling, unnoticed, "Though nothing's impossible. It might be a good reminder for you to not try and break your chip again, hmm? Your lovely fiancee might be next."

Penny stifled a gasp as she surveyed the room. Mr. Stark was strapped up against the wall, his hands cuffed tightly. A bruise bloomed against the right side of his face, leaching over his nose and covering his eyes in a sickly blue. His face was tightened in anger, defiance evident in every part of his body. From his eyes, bright yet dark at the same time, a stoked fire ready to burn, to his hands, cuffed and restrained, but curled in anger, shaking with either the force of straining or the force of his will to break free.

The Iron Man suit sat idle in the corner of the room, its eyes deactivated and its posture slumped. It looked strangely dead. A strange descriptor of something that had never truly been alive. She had to hold back panic at the realization that it wasn't going to save Mr. Stark, probably having been deactivated or hacked. What were these people going to do with it? Not that they looked particularly threatening.

The host of people appeared as though they belonged at a PTA meeting instead of a kidnapping. There was a short balding man with a friendly looking mustache. A woman with a chopped bob, short and stout and wearing a flowery blouse. Two tall and thin people that were so painfully average in their completely beige clothes she had to blink in confusion. This did not look like a group of supervillains.

The only man that looked like he somewhat belonged to the supervillain lifestyle was standing in front of Mr. Stark. He was surprisingly handsome, with dark hair slicked back in a groomed puff and a neatly groomed beard. He held crazed confidence in his frame, bulking with muscle even through his long sleeves and cargo pants.

"So," the handsome man said, "Are you going to comply or are we going after your little pet? I'm sure she's still out there right now. And we'd be happy to go to her home. Or school. Gosh, just think of all the other people who could get hurt while we're carrying out your business. We could even make you do it. Your choice, really."

Mr. Stark held for a moment, stiff and angry, but like a switch had been turned, he slumped in defeat with a slow nod. It was unlike anything she'd ever seen from the man. A drubbing failure that exuded from him, tired. He had never more looked his age as he did now.

The man gave him a condescending pat on the cheek, his smile unsettling, "Good. Glad we've come to an agreement, Stark."

Penny swallowed nervously, watching with sharp eyes as the short man with a mustache stepped over to the handsome man, a small device in his hand that fit easily in his palm. She didn't like the look of it, and she crawled forward from her hiding space just a little, an instinct to protect pulling her forward. She stopped almost immediately.

Mr. Stark looked up as the two men in front of him talked, glancing over in her direction. His eyes widened ever so slightly at the sight of her, now frozen in the shadows of the roof. Neither moved, just staring at each other for a moment.

It had been a while since Penny had seen him. Almost two months. She hadn't even looked at pictures of him in the news, always turning the channel off at the mention of him or anything to do with even Stark Industries. May had told her to leave him behind, so that's what she'd been trying to do. Now, in the old building filled with hostile people with weapons, she wondered if that was a bad decision, because now she couldn't look away from his brown eyes.

Or maybe she couldn't look away because of the warmth in them. The sorrow. The apologies swimming in his face, a silent 'I'm sorry, kid' mouthed her way as the people in the room weren't focused on him.

She shook her head furiously, slipping back into the shadows as a tremor ran up her spine. She hid behind a scratchy wooden column just before Handsome Man glanced her way, her heart beating painfully against her chest. She took a deep, shaky breath, waiting in anticipation for the relief of the pounding against her skull to disappear, indicating the man was no longer looking her way.

Penny scrunched her eyes tight, sure that she was imagining things. She was so confused, and her entire body hurt, disoriented and dumbfounded. Embarrassed. What were they doing to Mr. Stark? Had his harsh words been protection? How long had he been hurt trying to protect her while she'd pranced around New York, refusing to hear his name and wallowing in her own sadness? And what the hell was that device?

The teenager shook her head. She couldn't think about it right now. Answers were for when Mr. Stark was safe and away from these crazy people. Answers were for when she apologized for being such a dumbass. Answers were for when she got her shit together and got down there and started doing what superheroes were supposed to do.

Penny peeked around the column as the man began talking to Mr. Stark again.

The man held up the device that had been handed to him, "Now this has been fixed. So if you try that little stunt again, it'll one: Not break, and two: we'll get a little alert that tells us it's time to go and take out Spider-Woman, capeesh?"

"Capeesh," Mr. Stark muttered. The man smiled. Penny's heart dropped.

"Good. Glad to hear. So stay still while we pop this back in and we'll be back to setting Stark Industries off on the right track, along with the rest of the world. None of this 'no weapons' nonsense."

"You were fired for a good reason, Beck. Maybe if you look past your own horseshit, you'd see why."

She could practically feel the man's blood vessel pop. Wasting no time, he punched her mentor. Mr. Stark's head snapped to the side, but wasn't given a moment of reprieve as Beck gripped his neck, slamming Mr. Stark's head against the wall, choking him. Beck bared his teeth in a crazed grin. Penny flinched, unwillingly clinging to the darkness.

"And maybe if you'd get your head out of your own ass, you'd remember that you're not in charge anymore! I control you!! I'M IN CHARGE NOW!!! AND THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT!!!"

Without any pretense, the man shoved the device into Mr. Stark's ear. Mr. Stark answered with a short scream at the pain that was quickly cut off. Another shiver ran up her spine, warning her of the danger to come and making Penny sick.

The cuffs around Mr. Stark let go as Beck took a step back, an appreciative smile on his face as Mr. Stark stood ramrod straight. His eyes were no longer warm, but robotic and unseeing. She flinched.

"Good, glad to have you back, Tony," Beck teased in his deep voice. The Iron Man suit standing vigil in the back of the warehouse rose to attention. In the same metal nature of the suit, Mr. Stark walked over to it and stepped inside, "Now. Go get Spider-Woman please."

The head turned, and slanted blue met wide white.

Tony was screaming, but no sound escaped his lips. Tony was crying, but no tears slipped from his eyes. Tony was hurting, and his heart scarred with every painful beat.

It had started two months ago. Well, if you really went back, you could say it started sometime about a year ago during his introduction of the September Foundation and BARF. Quentin Beck had led the team, and although Tony had been wary of the man's seeming instability, he believed in second chances and that first impressions aren't always a great indication.

He might have to change that policy of his, because as it turns out, he should always trust his instinct. Beck had insisted that his invention could be for more than 'just therapy' and could change the world. One war at a time. Firing him had seemed like the only logical conclusion, but maybe Tony should've kept an eye on him. If only the Avengers hadn't broken up. If only he hadn't been stumbling after a monstrously ambitious spider kid. If only he'd thought ahead. If only he was able to keep people safe.

The chip had overtaken him at a charity gala he'd attended on a Thursday night. He'd been sipping champagne from a tall flute, mingling with aggravating businessmen and wishing he'd brought the kid along so he'd at least have someone to talk to. Then the billionaire had slipped away to go to the bathroom, but he was intercepted by a waitress, and then suddenly his body was not his own.

Of all the things that had happened to Tony, he could at least say that this was one of the most interesting. Terrifying to his core for sure, but still pretty interesting.

Tony had made his way through the night, an imposter in his own skin, a spectator as he watched himself talk business in charity, exchange handshakes and cards, climb into a car driven by Happy--who'd furrowed his brows as Tony got in the back rather than taking the wheel--but hadn't questioned it.

He'd never been more afraid. The chip in his ear, small and stuck in deep, buzzed constantly, making him sick and tired, but his body never stopped moving. He had to at least appreciate they kept up a healthy sleep schedule, but nothing else was helpful in the slightest. Knowing that he was being controlled by an enemy, Tony watched in terror as he opened up top secret government programs and codes, keys to the Iron Man suit and how to access them, and then, everything about Penelope Parker.

Despite the lack of control over his body, his left arm had still shaken with fear.

The words began to appear then. Somehow spoken yet somehow not. They were just there. Clear and yet fuzzy, understandable yet unreadable.

Ah, so this is the girl, Stark? the voice had said, What a sweet girl. Oh! And smart too! You must feel so lucky that she thinks so highly of you, huh?

No. Not her. Anyone but her.

Yes, her, the voice had responded, an ounce of sympathy leaking into it, Tell you what, Stark, I'll strike you a deal. I'll send the kid home today, I won't get her involved in any of this, as long as you don't fight back.

And what is this?

This is going to change the world. And get me some revenge on the way.

Who the hell are you?

I'm--

The door behind him buzzed. He swerved, dismayed to see Penny Parker, smiling and waving at him adorably at the door.

Someone who can do a lot.

Tony's heart would stop if it could.

Tony's heart didn't stop. In fact, it kept on ticking, a bomb in his chest. A bomb that didn't go off until he set it off, the chip exploding in screeching vibrations in his ear. It had knocked him out--and really he should've expected the failsafe. Kidnappers had learned from the Ten Rings' mistakes. And Tony had learned as well.

There were three things Tony knew about the voice that had been planted in his head.

One: They had a plan. It was complicated, and it took an embarrassingly long time for Tony to piece together as he was forced to gather materials, invent things, and make deals with people he normally wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole. And honestly, their goal was straightforward, if a little stupid.

They wanted fame, retribution. They wanted to be noticed for the work they'd done, to be the face people expected when something happened. They wanted to be the next him. Or, a crude copy of what they thought was him. Well, you know what they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Two: He knew these people. Sorta. Their names took a while to click, long enough that a punishing shock was sent through his veins along with an annoyed remark from the voice, but he'd never been one for remembering names. He'd remember these ones though.

William Ginter Riva.

Victoria Snow.

Gutes Guterman.

Janice Lincoln.

Quentin Beck.

Some rightfully fired employees anxious for revenge, and a bit of the spotlight he'd seemingly stolen.

Three: They were willing to do anything to be the next him. Anything included cutting Penny out of his life and taking the suit. Anything included bullying Pepper out of the tower until she left, telling him in a beyond hurt voice that he wasn't himself and to call her when he was ready to be the Tony she knew. Anything included avoiding Rhodey, not attending his PT or fixing his braces and forcing him away in a way too similar to how Tony had treated him in college. Anything included hurting the people Tony cared about until they didn't care about him.

Anything included sending the Iron Man suit to kill Penny Parker.

Penny leaped as the suit rocketed towards her, spinning around and swinging to the other side of the room. She hit Iron Man with a web, pulling the suit down as hard as she could justify while trying to escape, attaching the web to the ground. She knew it was fruitless to even try and escape--he was Iron Man after all, and he wasn't going to stop even after she left the building--but fear propelled her forward.

The web pulling down the armor only held for a few moments, Mr. Stark turning and easily burning it away with a repulsor shot. The few seconds she'd saved were crucial though, giving her just enough time to smash through the nearest window, shooting out a web as far as she could and zipping away. But the knot in her gut didn't disappear, and the rattle up her spine only grew. She flinched at the sound of crashing, sure that Iron Man had burst through the window she's just crashed through.

Her head start didn't end up giving her much help at all. She didn't think she'd been swinging for ten seconds when the repulsors charged behind her. Penny tried to twist in the air, flipping, and only getting a glimpse of the armor before a blast from the chest reactor caught her square in her stomach. She lost her grip on the web, free falling for a terrifying, painful moment, before metal arms scooped her up by her armpits.

Spider-Woman began to struggle, but she couldn't break free. A horrified chill settled in her stomach as she realized how much weaker she'd gotten from eating and sleeping less the past few months. And how much the blast that had singed her new suit black really hurt, like a hot iron pressed down on her. She groaned in pain, but continued to try and force her way out of the steely grip.

Iron Man only tightened her into a ball in his arms, diving back through the window of the building to the smiling face of Beck. Iron Man landed, but she was still held tight in his grasp, unable to break free as Beck approached her. She tried to rip her face away, but Beck grabbed her chin, tearing off her mask.

His clutching hand squished her cheeks together painfully as she was forced to look him in the eye. She narrowed her eyes, trying to be as threatening as she could appear.

"Hi, Penny," Beck greeted, his hand still on her face, "You were invading my privacy right now, and that's disrespectful. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

"Suck my dick!" she grit out. Beck chuckled.

"Cute kid, eh, Stark?" Mr. Stark didn't respond, still robotically still. "Put her in the cuffs. We'll see how well your new chip works in a moment."

The Iron Man suit marched across the room, forcing her into the same cuffs Mr. Stark had been placed in earlier. They locked around her wrists so tightly she felt like her hands were about to pop off.

Pleadingly, Penny stared into the face of the Iron Man armor, unable to keep the fear from her expression. Mr. Stark still had to be in there somewhere, right? The man who had ruffled her hair every chance he got, who gave her nicknames and pressed protein bars into her hands like she was in constant danger of passing out. Where was the man she had considered family?

The suit stared at her stonily. Beck stepped up behind him, a scotch in his hand and tapping something in his ear. Taking a sip, he ordered, "Break her nose."

A metal fist snapped against her face. Her head was slapped to the side at the force. She grunted in pain, gritting her teeth against a whimper as she felt blood trickle down her nose. The pain, sharp and cutting, had already receded, leaving behind a stinging numbness that was almost worse. Needles prickling at her skin.

"Good," Beck commended, "Hit her again."

He did. Repeatedly. Pulverizing her face. Butchering her skin. Crushing to her heart.

Penny tried to fight back against the pain wrecking her, lashing out with her legs, but Iron Man only gripped her ankle and broke it. The snap was lost to her scream. By the time it was all over, she was sobbing, tears mixing with blood on her cheek. Her leg was mangled, broken so roughly she could see the bone, and when she looked at it she couldn't hold back from throwing up.

Beck wrinkled his nose at the smell. The smaller man with the mustache skittered up beside him, nervous as he muttered, "I don't know if we should--"

"Shut up, Ginter. I'm having fun."

"But people will notice she's missing!" Ginter protested. Beck sighed as if the answer was obvious, his shoulders slumping.

"She's a vigilante. All we have to do is drop her body off, leave a mess and make sure our prints are nowhere near the scene. We'll never even be noticed."

Penny shivered. She was going to die. She was going to die, not alone like she'd feared, but killed by someone she loved. And, she knew, Mr. Stark would never forgive himself for this. Shakily, the girl looked up, glaring daggers at Beck. She wasn't going to let this happen. She wasn't going to die. And she wasn't going to let Mr. Stark be responsible.

Penny turned to the Iron Man armor, swallowing, she said, "Sorry, Mr. Stark."

The cuff snapped. She lashed out as quick as a whip, punching the Iron Man armor in the face as hard as she could. No holding back.

The suit flew across the room, allowing for her to break her other cuff. Strangely, the other people in the room did nothing, clearly entertained as she sprinted/hobbled over to Mr. Stark. She switched over the webs in her shooters, praying that they would work. She hadn't tried them out yet.

The suit had already recovered, standing back up and holding out a repulsor. It hit her shoulder, but she refused to stumble, fighting her way forward. Thankfully, the Iron Man armor met her halfway, barreling into her. She allowed for herself to be picked up, sticking herself to the suit and, with a last burst of energy, ripping off not only the faceplate, but the whole helmet as well.

Mr. Stark's face was just as inhuman and stern as the faceplate had been, his eyes dark and lost, unseeing. Penny gulped, aiming her wrist at the arc reactor. She shot.

Electricity flooded from the webs, leeching into the suit and crackling around it in a static fizzle. The suit dropped, Mr. Stark grunting in pain that swam in his eyes. Penny grunted as she was crushed under the suit. unable to stop the scream as it landed on her ankle, but she smiled as she heard Beck scream in protest across the room.

"NO!!!" the man yelled, beginning to sprint over, but it was too late. The chip fell from Mr. Stark's ear, clattering to the ground beside her.

He looked down, awareness in his eyes as he looked at her. She smiled weakly, the pain overwhelming.

"Hey, Mr. Stark."

She passed out.

Penny passed out.

Tony felt like he went with her, but unfortunately, he was still awake. He was still awake to remember what he'd done. The screams he'd caused, the pain he'd forced, and his helplessness to stop through all of it. And fortunately, he was still awake. He was still awake to feel the thrum of power in his armor as it recovered from Penny's electric shock. He was still awake to stand up, huddling over Penny protectively, as he took in the terrified expressions of his oppressors.

Everyone but Beck took a step back, eyes twitching to the nearest exit, prey attempting to escape. Beck held his ground, rooted to the wood of the floor as though he were made of the same material, unmoving. Tony took a step forward, metal thudding against timber, cracking under his force.

Filled with rage and beyond ready for retribution, these people were no match for him. They were unprepared to fight, and they were unprepared to fight him when he had everything to fight for. Every blast felt like retribution. Every punch payback for what they'd done to his family. He left them all in a pile, destroying their tech and having Friday alert the police.

Still seething, Tony turned to look at Penny, his rage fizzling out immediately. The teenager still lay on the ground, her head turned to the side and her ankle splayed out unnaturally. It hurt to even look at. Pain and regret bubbled up as he stepped over to her, and he had to force down sick as he kneeled down beside her.

Without his helmet, he couldn't get her stats in front of him, but Friday still reported nonetheless, "She's alive, boss, but she needs medical before that leg can heal up."

"A hospital?"

"Yes, sir."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay. I can do that." he nodded breathlessly, instructing the AI to alert a medical team beforehand and mentally preparing for the NDAs he was going to need. He slipped his arms under her as gently as he could, lifting her as he tried as hard as he could not to disturb any of her injuries. The man flew out the crumbling wall that had once been a window, zipping over to the nearest hospital as quick as he could. The wind against his face was bitterly cold, settling into his chest right alongside his too fast and too tired heart.

It took Tony too long to fly to the hospital. Penny was cold against him and he prayed that the burning cold of her skin was just the frostiness of drifting snowflakes. When he arrived there was barely any color in her cheeks, and it was all he could focus on. He ignored the stares and points as he clunked down in front of the hospital, focusing only on getting inside and shielding Penny's face.

He practically tore out of the suit, sprinting inside and almost sighing in relief as a harried team approached him. They looked panicked, clearly freaked out by the fact that Tony Stark had arrived in the middle of the night and needed their help, but they didn't ask any questions. Instead, cool professionalism fell over their faces as they ushered him into the nearest room.

Regretfully, he let Penny go. He only caught a glimpse of her pale face as he was forced out of the room, left to stare at the door in cold regret.

Tony swallowed. He needed to make some calls.

The world slipped by. Everything was bathed in haziness, washing over her in a blurry mess that left her feeling shaky down to her bones. Not that she felt like she had bones. Did she? She must. Humans have two hundred-six bones, her brain supplied helpfully, but it refused to tell her what was happening, where she was, or even who she was. All she could tell was that she had a body, and that she didn't want it anymore.

Everything hurt. It hurt so badly she wanted to scream. Not that she knew how. But the pain still escaped her, fizzling in burns everywhere it could find. There were times when the pain dulled, paired with murky voices and whirring machines floating above her, wafting along the air and drifting through her head. Most of the time the voices were unknown, lost in a sea of anonymity, but then they were gone, and someone familiar took their place.

A rough, calloused hand gripped her own, a voice matching his skin dancing gently on the air. A sorrow symphony. She focused like she'd never focused before, seeking out the voice.

"...sorry, kid," the voice mumbled, a broken sob leaking through, "I'm so sorry, Penny. I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I didn't want you to get hurt. Not--not because of me. Not ever."

Penny? Penny. She was Penny. And this was Mr. Stark.

Like a switch had been flicked, everything fluttered back. Her life, and then the night's events. Snow. Beck. Mind control. Pain. And Mr. Stark, who sat next to her right now, vulnerable in a way she'd never heard him before. It drew something out of her, catching onto her will. She squeezed her eyes, and, after a moment, they fluttered open.

The world was a sterile white. It smelt of death, chemicals, and sorrow. Or maybe that was just her. She wasn't sure.

"Penny?"

She turned her head with a wince, blinking dark spots out of her vision as she stared at Mr. Stark. He looked so helpless. Dark circles deepened his eyes, which were wary and crazed with worry. He looked like he'd aged a hundred years in an hour. She plastered on a weak smile, "Hey, Mr. Stark."

"Penny."

"You said that already." Mr. Stark huffed in dry amusement, but his face remained dark. "It wasn't your fault, Mr. Stark. He made you do it."

He shook his head, "No, kid. I--"

"You didn't want to do it."

"No. I didn't. But I still did, and now you're hurt. You almost died, Penny, because of me." She tried to protest, but her words were lost to hacking coughs. Mr. Stark grabbed her a cup of water as the racking died down, helping her sit up and drink the water from a straw. It felt like heaven against her throat, "I like your new suit, kiddo. It's real great, but you're allowed to have yours back now, if--if you want it."

"Thanks. I miss the heater," she joked, forcing down every doubt that rose to her head. What if he took it away again? For real? Would they be accompanied by the same words as last time? Cutting and tearing her down until she felt like she wasn't even a superhero anymore?

"I see your brain ticking, kiddo," Mr. Stark interrupted, "It's yours. You deserve it. Not only should it have not been taken away in the first place, you saved me tonight. And you saved the city too. They had...they had plans."

"I'm sorry I didn't realize sooner."

"No. That's not your job, kid. Even Pepper and Rhodey didn't know what to do with me. I'm the one who's sorry. I should've planned for something like this, or at least a way to keep you from being hurt."

"It's okay, Mr. Stark. I'm just glad you're okay."

He sighed, closing his eyes as though exasperated. She worried she'd done something wrong, when he smiled at her, soft and tired, "Yeah, well, I better I'm gladder you're okay."

"I don't think gladder is a word, Mr. Stark. But I missed you too."

It wasn't long before Penny fell asleep again, darkness biting at her heels. Mr. Stark sat beside her the whole time. He was there when she woke up again. He was there when she was discharged from the hospital. And he remained beside her side for the following months as everyone recovered from the shock of what had happened, patient and caring. And whenever she slipped her fingers into his belt loop, too afraid to let go, he'd press a kiss to her forehead.

Penny Parker was afraid of abandonment, but her family wasn't going to abandon her.

#peter parker #tony stark #quentin beck #female peter parker #mysterio #irondad #kidnapping #mind control #febuwhump 2021 #spiderman #Iron Man #spiderson #irondad and spiderson

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sidhewrites · 3 years

Text

Fixer-Upper

Approx 2800 words. Content warning for suggestions of death. It’s a first draft but it’s done, and it’s written. Inspired by @neighbourlypod (which I will never stop recommending for anyone who likes horror of any kind.)

Julia was dead.

Or, at least, she felt like it.

Exhaustion weighed down every inch of her body as she all but dragged herself awake in the early morning light.

She must have slept on something wrong, leaving her sore and slow. The armchair really wasn’t meant to be used as a long-term sleeping location, but it was what she had. An old hand-me-down from her father, good leather that had been stained after so much use. It was worn, but it was comfortable enough -- doubly so after she’d just woken up, and found herself just as poorly-rested as she had been the day before.

Still, Julia made herself stand before her eyes threatened to close again, and dragged herself to her feet, hitting her knee on the side table and knocking its contents to the floor -- a cup, an empty bottle of pills she had never gotten around to throwing out, and whatever book Julia had been reading last. She could clean them up later, when she was awake. First, Julia made her way to the bathroom for a shower. For once, she was grateful the water heater had yet to be repaired, but even the icy rivulets running down her skin did little to drag her tired mind closer to consciousness.

Well, she decided, that was that. No matter how much her body cried out for it, Julia was awake, and she would stay awake, at least until the afternoon. She wouldn’t so much as look at her armchair all day, not even think about sitting down until she was done with her work. Besides, the bedroom still needed to be refloored, so there was no point getting attached to a bed when it would have to be moved for a few nights at a time anyway.

When she’d bought house 19, the real estate agent had said it was a fixer-upper, perfect for a crafty-minded individual like herself. Julia had been desperate to get out of the city, to get her mind of things, and purchased the house without so much as visiting it beforehand, but she hadn’t expected just how much needed to be done until she went over the builders plans and saw that even the plumbing itself had to be redone. She’d been repairing the house for months now, and even still, there was hardly a dent in all the work that needed to be done.

Julia had been picking up the newspaper left at her door daily, though she hadn’t read them. She knew what it would say. Or at least, she knew what the important stuff would say. Her photo might be in there, if she was really unlucky, but that wasn’t something that she wanted to deal with right now. It wasn’t on the list, after all, and never would be until the house was finished. Still, newspapers would be useful for when she finally got around to painting. After that, Julia could call home, avoid her mother’s reassurances that something could be figured out. Julia would say that she was happy in her new place and that, really, you and dad should come out for dinner some time.

The very idea of hosting a dinner for her parents was enough to make her shoulders sag. She sighed, and fell into one of the plastic kitchen chairs, keenly aware that there was a better one just one room away. It was like an itch in the back of her mind now, not just to rest, but to go to the armchair itself. To lie back, and let the world fade away as she rested.

Maybe she’d sat on it wrong. Maybe she’d had a bad dream that escaped her now. Maybe everything was just catching up to her again. It had been years since she’d felt properly rested, but this was worse than normal. It was hard not to give in to the urge.

Still, she’d at least gotten the gas stove working a few days back, and that meant she had a hot cup of coffee to keep her company as she went over her work for the day. Gardening was still at the top of her list -- weeding first, and seeing if any of the old and neglected flower beds could be saved. Not likely.

She would have to stop by a store and pick up some perennials as well as some extra cleaning products later in the week. There was a smell in the living room, and nothing she had tried so far seemed to make it go away. Maybe she’d try vinegar again. Or maybe lemon juice would help? Julia had read somewhere that lemon juice helped with bad smells.

Well, it didn’t matter just then. Julia wasn’t working on the living room today. She stood up, leaving her forgotten cup to cool on the table -- the third cup in a row, it seemed -- and made a mental note to do the dishes later. Everything not on the list could be done later.

Julia, after all, did like her lists. Things were better when she could sit down and organize. Things made sense, and her skin started to crawl whenever things didn’t make sense.

So she kept to her plan. Grabbed a hat and stopped at the kitchen door to put on her dirt-covered shoes before exiting into the backyard, overgrown and covered in choking weeds. Dandelions, she didn’t mind. But the ivy had run amok in the garden, and she could only hope the trees were bare due to the autumn chill, and not because they had been killed. It would have to be cut away -- no doubt a job that was going to take days. Her garden shears were hardly sharp enough to do the job, but they were what she had. And while she could have spent the money to get a new pair, she was stubborn enough to stick with these ones until they broke.

They, like all her tools, were still in a cardboard box in what would one day be an office space. Or a guest room, depending on what she decided to do with it. Probably not a guest room, now that she thought of it. Julia didn��t exactly expect to have many visitors at her new place, nor did she want them. Not for a few months anyway. This house was perfect for keeping her mind busy, but she could already hear her mother’s usual, quiet cough of disapproval. Are you sure this is what you want to be spending your time doing, baby? Maybe a bit of ignorant encouragement, now that she thought of it. Something like I’m sure they’d understand if you just explained your side of the story.

Never mind the fact that Julia didn’t want to explain her side of the story. It was still a fresh wound, and she couldn’t imagine it would close up any time soon.

With a sigh, Julia nodded at the garden and turned back into the kitchen, crossing the yellowing linoleum floor, through the ragged carpet and odd smell in the living room, and down the hall to the spare room. Dust covered the floor, and the walls needed to be redone completely. The drywall threatened to fall off entirely, and mold peeked out from a few corners. Nothing she hadn’t seen before, and nothing she couldn’t fix. But there was one thing -- a pale square on the wall where a painting must have once stood, and a metal door set into the plaster. A safe.

She’d never lived in a house with a safe before, much less one that had been hidden behind a painting. During her first night here, she’d scoured the documents and called the realtor in search of a code, but no such thing could be found. Still, she stopped before it just as she always did upon entering the room, considering the old lock.

Just as always, Julia tried a few codes to no avail, and shrugged without disappointment. Next time, maybe, she told herself as she went for her gardening tools. Shears, thick gloves, a trowel, and a hammer. Doubtful she’d need the last one, but it didn’t hurt to have it. After all, the last thing Julia needed was to track mud all over the place because she couldn’t bring a few extra tools just in case.

Back out to the garden, where she tugged at the weeds farthest from the door first. The morning was still cold, but the temperature could crawl up unpleasantly even at this time of the year. Hours passed easily this way, hacking at leaves with her old shears, trying to decide where to toss them, trying to ignore the call of her chair back inside, where it was cool and quiet and, most importantly, comfortable enough to sleep.

But -- no. No, Julia had work to do. She had weeds to pull. Ivy and ivy, and somehow more ivy had piled onto itself as if this house hadn’t been tended to for decades, and not the six years advertised by the realtor. Regardless, Julia worked as the world woke up outside her tall wooden fence.

The two kids next door shouted as only kids could as they left for school. On the other side of her house, the smell of cookies wafted out of an open window, and she fought the urge to go over and ask for some. What sort of person went up to a neighbor's house all covered in dirt and sweat and asked for cookies? A few cars drove off, a motorist blared their music as they passed, and birds chatted tunelessly to each other.

She worked until the midmorning heat demanded she move. Julia sweated easily, and she couldn’t stand the smell of herself on top of everything else, so she stopped inside to rub herself off with a soaked towel, before going back outside to work in the shade. One of the old trees had been nearly freed of its leafy prison, and she could get to work on the weeds nearest the small deck.

As Julia worked, she added a power-washer to her ever-growing list of supplies she kept telling herself she’d get, but that meant she would have to stop work for a day and go into the town proper in order to purchase everything. Besides, having a clean deck wasn’t a priority. It could wait. The flowerbeds could wait. And the bedroom floor, surely, could wait.

A faint knock interrupted her thoughts, and she looked up from her work. From the open kitchen door, she could see through to the front door -- an old wooden thing that needed sanding and restaining at least -- and the hint of a shadow on the other side of the small frosted window.

Someone stood on the other side, knocking on her door. Someone was here.

Why?

She’d been here three weeks now, working slowly but surely through the house, and not a single person had come over to pay her any mind. Not even the kids next door had come over to ask for their ball back when they’d kicked it over the high fence.

And then she remembered the cookies. It was stupid and childish, perhaps, to hope that it was a neighbor coming over to offer some, but, as the knock came again, Julia couldn’t help but admit that’s what she wanted.

But all that kneeling over the last few hours had done a number on her knees, and it had added another layer of exhaustion onto her already tired body. She got up at a snail's pace, glad that she at least didn’t suffer from vertigo, and trudged through the house to the front door.

The shadow was gone by the time she’d gotten there. Julia peered out the window to see a woman walking away, already on her way back home. Her hands were empty, and Julia sighed. She could open the door, call out and apologize for how long it had taken her to get there. But her very bones ached, and, worse, she’d done just the thing she’d told herself not to do.

Dirt footsteps marked her trail from the back door to the front, staining the already stained linoleum and adding on to her already huge to-do list.

She sighed. Maybe she could sit for just a few minutes…

No.

No, she couldn’t sit. She couldn’t so much as think about that arm chair, with its welcoming comfort and its soft cushions that seemed almost molded to the shape of her by now. Or, barring that, she at least wouldn’t look at it. It sat there, facing away from her in the living room, and she wouldn’t look at it.

Instead, she went past it, back out to the garden.

The dirt could wait. It wouldn’t go anywhere, and it wouldn’t spread if she didn’t sweep it up right away. Still, her mother’s voice echoed in her memory -- this is how you leave the place? Why even bother cleaning at all? Never mind the fact that she was doing nothing but clean lately. A bit of a mess was tolerable, so long as she stayed on task and continued down her to do list. Today was the garden. The sweeping could be done later. Maybe tomorrow, if she really couldn’t make herself do it tonight.

So she stayed outside, vision half-blurred as she moved her tired limbs over and over again in the garden, pulling weeds and moving leaves, digging and cutting and digging and cutting. It became an easy monotony, and more than once she nearly dozed off, only to snap back into consciousness with the realization that her hands hadn’t stopped moving at all.

What did they call it again? Micro-sleep?

Maybe she shouldn’t have been working after all.

The hours wore on all the same. She worked. She dug and she cut, and soon the bright yellow sunlight turned to orange, then pink, and finally the purple rays of late sunset.

Julia didn’t want to stop, if only because it meant she would have to stand up from her spot and drag her body back inside. She was covered in dirt, and she desperately needed to wash, and she couldn’t quite remember if she’d stopped to eat at all that day.

Ah, well. No use worrying over that. She was trying to avoid thinking about the past, after all, not stew in it.

Eventually, it became dark enough that Julia had no choice but to set the trowel aside and push her groaning, tired limbs up. Half of her was desperate to just go right back to the chair and fall into it, and worry about everything else later.

It felt like she had gotten so little done today. In the dark, it almost seemed like the ivy hadn’t been cut back at all. Tomorrow, Julia would be able to take a better look at what she’d done and decide where to put the discarded vines. If nothing else, though, she could at least clean up before collapsing into the chair.

So she took her things, the shovel and shears and gloves, and rinsed them off at the leaky spigot before drying them off on her pants. She stopped at the doorway to remove her dirt-covered shoes and hat. They would be waiting for her tomorrow. In the meantime, Julia picked her way carefully around the dirt she’d tracked in earlier that day. If nothing else, Julia reasoned, she could at least put her things away overnight. Back in the cardboard box they went.

The shower was cold and bracing as it had been that morning, but, just like before, it did nothing to wake her up. If nothing else, it almost seemed to tire her out all the more.

She could change her clothes tomorrow, Julia reasoned. She’d done enough today. The weeds wouldn’t grow back overnight after all, and the dirt wouldn’t multiply when she wasn’t looking.

Finally, limbs heavy as lead, Julia allowed herself to fall into the armchair, and settle down into the place her body had once been. The cushions molded around her, all too familiar with the shape of her by now. Her flesh had turned liquid over the past three weeks, staining the leather and turning it a pale yellow as her muscles lost their structure.

She returned to the same spot nightly, too tired to see what remained of her body, crumpled and formless, and fell into yet another deep, dreamless sleep. In the morning, she’d wake up again, dead tired, and drag herself to the shower. She’d get the paper, and make herself a cup of coffee to keep her company while she planned her day. Weeding, again, most likely. It would surely take at least few more days to do.

#writeblr #writing #writers on tumblr #short story #original fiction #horror #horror fiction #writers #writers of tumblr

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kestrelmando · 3 years

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Writer Wednesday - The Phone Booth

The great @autumnleaves1991-blog has put together a weekly “Writer Wednesday” where she provides an image prompt.

This one is Jack “Whiskey” Daniels/f!OC.

Set in my, as of yet, unpublished f!OC x Whiskey series “Whiskey Smash”. Basic relevant background info; Whiskey and Mezcal (my f!OC with previous mob ties) were partners in Statesmen, just barely dip their toe into catching feelings when a near death experience with Mezcal scares him away due to his past. They haven’t talked/seen each other in a couple years at this point.

Warnings: Swear words, descriptions of a fight, impalement with a high heel, descriptions of wounds

A mission hadn’t blown up in her face like this is a long time, a really long time – the last one was years ago on that dingy rooftop where he had finally finally yanked her in and kissed her only for the night to end with her shoving him out of the line of fire. Three bullets later, two doses of Ginger’s experimental clotting serum, 3.5 liters of blood loss and she had woken up alone.

Just a note next to a vase of purple hyacinth and white amaranth; ‘I can’t do it again. – J’.

Oh, and she’d protested heavily on taking a mission in fucking New York. He was running the NYC branch, he could find someone local but Champ had insisted. It was supposed to be a simple recon mission; blend, listen, collect evidence.

Mezcal had wined and dined all evening, batting her eyelashes and smiling with doe eyes. She was this close to sticking her hand into the right pocket when someone had recognized her. He locked eyes with her across the room and recognition rippled across his face instantly. One of her father’s high level enforcers – hard to forget the boss’s daughter especially when she all but disappeared.

He knew better than to cause a scene in a private residence with stupidly rich people floating around between them. What the hell was he doing here? She made her excuses, off to powder her nose, and slipped into the empty side hallway. There was a small window in the butler’s pantry three doors down or she could try just walking out through the foyer and the front door. He’d be expecting the foyer, the cleanest exit was usually the simplest, so she made for the pantry.

She slipped off her heels and carried them, the click being far too loud on the marble floor, and quietly slid the pocket door open. The window was small, almost too small, but she was confident she’d make it and more importantly – the enforcer wouldn’t. Mezcal slid the door mostly shut and quickly went the window, shoving the frame up and grimacing at the chilly fall air.

A hand closed around her ankle just as she was halfway out, one knee dangling and the other in an awkward bend, and yanked her back. Her shoulder and head crashed against the upper window pane and frame with a crunch. Dazed, she dropped one shoe to the ground and swayed. Still, her free hand locked around the window frame. She would not be pulled back into the house – the other shoe came up, stiletto first, and embedded into his cheek.

The enforcer howled with pain, ripping it from his face with an arc of blood, and wrapped his beefy hands around both legs before dragging her back inside. They both tumbled to the ground at the momentum and she rolled to her feet, hands raised and ready for a fight.

She didn’t know how long she walked. Her head was swimming, ears were ringing. The cold autumn night bit at her bare feet and tattered dress. It was just like some rich asshole to have his home nearly on the slopes and away from everyone and everything else.

Eventually she stumbled onto a tiny town – if you could call it that. The storefronts were all long closed and she considered breaking into one for a phone and some warmth when she saw the lone phone booth. It stood out like a sore thumb, a relic even, but more secure than using a phone inside one of the stores.

She dutifully trudged to the booth and slipped inside, grimacing and checking the coin return for any spare change. At least one thing went right; seventy five cents in quarters rolled into her hand. Mezcal paused, she had to pick the right person to call and seventy five cents wasn’t going to give her long. After a mental run through of possible contacts, she sighed and let her head slump against the booth.

It had to be him. Goddamit, it had to be Whiskey.

He was all but guaranteed to be at the office still and the New York City branch was only a hour and an half by car. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, willing herself to forget his forlorn face all those years ago when he said he didn't like going home to an empty bed.

She slid the quarters into the phone and dialed the number she would never admit she knew by heart; Whiskey's direct line.

It rang twice before he picked up, voice stretched and thin, "Whiskey."

The air left her lungs and her tongue cemented itself to the roof of her mouth. Absurdly, she felt tears prick at her eyes. Even tired and lacking its usual ridiculous bounciness, it was the most beautiful sound she'd heard in ages. He sighed into the receiver.

She finally found her voice, "It's me."

He breathed her name like a prayer, "Mezcal," he paused and then pressed on more urgently, "What's wrong?"

"I'm in New York, Middletown. I need extraction. I...I was unable to get back to my planned exit."

"Darlin' are you hurt? Where in Middletown?"

She leaned out of the phone booth looking for a street sign, "Oak and Main, phone booth."

"Are you hurt?"

"Nothing a good night's sleep won't fix."

He muttered something she didn't quite catch before saying, "Sit tight, extraction comin' in a hour."

Mezcal hung up the phone, and slid the phone booth door shut in a vain attempt to stem the flow of cold air. She sunk to the floor and drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her fingers around her numb toes.

Time was immaterial; all she knew was cold. The thin dress offered no insulation and both shoes had been lost on the grounds of the target's home.

Headlights cut through the night and she raised her head to see an unmistakable white bronco and a familiar stetson emerge from truck.

He didn't send a driver.

She tried to unfold her frozen limbs but everything was sluggishly moving. Instead, she reached over and slid open the phone booth door.

He caught he gaze over the hood of the bronco. Whiskey hurried over to her and immediately bent to help her up, hissing at the iciness of her bare arms.

She let herself be pulled up, mumbling, "You didn't have to come."

He knew her meaning; he could've sent someone. Instead he just replied, "Yeah I did."

They walked back to the truck, Whiskey's hand on the small of her back, and he opened the passenger door for her. The interior light of bronco illuminated her face and his face quickly morphed into alarm. He blurted out her name, her real name. "Kenna?"

"You should see the other guy." She attempted with some bravado.

He gave her a once over in the light and all but lifted her into the truck, "Where the fuck are your shoes?"

"Just... let's go. Get the heat on, I'll tell you on the way back."

Whiskey nodded tightly but shut her door and got in on the other side. He turned on the truck, got the heater running, but didn't make a move to go anywhere. Instead he flicked on the overhead lights and reached into the back, broad shoulder brushing against her, and fished out a Statesmen first aid kit.

He opened it with a snap and began pulling out various items, not glancing up from the kit, "Start talking."

"Recon, potential medical front for a bioweapons dealer. Wasn't supposed to see any action."

She sucked in a breath when she caught his eye. Those damn eyes. His brow had that knit in it and his gaze was the same soft one it had been that night all those years ago. She pointedly did not look at his mouth.

He reached up and tucked his fingers under her chin, turning her head to apply antiseptic to a small cut near her temple and on a few scrapes along her arms. Next was a prototype field ice pack, he gave it a few vigorous shakes and the small pouch froze.

His fingers swept across her cheekbone, just below her black eye. "And who did this, sugar?"

Silence loomed between them and he frowned, anxiety swirling in his gut the longer she didn't say. His other hand crept up to cradle her neck.

"Kenna--"

"An enforcer. One of his enforcers, Jack."

The knit in his brow increased, his lips turning down into a frown. "Do we need to go take care of it?"

Mezcal smiled grimly then, "No. Dumb city kid was too enraptured by the fancy dumb waiter. The new, modern hydraulic dumb waiter."

Whiskey smirked at that and pressed the ice pack to her swollen eye. She told herself it was just her icicle limbs thawing in the warm truck, but a wave of heat rolled through her as his gaze openly drifted down her body.

He picked at the tattered line of a slit in her dress, just above her knee, "Anywhere else we need to address?"

Her mouth was a desert, "Just the usual flesh wounds."

Whiskey hummed and slid the slit over slightly to investigate, the fabric sliding across her legs and opening further up her thigh.

Like a goddamn curtain opening on a reminder of their last op together, the dress revealed the raised, white, puckered scar of a bullet wound. The same wound that nearly bled her dry in Jack's arms.

Mezcal slowly raised her head to meet his eyes and she could see it happening in real time; his eyes became distant and his expression closed off. Her heart clenched -- goodbye Jack, hello Agent Whiskey. He moved his hands to wheel and they set off back to New York City.

Later, as she took a company car to drive back to Kentucky that night, she didn't bother saying goodbye. They were back to strangers.

#writer wednesday #jack daniels #agent whiskey #agent jack daniels #kingsmen #kingsmen the golden circle #statesmen #jack whiskey daniels #jack daniels x ofc #agent whiskey x ofc #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal boys #pedro pascal characters #whiskey smash

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jvdes · 3 years

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alexa, play welcome to my life by simple plan.

or: jude’s last day of school before heading out to hawaii.

tw for part 3: violence, homophobia, slurs, abuse

7:38 am.

jude’s car was affectionately deemed The Dumb Cunt, and she’d had to work minimum wage at the Pizza Barn in the mall food court for months to afford it - wearing that ridiculous outfit, too, with the hat and everything. it kind of sucked, at least until she got fired. turns out, if you stop showing up to work, they stop expecting you to come in. wild concept.

the car was falling apart, and older than jude was, and the heater didn’t work ( which sucked, ‘cause it’s february in new york ), but it got her where she needed to go, so she loved it like a mother might love a bratty child. today, of course, she was pushing the 2001 saturn SL to it’s limit, going 50 in a 35. it seemed that she’d managed to hit every single red light on the way to school so far - how was that even possible?

she’d woken up late, the sound of her alarm worming its way into her dreams for an extra ten minutes before her dream finally turned to a nightmare and she woke with a start to the blaring noise of her phone telling her to wake the fuck up. jude was not especially adamant about punctuality, but if she was late to first period one more time, she would get an in-school suspension for sure, and then her uncle would be on her ass, and she’d be damn near ready to drive the dumb cunt right off the brooklyn bridge, so, you know.

the best part about the dumb cunt was that, unlike the heater, the radio worked like a charm, and jude had bought an aux adaptor for 11 bucks from target. it figured that she’d get pulled over while she was playing simple plan, didn’t it? they were her guilty pleasure, and she’d sooner die than put them on her playlist, but, yeah, that’s the truth: jude bright was listening to ‘I’m Just a Kid’ by Simple Plan when she got pulled over at 7:47 in the morning. yikes.

“officer,” she said, already in full ramble mode by the time she rolled down the window, “look, listen, i know i was going too fast, okay, but you don’t understand, my car - as you can see, she’s super old, and, look - ” she started, only to be interrupted. honestly, she was kind of impressed she’d made it that far. she didn’t actually know where she was going with it, either, so maybe it was better she got cut off.

“license and registration,” the cop said, and jude bit back a groan, digging through her wallet and the ever-messy glove compartment before handing them both over. the man looked them over, then took them back to his cop car, and jude briefly consider making a getaway, but then decided against it. nobody cares, ‘cause i’m alone in the world! played over her speakers, and she rolled her eyes. jesus christ.

“you know you’ve got six points on your license,” the cop said, reappearing suddenly.

“jesus fuckin’ christ, you scared me! god! you’re like the fucking... babadook, or whatever,” jude said, startled.

“you were going 20 over the limit, miss. that’s another four points. i don’t know what makes you think you’re above the law, but one more point, and your license will get suspended,” he pointed out to her, handing back over her license as he wrote her out a ticket. fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

“i was not going twenty over!” jude argued, and the cop just handed over the ticket. “motherfucker!” jude hissed to herself, before sticking her head out the window into the cold winter air as the cop walked away. “i’ll see you in court, asshole!” she shouted, flipping him off before speeding away. ( she would not see him in court. ) she glanced down at the ticket; $120. “fucking asshole, goddamnit!” she exclaimed. she was going to be late for sure.

it was just as jude pulled into the worst parking spot in the student parking lot that the dumb cunt started to make that ominous noise - hhrrr, hrrrhh, hrrhhh! like something inside of it was dying. “not now, not fucking now!” she growled, slamming a flat palm against the steering wheel and letting out a guttural scream. she had just dropped over a thousand dollars getting a new transmission. a thin, filmy white smoke began to rise from under the hood of the car, and jude blinked at it vacantly for a minute before calmly removing the keys from the ignition, getting out of the car, and closing the door.

she took a breath. “stupid motherfucking piece of shit car!” she growled, kicking the tire, which only served to make her foot hurt, without making her feel much better at all. so, she sighed, shoved the keys into the pocket of her jacket, and walked into the building.

she was only seven minutes late, but that was enough. she dragged herself into the classroom, backpack hanging from her left hand. “i know i’m late,” she said, as soon as she entered. “but, ms. march, look, you have no idea - ”

“just stop talking and i won’t mark you tardy,” ms. march said, rolling her eyes, and jude sighed in relief. “we’re doing partner work. you’re with leigh. i’m sure she’ll be happy to explain the assignment to you,” ms. march said, and she motioned to the one girl with an empty seat beside her - a girl who looked like she’d be less than happy to have to explain the assignment to jude.

jude’s day was looking up. the girl jude’s teacher pointed to had dark hair, three piercings on her left ear, and a book in her hand. she was moody, reserved, cerebral. a girl who was at least twenty IQ points smarter than jude - exactly jude’s type. she approached the girl, sliding into the seat beside her. “hey,” she said, flashing that thousand-watt grin, “i’m jude. if i’d known you’d be my partner, i would have shown up on time,” she promised. Moody Girl looked over at jude with her dark eyebrows set low on her face, and she rolled her eyes.

a girl who hated jude’s guts - exactly jude’s type.

11:36 am.

“she’s hotter than god,” jude told sammy as they sat at the lunch table that afternoon.

“i didn’t know you were religious,” sammy said flatly.

“i wasn’t until i met her,” jude joked, faking a swoon as she stole a fry from sammy’s tray.

“she’s out of your league, you know,” sammy informed her, and jude shrugged.

“yeah, but i’ve fucked girls who are out of my league before.”

sammy nodded thoughtfully. “you absolutely have,” she agreed. “speaking of girls way too good for you, word’s gotten around about you fucking stella cleary on saturday.”

jude grinned. “i appreciate the free promo.”

sammy rolled her eyes. “eric simmons in gonna beat the shit out of you, dude. i heard he’s pissed.”

jude shrugged. “not my fault she couldn’t resist me.” it would not be the first time some dude took a shot at jude for screwing his girlfriend.

“isn’t your uncle, like, sending you to hawaii to learn how to stop being such a slut?” sammy raised her eyebrows.

jude nodded a little, slightly unsure. “it might be to, like, pray the gay away. but it’s also all girls, so, you know.” jude was not interested in this bullshit trip; at least, not mostly. it was a punishment, and it was going to be preachy bullshit, and she’d have to get on a plane. but, okay, there were the tolerable parts: hanging out with hot girls on the beach, getting the fuck away from her uncle, free food. she hated it on principle, because she was being forced into it, but she wasn’t too much of an idiot to realize she could probably find a way to enjoy herself at least some of the time.

“all girls, huh? maybe you’ll meet the love of your life,” sammy suggested.

jude scoffed. “sure.”

“yeah, okay, scratch that,” sammy said, probably realizing it was a ridiculous thought. “maybe you’ll have, like, a whirlwind weekend romance. ‘cause, like, think about it - you and some hot girl, on the beach, all weekend long, and then you go your separate ways and never talk again.”

“my ideal relationship,” jude grinned.

“plus, she’ll only know you for two days, so all the shit that makes you so fucking annoying can pass for being charming,” sammy added.

jude couldn’t argue with that. “for an anti-gay retreat, it really is just giving me the perfect fucking setup to get some,” jude laughed.

“oh, totally. you’ll meet some, like, hot, repressed brunette 4H chick from arkansas, and just fuck all weekend ‘till she goes back to her, like, lacrosse player boyfriend.”

jude furrowed her eyebrows. “arkansas? what if there’s nobody from arkansas on the retreat? i’m not sure real people even live there,” jude pointed out.

sammy shrugged. “uh... a hot blonde cheerleader from san diego who looks at you like a pet but brought a ton of good drugs.” jude nodded thoughtfully. that sounded okay to her.

“alright, well, when i get on the plane, i’ll be sure to sit by a brunette chick from arkansas or a san diego cheerleader,” jude promised. at the very least, she figured that scoping out all the girls she’d be hanging out with all weekend would give her a good distraction from the fact that she was, after all, on a plane.

maybe it’d be tolerable, after all.

1:03 pm.

the only good thing about getting suspended was missing math class. that’s where jude was headed when eric simmons found her in the halls. “bright!” he called from behind her, and jude turned on her heels lazily, raising an eyebrow. when she saw that it was eric, she sighed lightly. “you fucked my girlfriend,” he announced, approaching her. he towered over her at six feet, and she knew he was banking on that being intimidating. fucking tall guys.

though people kept walking around them, a curtain of space had opened up around them, and the foot traffic slowed slightly, like the other students could sense that some kind of drama was about to go down. some kind of an innate high school ability. jude shrugged lazily and gave a little grin. “sure did. she’s totally wasted on you, y’know.”

eric’s face flushed in that bright, mottled way that only an angry white boy’s could. “druggie fuckin’ whore. what’d you do? dope her up with some of that shit you sell?” he accused. now, people were stopping to watch. eric simmons, like jude, was known for being a fighter. some kind of feeble grip on proving his masculinity, maybe. he wasn’t even any good at it - he was just big.

jude rolled her eyes. she sold weed and adderall, not fucking ketamine. who the hell did these people think she was? “no, eric,” jude said slowly, like she was talking to someone very stupid. “she was stone cold sober, far as i know. maybe she just got tired of fucking someone with a dick shorter than my thumb,” she shrugged.

he threw a punch at her then, and, much to her own surprise, ( and everyone else in the hallway’s ), jude dodged it, ducking under it. it was straight out of a movie, and when jude popped up, her face momentarily broke into one of glee, because, holy shit, that was cool.

( days later, stranded on an island with other teenagers, jude would not tell this story. with her phone at the bottom of the ocean, jude had no video proof that this had happened, and she knew that nobody would believe her without it. and that was fair; if someone else told jude that story, she wouldn’t believe it, either. )

“can’t find the clit and can’t throw a punch? maybe it’s a depth perception issue. you been to the eye doctor lately?” jude asked, the idea of just walking away not occurring to her in the slightest.

“you’re a fucking bulldyke freak,” eric spat, and jude made a fact like she was considering this.

“saying that doesn’t change the fact that you can’t make your girlfriend come,” jude said, considering maybe punching him in the face.

“you know, if you weren’t so fucking disgusting, maybe me or one of the other guys would fuck you ‘till you’re normal,” he said, and he took another step towards jude, the space between them getting smaller and smaller.

“you dream about that, huh? fucking me? something you and stella have in common, i guess,” jude said, voice now bitter, now quiet. “maybe you make a nice couple, after all.”

he hits her square in the face this time, and her lip splits open, bleeding.

( even two weeks later, it will not be fully healed - repeated trauma to soft skin. vitamin deficiencies. the ghost of a hand rubbing bloody lips absently. some environments just aren’t conducive to healing. )

she might have gone for his ribs, or maybe she reached for the nose, instead. it’s all the same to jude, flesh on flesh, until she feels his hands around her throat, the constriction of her windpipe to a thin straw of whistling air, and she blanches. it’s some kind of sick rush of adrenaline, that mantra in the back of her head, give me a fucking reason, the seeing red, and it somehow doesn’t matter that his hands are around her neck, because it’s a sick and sudden strength, and she’s shoving him back with everything she has.

his shoulders hit the plate glass window first, then his head. a gasp rose to the ceiling of the hallway as a crack grew through the class, a seismic shift, and jude almost didn’t feel the hands on her shoulders, dragging her away as blood dripped from her mouth down to the linoleum.

she was suspended for two weeks, they said. they were calling her uncle, they said. that’s what they do when you get in serious trouble - they call your legal guardian. she sat in the uncomfortable seats of the office, slumped back, neck throbbing wildly, a soft, pretty shade of pink. warm blood pooled on her jacket before slowly sinking in to the fabric.

“it’s not my fault,” she’d said, just to say something. of course, who was she kidding? it would be stupid to expect anyone to listen to her. and anyways, they were already calling her uncle.

i’ve been hit enough for today, she thought, shoving her hands into the pockets of her jacket and balling them into fists. he’s not gonna fucking touch me this time. i’m not gonna let him fucking touch me.

of course, that was what jude always said.

#ive never been pulled over can u tell.#part one is like 'heres some fun backstory on jude and her old job and her guilty pleasure band!'#part two is like 'heres a fun conversation with jude's friend about what she thought dawn of eve was!'#part three is like 'here's jude getting her ass beat!'#／ JUDE . ABOUT !#wilds.musings #i can only assume jude's car is still in her high school parking lot.... sad

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virtueangel · 4 years

Text

limitless.

chapter nine.

wc: 2,350. original publish date: october 19, 2020.

The morning fog is crisp against the windows of the car, condensation bubbling against the glass.

"Do you actually have a plan, or are we just driving willy-nilly?"

JFK grins at his reflection in the rearview mirror. "I have a plan!"

Van Gogh glares at the boy playfully.

"Okay, that plan might involve driving willy-nilly."

"Well, I guess that's still technically a plan..." Vincent laughs. And then, "Wait, I actually have a legitimate idea."

"No you don't," Kennedy jokes.

This earns him another glare from his best friend. "Did you see the general store when we first drove in?"

JFK nods. "You think they'd have stuff there?"

Vincent shrugs. "It's worth a shot. I mean... someone's gotta be living in this town, right?"

"Well, they don't have to do anything. It really could just be abandoned."

"So why are the roads so fresh?"

"Fresh?"

Gogh rolls his eyes impatiently. "You know what I mean. Clean. Maintained."

JFK goes silent, and at first Van Gogh worries that he's been too pushy, too pretentious, but Kennedy is only thinking.

"Maybe there's a groundskeeper," he suggests, and Vincent looks up at him with knit brows.

"One, for a whole town?" He sits back in his seat. "That hardly seems feasible."

John shrugs, keeping his eyes on what he can see of the road. "The wear in the houses is... I don't know. Formulaic, I guess is the word."

Vincent raises an eyebrow at the boy. "Maybe you mean fabricated?"

JFK nods eagerly. "Yes! Fabricated! That's exactly the word!"

Van Gogh snorts. "What, like someone built this hellhole to look the way it does?"

"It doesn't sound ridiculous coming from your mouth."

"Maybe not, but it would sound ridiculous coming from yours."

Kennedy shoves the boy playfully. "Asshole."

Vincent shoves him back, but doesn't throw an insult.

The boys drive in pleasant silence for a few moments longer, both sitting contentedly in their pyjamas, the seat heaters turned up to high. The windows are fogged over and Van Gogh draws a smiley face with his finger, dotting the eyes so firmly his bent finger turns yellow.

"You know that won't come off without, like, Windex or something, right?"

Vincent flashes his most innocent smile. "Oops."

JFK grins without looking at the boy, and Gogh's breath catches at the sight of his Colgate-white teeth.

"We're here," Kennedy says not a minute later, the low rumble of the car engine ceasing. He and Van Gogh unbuckle their seatbelts at the same time; they seem always to be in unison.

The wooden porch is wet and soft, lichen eating away at it. The door is hanging lopsided off the hinges, but only just enough; there's nothing wrong with the hardware.

"Looks like someone hung it like that on purpose," Vincent mutters as he walks through the door.

JFK turns around, his lips parting in satisfaction. "Told you."

"No, John, you did not 'tell me' anything. This is one bang-up job. Next you're gonna say someone planted the lichen on the porch?"

Kennedy lengthens his gaze to the deck. "It's possible."

Van Gogh rolls his eyes. "You're incorrigible."

"And you're fastidious."

"That's not even how you use that word!"

"Fastidious!" JFK insists.

The boys bicker all the way through the store, picking whatever looks edible off the shelves. Vincent checks a few expiration dates, and most of the refrigerated items have gone bad, but the shelved items are still safe to eat. He makes JFK carry it all, and to his pleasant surprise, the boy doesn't protest.

"Are we just supposed to steal all of this?" Gogh asks, concern washing over his face.

"There's no cashier."

"I know. That's what prompted the thought."

John looks around some more. "We could leave a note and check back tomorrow," he suggests, which is a real solution. Van Gogh didn't think he had it in him.

"Do you have a pen and paper?"

JFK peers over the counter and nods toward something. "Behind the cash register is a stack of Post-Its and a Sharpie. I obviously can't get it, with all the shit you made me hold."

Vincent rolls his eyes. "Everything's so difficult."

"Hey, I'm doing a good thing for you!"

Van Gogh turns around to show his best friend his smile. "I know that. I'm just kidding."

"Sometimes it's hard to tell."

"I guess that's one of my many shortcomings." When JFK doesn't reply, Vincent adds, "That was a joke. You can laugh."

But John doesn't.

Van Gogh doesn't seem to notice his best friend's silence as he scribbles down on the Post-It. He turns around and takes bags of chips from Kennedy's arms, recording the prices and the quantities. "Can I have your phone?" He asks.

"What about yours?" JFK replies, holding the snacks against his chest with one arm while pulling his phone out of his back pocket nonetheless.

"It's dead. I forgot to charge it last night. And you know its battery doesn't do well in the cold."

"Neither does yours, apparently," John says under his breath, but he doesn't mean it as a jab.

Vincent ignores the boy's comment, choosing to interpret it as a joke. He begins punching numbers into Kennedy's calculator app, adding up the prices and writing down a grand total at the bottom of the Post-It. He peels it off from the rest of the pad and is about to stick it to the desk computer before deciding to leave their names and JFK's phone number, just in case.

John glances over Vincent's head at the neon green paper stuck to the computer and snickers to himself.

"What?"

"Nothing, just... are they going to know that we're clones? They might just think we're trolling them."

Van Gogh looks back at the Post-It and can't help but giggle. "God, you're right. Here, we can give ourselves fake names."

"I'll be Jack Kensington, FBI detective."

Vincent laughs, scribbling over the boy's real name. "I'm not writing the last part."

Kennedy shrugs. "Suit yourself." And then, "Who are you going to be?"

"I'll be Victor Hughes."

"That's so boring."

"Who should I be instead? Victor Frankenstein?"

"Yes! That's better."

Van Gogh rolls his eyes, but there's still a smile on his rose-painted lips. "No, that's ridiculous. I can't steal Mary Shelley's OC."

"OC!" Kennedy laughs. "Frankenstein is a classic novel!"

"Mary Shelley still thought of Victor Frankenstein herself! That's what an original character is."

JFK shrugs. "Fair enough."

John and Vincent walk back to the car in favourable silence, smiles still pulled taught across both of their lips. Van Gogh has to channel every ounce of restraint in his body to keep his lips from parting into an overeager grin. He can't remember the last time he was this happy. It's always been him and JFK, but never like this. There was always someone else in the picture, someone Kennedy had to get away from to tend to Gogh. But now, it's just the two of them without any responsibility. Just the boys and a shiny red convertible, with all the time in the world.

"Oh, wait, I have to run back inside real quick," John says, dumping his armfuls of snacks into the backseat.

Van Gogh freezes, his arm hovering above his seatbelt. "How come?"

Kennedy shifts uncomfortably, trying to pull a secure lie out of thin air. "Uhh... I think I left my phone on the counter in there. I'll be right back."

When the boy turns around, Vincent can see his bright red, caseless iPhone tucked into the back pocket of his khakis.

Vincent waits in the car, staring out the windshield and picking at a loose thread in his flannel pyjama pants. God, I can't believe I'm wearing these out, he thinks. They're so ugly. Who even wears flannel anymore?

Kennedy comes out of the general store four minutes later, hugging two pairs of dark green rain boots to his chest.

"It's not raining, John. It's just fog," Vincent says with a smirk as the boy gets into the car.

He passes the smaller pair of boots to his best friend. "I had to guess your size. Six, right?"

Vincent takes the boots skeptically. "Yes... What are these for?"

JFK looks at Van Gogh with a wide grin. The grey light from the fog bounces off the white of his teeth. "You'll see! Just put them on."

Van Gogh obeys, and begins untying his Keds. His socks only go up to his ankles which may be a problem in the boots, but he doesn't care. His stomach is doing that whirlpool thing again, but this time, it feels good. He could drown, but it wouldn't hurt because he knows he'd be drowning in Kennedy.

John exchanges his sneakers for the boots before buckling his seatbelt and starting the car. He holds one hand over the clutch, the other draped over the steering wheel. He turns to his passenger, the orange of his hair bright against the cool paleness of his skin. JFK sinks in his brown eyes, but it's not suffocating like it usually is. His stare is soft, inviting. Kennedy relaxes, his eyes smiling in conversation. "Ready?"

Vincent nods eagerly. "Yeah. Yes, I'm ready."

The boys drive through town, and Vincent is convinced that they're lost. He's about to open his mouth in protest, but JFK shushes him. "We're almost there, I promise."

"Do you actually know where we're going?"

John giggles. "Yes, I know where we're going! I know you're not used to not being in control, but please trust me."

The comment stings, Vincent has to admit. But paired up with please trust me, he lets it go. He does trust JFK. He didn't always, but he does right now. Their silence is pleasant, and Kennedy says he knows where they're going.

Kennedy stops the car at the far end of town, past all the houses. The thick grove of trees is spread out through the windshield, but there's still a fair bit of marshland in front of them, sticky and wet under the car.

"Your tires are going to get so dirty," Vincent comments.

JFK leans forward to pinch the boy's cheek. "Nobody cares about that except for you, Vinny." He opens the car door and climbs out, the mud of the marsh oozing around his boots.

Vincent, still in warm and gooey shock from the nickname, melts into his seat until Kennedy knocks on the window. "Hey, Minivan! You coming, or what?"

Van Gogh pushes the door open, playfully knocking John in the hip. "I'm coming!"

The boys slosh through the marsh, the mud squeaking beneath their boots. Vincent nearly slips and has to grab onto Kennedy's arm for support. JFK sneaks a glance at the boy, smiling to himself as he struggles to keep steady through the wet earth. John stealthily wraps his arm around Vincent's torso, pulling him close and holding him firmly. Van Gogh slings his own arm across John's back, letting the boy support him as he walks through the uneven terrain.

"Thank god you bought us boots," Vincent laughs nervously, an unsure headache starting to set in. His nostrils are clogged with the scent of JFK; this, too, is uneven terrain.

John glances down at the boy affectionately, his gaze soft. "I know you don't like to get dirty, Vincent."

Van Gogh looks up at Kennedy then, and it's a miracle the taller boy had looked away before Vincent could catch him staring.

They walk through the marsh, commenting and giggling, pointing out frogs and funny-shaped pebbles and whatever thoughts pop into their heads. The boys sneak glances at each other as they walk and talk, their stomaches lurching with excitement and nervousness each time they think the other might've caught them staring.

At one moment, though, Vincent and John glance at each other at the same time, their cheeks immediately flushing pink as they look into each other's eyes. Neither of them look away, waiting for the other to say something, to know if this is safe territory or not.

Van Gogh takes a deep breath in preparation to speak at the same time that Kennedy says, "Vincent."

His voice is breathy and serious, and Vincent can't look away. He swallows. "John."

Gogh takes a deep, shaky breath, summoning all the courage he has left in him. "I really want to..." He lets his voice trail off into the cool April air, his eyes flicking between Kennedy's lips and the rest of his face.

"I know," JFK replies. He opens his mouth to agree, but his voice gets stuck in his throat. Instead, he repeats himself. "I know."

"Can I?"

"Yes," John replies too quickly.

It doesn't matter to Vincent. Consent is consent, and he's been waiting for his best friend's for years. He hasn't known it until now, but it's an explanation for all of his stomachaches, all of the twisting he felt in his chest when he saw JFK with Cleo, with other girls.

His eyes flutter shut as he raises himself to his tiptoes, shifting his arm from Kennedy's back to cradle the nape of his neck. John leans down to meet him halfway, his arm still wrapped tightly around the boy's abdomen. Their lips brush softly, innocently, and Vincent is immediately filled up with butterflies, their wings eager and flapping rapidly against the inner walls of his body.

JFK kisses back just as softly, and it's a different kiss than anything he's ever felt. His stomach knots itself with excitement, and he's falling through the sky, but he knows he's going to have a soft landing.

Vincent breaks away first, his eyes staying shut for a millisecond longer than they need to.

"I've been waiting years for that," JFK replies, his voice low and his eyes twinkling.

"How long?" Van Gogh whispers back, his tone just as light.

"I don't know."

"Me neither."

"Can we go again?" Kennedy asks after a moment, his eye contact with Van Gogh never breaking for a second.

Vincent nods, and John leans in. They are arms wrapped around torsos and around necks, hands in hair and on faces. In this moment, Van Gogh doesn't mind the ooze of the mud beneath his feet, and Kennedy doesn't mind the stillness of the kiss.

#limitless #clone high jfk #clone high van gogh #jfgogh

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honeybakedwham · 4 years

Text

Finding His Warmth

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・

♡Read this on ao3!

♥ Or visit my ao3!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・

The water heater is broken, and Jet is waiting till they get to some asteroid orbiting Ganymede to fix it. Since, apparently, he has some old friend there that'll sell him the parts or repair it or something for way cheaper than the going rate. Or whatever. Faye wasn't really listening all that hard. Too busy lamenting the loss of hot water to pay attention.

Jet and Spike begrudgingly deal with it. Spike only complains the first two days. Jet says it's not the first time it's happened, probably won't be the last. Ed and Ein don't even seem to realize anything was different.

Faye, however, whines and whines and refuses to shower to try and get it fixed faster. Even though all she does is complain, her efforts fail.

The water stays cold.

But she won't be showering in freezing cold water, thank you very much.

Not that she could if she wanted too.

Last time she tried, she immediately fell into a panic attack that sent her reeling and careening sideways down to the shower floor. She could feel the sting of cryo freeze snaking its way across her body, starting at the tips of her toes and spiderwebbing up. Faye snapped out of it an hour later, when Jet dropped something loud and metal down the hall and swore loudly. Her fingers and toes were numb, and she felt frozen down to the bone.

She didn't try again.

________

She's starting to envy the kid a little, and how easy things seem to be to her, when they stop to chase a bounty head on some random rock three days away from Ganymede.

She is watching some stupid show over Spike's shoulder when Jet starts to tell her about the guy they're going to go chase down. However, he is quickly cut off by Faye, proclaiming she will be on strike from now until the water heater is fixed. She knows it's petty, but she is so irritated that she seems to be the only one majorly inconvenienced by the stupid cold showers.

She is even more irritated when Spike and Jet do nothing more than look at her, look at each other, shrug, then go back to what they were doing before she walked in. She growls and walks out.

________

Before Spike and Jet head out, Spike tries to hands her a backpack and a sealed envelope.

"Since you're free," damn him, "mind delivering this for me?" Faye initially says no, but then Spike tilts his head and attempts to persuade her, using dinner as a bribe.

"I'll bring you your favorite." he singsongs. Faye snorts.

"Please! You don't even know my favorite!" she thinks she won and turns her nose up at him. She can't see Spike's self-satisfied smirk.

"Shrimp lo mein with an extra side of oyster sauce. You like to pick out all the shrimp and dip it in the sauce, then eat the lo mein, and then you eat the vegetables after with the rest of the sauce." Faye snaps her head to look at him in genuine shock, which he just smirks wider at.

"H-how?" she shakes her head and, in a huff, snatches the bag and letter away from him. Finally agreeing to deliver his "stupid package."

________

Faye leaves shortly after they do, saying goodbye to Ed and only getting a bark from Ein in response. Making her way through the city streets, she can only think about Spike. When did he suddenly notice all these things about her? Who the hell does he think he is! She works herself into such a tizzy over the whole situation, she forgets all about her plan to snoop around in the bag and open the envelope. It's not until shes turning onto the city block Spike refers to in the written directions he gave her that she even realizes what she's doing. She fades back into reality and goes to look for the address numbers but spots the painted addresses on the sidewalks bordering the street. It actually does wonders to make it seem more decorated, a little unique touch, and Faye appreciates each one while searching for the numbers Spike specified.

She finds it at the end of the block, it's only when she goes to look at the name she realizes it's in Japanese. Faye whirls around, it's all in Japanese. Every few shops, she'll spot a few lines in English or a smattering of other languages. But every sign and banner and poster, on every store window, is in Japanese. Where did Spike send her?

A fragrant wave of ylang-ylang swirls around as she tentatively enters the store. It's a bath product shop. Faye stands for a moment and takes in the carefully placed hills of fancy soaps, shelves lined with facemasks, the little makeup counter set perpendicular to the main checkout counter. Idly wondering what's behind the beads covering the doorway next to the main counter, She walks up to deposit the backpack on the unused portion of the checkout counter. Considering calling out to see if anyone's there, she spots the little bell on the counter. Luckily the sign next to it has an English translation, cheerfully telling her to ring for assistance. Taking the direction, Faye starts to poke around as she waits. She turns at the sound of the bead curtain rustling and is greeted by two happy wrinkled faces. She smiles back and, a little awkwardly, greets the old couple.

"Hi, I'm here to drop something off. It's for a Mr. and Mrs. Watanabe? Am I in the right place?" Faye trails off a little at the end, realizing all signs point to them not speaking English. She is grateful to be proved wrong by the couples fast nodding and shuffling to stand behind the counter.

"Ah! Yes, yes, that would be us!" They both spoke together as if they were one person, speaking a long run-on sentence, taking turns at every comma. "You've come to the right place, dear."

"Great." Faye finally relaxes a little at the evidence that Spike didn't lead her into some weird, dangerous trap. Apparently, he just wanted her to drop something off to some random old couple. Who, luckily, speak really good, only lightly accented English. She wonders how he knows them as she takes out the letter and nudges the bag forward. She is about to walk out when she remembers what Spike asked of her before leaving with Jet.

________

"Please make sure they read the letter. Just stay until at least one of them opens and reads the entire thing, okay? Then you can find a casino to gamble your life away in." He tossed the last sentence over his shoulder just before the door shut. A wise decision considered had he stayed she would've kicked his ass.

She was thankful he did go, it would have been remarkably embarrassing had he stayed and witnessed her childishly stick her tongue out at his retreating figure.

________

"I was told to wait until you read the letter before I go so um." God, she was so awkward today. Faye tried to laugh to erase the discomfort, but she wasn't sure it worked. They all looked down at the letter. Mr. Watanabe questioned her as Mrs. Watanbe pulled a letter opener out of a hidden drawer.

"Who did you say this was from again, Dear?"

"Do you know Spike Spiegal?" please say yes, please say yes. They both light up.

"Oh, Spike!" They laughed and quickly cut through the top of the envelope. "Oh, we know all about him!"

"How is he, dear? Still rushing around, causing trouble?" Mrs. Watanabe said it with such genuine warmth, Faye was taken aback for a moment. When she finally choked out a little yes Mrs. Watanabe just hummed and unfolded the letter.

"Of course he's causing trouble, love, it's Spike! Trouble runs through his veins!" Mr. Watanabe proclaims, and the couple shares a laugh before they settled to read through the letter together. Faye just stands there silent, a little helpless and watches. She's even more confused now than when she started this whole delivery journey! Spike sure doesn't make anything easy for her.

A couple moments pass with only quiet snickers from Mr. and Mrs. Watanabe. Faye is surprised to watch them finish the letter and move to pull a thin bundle of woolongs from the envelope. Mr. and Mrs. Watanabe share a knowing, sentimental glance. They set the note down on the counter, Mr. Watanabe sighs.

"Oh, Spike, such a good boy." Mrs. Watanabe nods as she walks around the counter and starts picking up items seemly at random.

"He's always been such a sweetheart, hasn't he?" Mr. Watanabe hums back, drumming his fingers across the countertop. Well, they seem to think highly of him. Faye takes a quick glance at the letter but can't make it out since its upside down and...in Japanese. Faye is once again taken aback. What is going on?

"Spike speaks Japanese?" She's just thinking out loud, but she gets a response anyways. Mr. Watanabe doesn't bat an eye at the confusion in her tone.

"Spike is Japanese. Big community there on Mars, you know." No, she didn't know, thank you very much. She barely turns when Mrs. Watanabe speaks up from behind her, not really even registering what she said.

"And how dare he think he needs to pay. Stubborn boy." Faye snaps to attention when Mr. Watanabe turns to scribble something down. She gives in to impulse and snaps a photo of the letter with her communicator. Spike may think she drains her cut at the casino, and he's not exactly wrong, but sometimes she'll buy useful things. Like this new communicator with a lovely camera upgrade and data roaming with internet access. The photo is saved and shoved back in her pocket right as Mr. Watanabe turns back around and hands her the backpack. She is about to question him, but Mrs. Watanabe swoops in and is ushering her through the beaded doorway. The two women get halfway up a flight of stairs before she thinks to ask where the old woman was taking her.

"To the bathing rooms, of course!" Mrs. Watanabe glances back at Faye, obviously confused silence and chuckles. "Spike said you're having a problem with the water heater? Poor girl. That sounds very frustrating. You're lucky it's a bathhouse too! I make all soaps in-house, you know!"

Faye tunes out the rest of the old woman's chatter about the idiosyncrasies of soap. There are too many thoughts swirling around her head for her to focus on. Spike paid for her and better yet he bribed her to.....take a bath? Does she smell that bad? She's starting to feel a little self-conscious when Mrs. Watanabe turns and opens a door at the end of the upstairs hallway. She dumbly stands there as the old woman quickly sets down towels on a stool next to a big round tub on the far wall. Faye takes in the room as Mrs. Watanabe turns on the tap lines up soaps and a few jars on the tile steps leading up into the tub. The wall to the left of the tub has a large shower room built into it with a cascading shower head. Parallel to the shower is a chaise lounge big enough for three people squished together.

Faye is starting to get really annoyed with feeling confused. She's gonna assume it shows if Mrs. Watanabe's giggle is to be trusted. The other woman pats her arm softly as she goes to leave.

"Take as long as you'd like, dear! Spike says everything you'll need is in your bag, but I left you a few extra goodies to try out. You know us old ladies, we just can't help it." Mrs. Watanabe seems to say the last part more to herself as she shuts the door. Faye just stands there a moment to fully take in the strangeness of the day in silence.

Springing into action, Faye flicks the lock and rips the backpack open to find, to her absolute horror, that Spike had neatly packed all her toiletries inside. He even packed her a damn change of clothes! Including underwear! What the hell! Who does Spike Spiegal think he is!?

She opens the photo of the letter she took as she turns off the flow of hot water to the tub. The room is quickly filling with steam, and Faye kind of wants to cry with how excited she is. Regarding the photo doesn't yield any results since she still can't speak Japanese, but an idea forms. A quick web search later, she finds a cheap translator A.I. to do her bidding. The photo is sent, service paid for, all before shes finished undressing.

________

It's 30 or so utterly relaxing, lazy minutes later when her communicator pings on top of the pile her clothes make by the soaps Mrs. Watanabe set out for her. Faye barely turns her head towards it before snorting and eases further into the honey-orange blossom scented bubbles. The scent is doing wonders as it swirls and swirls and mixes with the vanilla of the cream face mask she decided to try. A quiet, embarrassingly happy noise escapes her.

Several more calm moments pass before being swiftly broken by Fayes eyes snapping open and her hastily snatching up her communicator. Fumbling it open while trying not to drop it in the tub, she navigates the A.I.'s messages. The first message is a standard 'Thanks for your business blah, blah, blah' bullshit. There's an attached invoice telling her how much she paid and the customer service number. She scrolls as quickly as she can, then she's staring at the translation file. Honestly? She's a little hesitant to open it. Shaking her head of the thought, she clicks and dives in.

Hey guys, Sorry I couldn't come by in person. You know how work is. Anyway, the girl delivering this for me is Faye. She's a good friend of mine and has been traveling with Jet and me for a while now. Recently our water heater broke, and we've only been able to take cold showers. This has been hitting Faye the hardest, so I figured the only option was to send her to you guys. I know you'll take good care of her. I think I've sent along enough woolongs to cover everything (please take them), and Faye should have everything she needs in the bag. I'll stop by and see you on my way back by. And don't you think I won't be there for your birthday, Mrs. W. It's not every day a girl turns 67. Thank you for doing this, guys. I'll see you soon. Stay safe, Spike ________

Faye moved only once, to set down her communicator and to lean back in her original spot. She sits perfectly still,

and thinks.

________

It's a long time before she comes back to herself.

Her eyes are burning. She thinks it's the face mask for a split second until she accepts it from unshed tears.

She doesn't know why she's crying.

Maybe because the letter sounded nothing like the Spike she knew.

Maybe because she didn't know he was this thoughtful.

Maybe because, while she knew this whole thing was exactly something he would do, she never thought he'd do it for her.

After all, this is what Spike does. His M.O.

Claims he hates dogs, then save one and takes care of the thing.

Claims he hates kids, then does nothing to stop one joining the crew.

Claims he hates women with attitude, then set up this whole thing for her. Even going as far as to disguise it as an errand, realizing she would probably turn her nose up at the charity to stay unattached.

Spike paid for her, insisting Mr. and Mrs. Watanabe take money that he could really use, knowing they would have done all this for free anyways. And she knows he'll keep his promise and come back for Mrs. Watanabe's birthday. Probably even bring her a gift.

Faye tries so hard to think of all the different gifts Spike might buy in a last-ditch effort to not think about how well he apparently knows her. How he so quickly figured out her stupid issue with the cold.

A sudden burst of annoyance makes her lose her train of thought. Losing her train of thought sends her spiraling down into an often ignored memory.

________

She had been about to nap, but her room was the furthest away from the heating unit. So, she moved into the living area where the heater was centered around, picking up a couple of blankets and her pillow. She'd just have to make do with the couch then. She starts to pray for no one to be there but remembers the scene that unfolded the day before. Where Ed sang a song about someplace she wanted to go see on the planet, they were docked at, and Ein yipped and yapped and ran circles around her and Jet, the object of their torment, sat and rubbed his temples. He lasted all of 15 minutes before he gave up and promised to take them the next day. Thank god for kids. She has her pillow down, swathed in her blankets, and had just gotten comfortable when he spoke.

"Chilly?" she squeezed her eyes shut tighter. Damn it, Spike.

"Just like being warm." It was a totally nonchalant reply, even a little snooty as a hint to back off, yet her cool came crashing down with his next comment.

"Bad memories from cryo?" she didn't reply. Couldn't.

She flipped over, so she was facing the back of the couch. They both knew she couldn't handle him seeing the truth etched into her expression.

Spike didn't speak again, and she didn't want him to.

A few minutes passed in labored silence before she heard him get up to leave. The lights dimmed. She was about to check if he was gone. A third blanket was draped over her before she could. It smelled like him. He quietly walked away.

She dreamt of him all afternoon.

________

Of course he figured out why she hated being cold. And of course he went and found her a solution until the problem could be fixed. She tried comforting herself with the fact it was only a temporary one. Still, she was tossed off that track when she thought about how it would absolutely last her the three days until the water heater would be fixed.

God! Spike really doesn't make anything easy for her! Faye could hate him if her eyes weren't still shining with tears.

________

A few hours later, she emerges, clean and fresh, and Mr. and Mrs. Watanabe beam when they see that she's obviously feeling much better. Mr. Watanabe asks her to wait a moment and disappears, while Mrs. Watanabe questions her on the products she left her. They push a letter into one hand and a gift bag full of everything Faye liked into the other, refusing her money and shoving her out onto the street.

"Come back anytime, dear!" "Yes, you're always welcome!" "Oh, and tell Spike to come to visit more!" "And to stay out of trouble!"

She laughed and promised each one as she traced her original path. Thankful shes alone when she gets to the empty warehouse block she parked her ship by, she starts skipping.

She hums the entire way to the Bebop.

________

Jet and Spike aren't back yet. Instead, Ed and Ein comment that she looks "Happy Happy!" and they both start barking as Ed cartwheels after her. Faye just smiles, settling down with a magazine to wait for the boys.

________

Jet and Spike trudge in looking a little worse for wear but satisfied. Ed and Ein run circles around Jet as he tries to make his way to the kitchen without tripping. Spike collapses onto the couch next to her and picks up her discarded magazine to flick through. She shifts her position so she can see his expressions under the guise finding the light to better file her nails. His lips twitch up when shes settled. He doesn't look at her.

"Enjoy your day?" Smug, Of course. She sighs but can't keep the little smile off her face when she says yes.

"Unfortunately, it was lovely." He hums noncommittally. "They sent you this." She pulls out the envelope they sent back with up for him to see.

This time he does look up at her. His smirk softens into something affectionate, as he rips the top of the envelope. She once again tries to sneak a peak, but unsurprisingly it's in Japanese. His smile eased into a slightly sour frown when he pulled out the thin bundle of woolongs he tried to pay them with. He mutters something she can't catch and tucks the letter and bills inside his suit's inner chest pocket. Faye bites her lip but asks anyway.

"Who were they?" She's praying Spike will quell her curiosity, but she isn't betting on it. She's a little worried he'll get mad at her for asking. He's been so sweet today, she, for once, doesn't want to piss him off. He doesn't answer for several moments, then his smile returns. Her body relaxes once more.

"Old friends. I...I've known them a long time." Faye nods. Silence overtakes again before she can muster up the courage to say what's on her mind. She doesn't really know what to say.

"Thank you, Spike. Really." Is what she settles on. When he looks at her, Faye knows he's seeing through her defenses. Thick walls, made of solid steel, yet she knows it's just like thin glass to him. He doesn't respond, just squeezes her leg, smiles knowingly.

He doesn't move his hand until Jet, and his two new shadows, make their way back into the living room. Spike goes back to the magazine. She is about to go back to filing her nails, but a take out carton is deposited in her lap. A big hand with long, slender fingers set a little cup of oyster sauce on top of the carton. Spike winks when he catches her eye. Faye's head snaps to look at her food, but she still feels the vibrations of his quiet laughter buzz through her from where he pressed his has knee against hers. Ed hands her a pair of chopsticks and starts to chatter to Jet and Spike about what she and Ein did that day when they all were gone. Faye tunes it out, she had already gotten the full spiel when she got back earlier. She breaks the chopsticks, opens the oyster sauce, and is taking a bite of shrimp when she pauses and just stares down at her food. Why is she so surprised that he brought her food. It was the bribe he used.

Spike nudges her and sends her yet another secret little smile. Faye sends him one back and finally digs in.

________

And later that night, when she hesitantly knocks on the door to his room, she knows she really should stop being surprised by Spike Spiegal.

Faye knows she shouldn't be surprised when he answers the door wearing a pair of old faded pajama pants and that knowing smile.

Spike winds an arm around her waist and draws her inside. He shuts the door behind her.

He's so calm.

"Took you long enough."

They both laugh softly as he guides her to his bed, coaxing her under his covers.

________

Faye is warm when she wakes, tangled in his sheets, tangled in his arms. With his chin tucked over her head and his heart beating in her ear. Shifting, she nestles her head back under his.

Spike tugs her closer and mumbles her name in his sleep. Her heart skips a beat, and she glows.

She's warm when she goes back to sleep.

And it's the easiest thing she's ever done.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・

♡♥ Thank you so much for reading ♥♡

#cowboy bebop #spike spiegal #faye valentine #spike x faye #fanfiction

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rosegoldannie · 5 years

Note

Something about Rowaelin Pregnancy ❤️

YES !!!

Rowan awoke to an empty, cold bed, his... Aelin... nowhere to be found. At first, he thought nothing of it. Sometimes, he knew, Aelin woke up early and went for a run, or drove to the store to get some groceries, but she always left a note. This time, there was no note.

After searching through every room in their small townhouse, he began to worry, and whipped out his phone and typed a quick message.

- Hey, call me when you get this

He stared and stared at the screen, waiting for those blessed bubbles to appear, signaling her impending reply, but none came. Rowan checked out the front window, and saw that Aelin’s car was gone, and its usual space was covered in snow. A sickening feeling settled in his gut. Had she left him? No. No, Aelin wouldn’t, at least not without a text or note.

After an hour, Rowan called one of Aelin’s close friends from work. He didn’t particularly like the guy, but had nothing against him. Rowan knew he was a good guy, but didn’t like how quiet he was. “Hey, Rhys. It’s Rowan, Aelin’s friend.” He said, hating the slight tremor in his voice.

“Hey, what’s up?” Rhys replied, sleep clouding his words.

“Have you heard from Aelin today? She’s not at home, and I don’t know where she is,”

Rhys instantly sounded more awake. “No, sorry. Here, I’ll give Feyre the phone, and I’ll be right over.” A slight ruffle, then a woman’s voice replaced Rhys. “Rowan? It’s Feyre. What’s going on?”

Inwardly cringing at the commotion he was causing by interrupting their saturday morning, Rowan ran a hand through his silver hair. “I can’t find Aelin anywhere, and-” His throat tightened to the point of pain, and his voice gave out. “Shit, I just have a bad feeling.” He rasped.

Feyre’s voice took on a comforting, motherly edge. “No worries, Rhys will be there soon. In the mean time, why don’t you try to call her?”

Good idea.

Rowan picked up their clunky landline, and dialed Aelin’s number. It went to voicemail after several rings. He tried again several times, only to get the same result. “Nothing.” He whispered, eyes clenching shut.

Though she tried to hide it, he could hear Feyre’s worry in her tone. “Alright, I’m going to drop the kids off at the babysitter’s house, and I’ll help you look.” With that, Feyre hung up, and Rowan caught a small voice speaking in the background, which he knew to be their daughter, Zoe.

Several minutes later, a sharp knock sounded, and he opened to door to find Rhysand, still clad in his snowman pajamas. Rowan threw on his nikes, and followed Rhys out to his car. “Thank you for helping me,” Rowan murmured, feeling slightly awkward.

Rhys glanced over at him, the car speeding through the snow-covered streets. “No problem. Where to?”

He directed him to Aelin’s cousin and best friend, Aedion and Lysandra’s, house. They hadn’t seen Aelin, and hadn’t heard from her, too wrapped up in their newborn, whom they had just brought back from the hospital a few weeks prior. Aedion told him not to worry though, because Aelin’s phone was probably just dead.

When they returned to the car, Rowan broke down. Hot tears streamed down his cheeks, his face buried in his hands. Instead of a half-hearted pat on the shoulder, Rhys pulled him into a hug. “I know, we’ll find her.” he murmured.

Rowan pulled back, wiping away his tears. “I’m probably over-reacting,”

Rhys’ eyes darkened. “No, you’re not. If this was Feyre, I’d be exactly where you are. Hell, I’d be in worse shape. I remember when Feyre-” He stopped suddenly, clenching the steering wheel even though they were still parked. “Who would Aelin trust aside from them?” He asked, jerking his head towards Aedion’s house.

Rowan gave him a strange look. “Um, Elide Lochan, probably. They grew up together.” He gave simple directions to Lorcan Salvaterre’s house, where he knew Elide had been staying for the last few weeks, since her water heater exploded and destroyed her apartment. The normal half hour drive was done in less than ten minutes, aided by the lack of traffic, and the heavy snow that had begun to fall.

When they pulled up, the house was illuminated by light, and he could see Aelin’s car parked in the driveway. A heavy wave of relief crashed through him, easing some of the tension in his soul.

Rhys parked the car, and led him up the walkway, where he could see Lorcan, propping open the door for them. Rowan, now freezing in his athletic shorts and hoodie, welcomed the warmth of Lorcan’s home.

He turned to his friend, eyes pleading.

“She’s upstairs.” Lorcan stated, something hidden swimming in his eyes.

Rowan gave him a nod of thanks, and bounded up the steps, taking them two at a time. When he reached the top, he heard Aelin’s voice floating out from the master bedroom, though he couldn’t make out what was being said. He knocked lightly on the doorframe, before peaking his head in. What he saw nearly shattered his heart.

Aelin was perched on the bed, wrapped in a fluffy robe, her golden hair swept to one side, and her eyes and cheeks a puffy, angry red, as if she had been crying. Elide, seated next to her, murmured softly, “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.” before striding from the room. She paused by Rowan for a second, and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, then continued down the hall.

Rowan took several cautious steps towards his love, his pine eyes holding her turquoise ones. He watched as she set a mug of something warm and steaming on the nightstand. Cautiously, he sat down beside her, and took her hand in his. “Care to explain?” He purred, studying her.

Aelin reached reached one hand into her robe, and gripped his hand tighter with the other. “Promise you won’t hate me?”

His heart gave a painful twinge. Gods, what could it be? “Never, Aelin. I could never hate you.” He whispered. “My heart is yours until the end of time. It always has been.”

Her eyes clenched shut, and she withdrew her hand from the robe, and opened her palm. In it, was a small white stick, with a little pink plus sign. Rowan studied it for a moment, before realizing what it was. tears pooled in his eyes, spilled down his cheeks. “You’re sure?” He rasped.

Aelin nodded, eyes still clenched shut.

He surged forward, gathering Aelin in as big of a hug as he could manage. “Oh gods,” He sobbed, face pressed into her neck. “Oh gods, oh gods.”

After several minutes, they separated, and Aelin pressed a hand to his cheek, wiping away a stay tear. “You’re not mad?”

He grinned, pressed a kiss to her lips. “Never.”

Aelin allowed a tiny smile. “Gods, I’m stupid.” She muttered. Rowan cocked his head to the side in a question. She met his eyes reluctantly. “I thought that after Lyria... and everything else, that you wouldn’t want a child, and... I couldn’t handle that thought. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Rowan shook his head. “Aelin, my heart was never my own. It was always yours, even before we met. And it will stay that way until this universe is nothing but dust in the stars. Nothing can change how I feel about you.”

Her eyes lined with silver. “I love you,” she murmured.

His answering smile was nothing short of brilliant. “I love you too, so so much.

An impish smile danced across her face. “We’re going to be parents, Rowan. We’re having a baby!”

#rowaelin fanfiction #rowan x aelin #rowaelin #rowan whitethorn #aelin ashryver #aedion ashryver #lysaedion #lorcan #elide lochan #throne of glass #acotar #rhysand #feyre archeron #Feysand #feyre x rhysand #fluff #slight angst #lord lorcan lochan #rowaelin is established

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wonderlustlucas · 5 years

Text

soonie, doongie, dori, & john - lee minho

⇢ prompt “Why did you steal a fish? You don’t even take care of yourself let alone a fish.”—a prompt from @the-moon-dust-writings ⇢ pairing minho x female reader ⇢ word count 4.4k ⇢ genre fluff ⇢ warnings lots of cat interaction. if u don’t have a cat you may be confused. mega fluff. that’s it. ⇢ summary Sharing an apartment with Lee Minho has been an adventure since day one. Plus, you got a best friend and three fur children out of the deal. But when a heavy realization hits you the same morning Minho has an accident at the pet store, it seems as if it’s only a matter of time before John shoots Cupid’s arrow and paves the way for a happy ending.—friends to lovers!au ⇢ a/n bear with me on this one, it’s kind of slow in the beginning. this is the first i’ve written in ages. i feel like i’ve forgotten how to english. also i did as much research as i could find to try & figure out the genders of minnie’s cats hopefully theyre right jsfajkhkjf. also i watched a lot of vids of minho for this & it rlly made me realize how much i love him & how soft i am for him & it seems as if my bias list is unstable now

From her curled-up position in between your legs, Dori’s ears twitch up in attention at the sound of the front door swinging open and closed from across the apartment. She has grown a lot since Minho first brought her home, you notice when she finally lifts her tiny head to listen to the footsteps past your bedroom door, jade eyes blinking tiredly at you in post-nap dreariness. Excited, she pushes herself up to arch her back in a long stretch before she abandons the warmth of your bed to greet Minho. Pouting, you watch as Soonie ditches you as well, hopping off from his perch looking out the window to follow the younger kitten.

“Oh well,” you mutter to none other than Doongie who stays by your side, white mittened paws tucked snugly under her chest that rumbles with a purr when you reach over to scratch the soft fur behind her ear, “I still have you.” You can practically feel Minho’s jealousy radiating from behind the door when only two out of his three children go to see him— not that this is new.

It has been this way since you moved in together nearly two years ago. Due to increasing international interest for your university at the end of each year, not every incoming freshman was guaranteed a dorm room. It just so happened Minho and you were two unlucky victims of such a shortage. By chance, you had met at an open house only seven months prior and so, not even knowing whether he was frantically searching for an apartment like yourself, you reached out to him with an offer your parents helped scrap up.

Minho was uncertain at first. First, he was not prepared to start university living with a girl. It wasn’t that he did not like girls; he simply grew up expecting to meet his forever “bro” in his dorm room. In addition to this, he was an only child and imagined living with a female only child could end up causing him some great distress.

Secondly, while the pros outweighed the cons for the most part, he was more than disappointed that the apartment was in a more… domestic part of town. Yes, the rent was cheaper than the apartments closer to campus. Yes, he would be able to have a car now and yes, the apartment really was more than sustainable for two kids, but it was all these things and more because it was not an area where sleaze balls sunk their talons into desperate students looking for a place to live. And so, this basically meant that the two of you were close to the only students in the area.

And last but not least: there was only one bathroom. Enough said.

But what eventually won him over was the fact that the apartment was pet friendly, which meant he could bring Soonie and Doongie (and Dori, eventually) with him. It was for this reason he finally agreed to share the apartment with you before he lost the opportunity and you asked someone else.

It couldn’t be that bad, right? Afterall, you seemed nice enough at the open house and you did go out of your way to ask him in the first place to live with you. And he was right. In fact, it was not bad at all. You were more than nice, generally not concerned with specifics other than the agreement that Wednesday was grocery shopping day together, Friday was cleaning day, and that you washed your own dishes. Minho did not mind those three simple promises because he found getting to be your friend easy and your roommate his favorite part of his day.

What he did mind, however, was the fact that Doongie instantly took a liking to you. “This isn’t fair,” he complained only your third day together after searching for said feline and finding her cozied up with you on the sofa, “how can she betray me like this?”

His possessiveness humored you, to say the least. “What can I say? She just likes me better. You’ve bored her, Minnie.” He grimaced at the nickname and your bold statement. You were just bluffing—there’s no way Doongie would choose you over him after all these years, right?

Wrong. After freshman year flew by and the two of you agreed to stick together for a second year due to how dependent you had become on one another, he suddenly brought home Dori to ‘fill the void Doongie left in my heart,’ he exaggerated. “Wow, is Soonie not enough for you? You make him sound so unimportant. Maybe I’ll steal him too,” you had replied, grinning from your spot in bed when he narrowed his eyes at you.

“I thought you’d be mad I brought a kitten home,” Minho admitted from the doorway, ignoring what you said and holding said tabby against his chest with one arm. He’s so cute, you admired for hardly a second, reaching for your iced tea on your bed side table and shrugging to him, “You know I don’t care, you’re the one who pays the vet bills. Bring all the cats you want; the more, the merrier,” you said, taking a sip and blinking at him lethargically.

For a moment he was quiet, processing your words before, “If we get married it would be our vet bills.”

You nearly choked on a mouthful of tea. Married? You took a moment to collect yourself and your thoughts. “Minho, if your plan is to marry me, you’ve done a terrible job at getting that message across.”

“Damn, what can I do?” He asked, sulking.

“I don’t know,” you shrugged, grinning at him behind warm cheeks, “you can start by getting your ass over here so I can see this new kitty and discuss our wedding theme.”

And that’s just how things were; you, Minho, Soonie, Doongie, and Dori.

Or so you thought.

Past the hum of your ceiling fan and the purring coming from Doongie like an engine, for a minute or so you listen to Minho sing, “I want to see my little boy,” from Vine to presumably Soonie at least four times, followed by a loud thud, a high-pitched screech (not from a cat), a door slamming closed, and then the pipes moaning like a horror movie as the shower is turned on. Unfazed by the chain of events as this kind of chaos was something you have come to accept living with Minho, you shrug off all the noises you heard and opt instead to regretfully roll over until you meet the edge of the mattress.

Once you manage to tumble out of bed and stretch good enough to make your legs shake, Doongie lets out unamused meow now that her own personal space heater and pillow has moved.

It’s you. You’re the personal space heater pillow.

“Whaaaat,” you reply, grabbing a pair of cotton shorts from a drawer and glancing back at her. With ears drawn flat, Doongie follows your movements with a cold glare. “I’m sorry,” you coo, falling for her manipulation and bending back over the mattress to envelope her in a hug of sorts and cover her muzzle in kisses. When she starts struggling to get away from your grip, beginning to meow loudly and pushing your arm away with her paws, you pull away and scratch the base of her tail as she stands to stretch.

Shimmying the shorts up your legs with an unnecessary amount of effort exerted, you at last exit your room for the day, grabbing your phone from where it sat charging on the bed side table on the way. Padding barefoot down the brief hallway, you realize with a shiver when you reach the tiny dining room table how unreasonably freezing it is in the apartment. Minho must have not raised the thermostat this morning after lowering it to sleep.

Instead of fixing the problem, you reach for Minho’s orange university sweatshirt draped over one of the chairs and pull it over your head. At your feet, Doongie weaves between your legs, dragging the side of her face against your shins and she does not stop mewing until you bend down to gather her into your arms so that her front paws dangle over your shoulder. “So needy, you are,” you grumble, blowing her tail away when she threatens to swat your mouth and making way for the kitchen where coffee calls your name.

Minho must have made enough for the both of you as there is still another cup or two left in the pot, you realize with a smile, reaching up into the cabinet for a mug and pouring yourself a cup. Doongie leaps off your shoulder when you open the refrigerator for creamer, joining Soonie and Dori who sit poised like statues along the kitchen’s pony wall.

Stirring in cream and sugar, you wait until the color softens to a lighter shade of brown before unwrapping the flakey chocolate croissant Minho bought you yesterday and taking a seat at the table. Humming to yourself, you shift to cross your legs on the chair while taking slow sips of your coffee, heart beginning to thump faster in your chest.

And it’s not from the caffeine now making its way through your system.

This is too good. Life is too good, and you should not feel at such peace at twenty years old. You should not be having such a casual morning, drinking coffee Minho made for you, eating a croissant Minho bought you, wearing a sweatshirt Minho left hanging around, having a staring contest with the cats Minho brought into your life, listening to Minho sing in the shower one room over. Minho.

You slowly set your mug down with a newfound epiphany flashing like a billboard in your brain. Of course, you always knew Minho was the most special person in your life recently, your best friend really, and that you loved him. You probably would not have lived with him for this long if you didn’t. But since when were you in love with him?

You shake your head and take a hefty mouthful, hoping to wash away such troublesome thoughts. You’ll get over it. It’s just a crush. On the boy you live with. And spend all your time with.

“Oh boy, what are we gonna do now?” You ask the three felines who have abandoned studying you to stare down like hawks at the table, ears raised in curiosity. You follow their gaze, squinting in hope to better your vision when you see the fluttering tail of a fish as it swims within its tiny plastic cup. Blinking once, twice, and on the third you finally reach over and grab the container, bringing it closer to inspect and yep, that most certainly is a betta fish staring back at you.

Setting it atop the refrigerator where the cats can’t get to it, you stuff the rest of breakfast into your mouth and dump what’s left of your coffee into the sink before marching to the bathroom, swinging the door open without so much as a knock. He yelps from behind the shower curtain and you mentally thank God you did not barge in to find him butt naked in front of the mirror.

“Lee Minho, care to explain why there was a fish on the kitchen table?” You bark, crossing your arms and leaning against the sink for when he pops his head outside of the curtain.

“First of all, you could have knocked,” he starts, looking to the floor when you glare at him, “and I, um, I stole it.” You sigh in defeat, dragging your hands down your face when he disappears back into the shower. “Minho, why did you steal a fish? You don’t even take care of yourself let alone a fish.”

“That just isn’t true. I am fully capable of taking care of myself and my children. And I didn’t mean to steal it,” he retorts, turning off the water and you watch as he slips an arm out to slap around in search of his towel. “How the fuck do you accidentally steal something, Minho? And did you not think I would see it eventually?” You huff, exasperated.

“You see, I went to go pick up cat food and I dropped my phone where all the betta fish in cups are and when I went to pick it up the bag hit a cup and it fell and then the lid popped off and then there was water everywhere and the fish was just flopping around so I panicked and put it back in and then ran to get water from a fish tank and I thought I would get in trouble so I just ran out since no one saw me,” Minho rambles without taking a breather, whisking open the shower curtain and stepping out as he does so, towel snug around his waist and cheeks glowing pink from both embarrassment and the aftermath of a hot shower. You sigh for a third time, moving out of his way when he makes way for the cabinet and opting to sit on the toilet.

“Did you even get the cat food, then?”

“No, I just ran. With the fish.”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you grumble, “You’re an idiot.”

“But I’m your idiot,” he grins, dragging a cotton round over his face with toner. You send him a warning glare. “Well,” you click your tongue, hypnotized as he combs out his hair and by how unfairly ethereal he looks post-shower, “we should probably go to a different pet store to get cat food. And we need to get a nice fish tank and food.”

He raises a brow, surprised with how nonchalant you are, and moves to stand in front of where you sit so he can tilt your face up with his index finger tucked under your chin. “Are you mad?” He asks.

It’s not fair, really, the way he asks such a question after making you feel so vulnerable under his touch and proximity, heart racing a mile a minute. Really, you should be mad. But when it comes to Minho, you cannot find it in yourself to be. This is just how things are with him.

“No, I’m not mad,” you smile reassuringly, leaning into his touch and you both seem to forget for a moment that you are nothing more than friends when his hand moves to cup your cheek, thumb ever so slightly brushing over your warm skin as he beams down at you, “just amazed as usual at how stupid you are.”

“Hey!” He steps back at this, running his fingers through his damp hair and shaking out the strands. “I’m not stupid.”

“Yeah, and Doongie likes you more than me.”

“It sucks we have a fish now. I was thinking about getting a guinea pig or something soon. Maybe even a rabbit,” you announce, leaning over with Minho to peer into the guinea pig enclosure. His giggle reverberates throughout the entire store and you cannot help but grin in return, even though he has scared all the little critters back into their huts. With nothing left to coo over, you grab his hand and tug him toward the fish care.

“Where are we going to keep… him? What’s his name? Do we even know if it’s a him?” Your question turns into three, stopping in an aisle full of different tanks and small décor pieces to go inside.

“I’m pretty sure it’s a dude. I think they only sell males in that section anyway. I’ll check if he has a dick when we get home though,” when you look over, he’s smirking as if he just said the funniest thing ever and you have to hold back your laughter. “Yeah, you do that, Minho. I’m sure you’ll be real successful.”

“We can probably just put him on the desk. I’ll move all my shit and he can just go next to my laptop,” he continues, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder as you look over the different tank options. It makes it hard to concentrate with him so close. “I mean— yeah. Yeah. That works,” you stutter, swallowing past the sudden lump in your throat and quickly scanning over the tanks one more time, “we should get this one. Is that okay?” You move closer to said tank, hoping he would let go when you reach out to grab the box but when he doesn’t, your heart seems to beat so erratically in your chest that you think it might fly out. Why, all of a sudden, are there butterflies—no, lions—in your chest when he is around you when there weren’t before? When did this happen?

“Minho. We can cuddle at home. I just want to get what we need and leave,” you whine, trying to pry his fingers apart from where they are linked above your hips, leaving your skin tingling even under his sweatshirt. He huffs, detaching himself from your frame. “Fine. But we’re gonna get home and you’re gonna say ‘Wait, we have to take care of the fish’ first and by the time we’re done, you’ll fall asleep before we even have a movie on,” Minho grumbles, taking the box you shove into his hands and trailing after you.

You gasp, pointing an accusing fake plant in his direction, “No, you fat head. You’re always the first to fall asleep. You just like to blame it on me.” He continues to grumble under his breath while you grab a bag of pebbles, fish food, and water conditioner, finally able to breathe now that he isn’t clinging to you.

“Come on, stinky. I don’t want you to start crying on me,” you grin, wishing you could hold his hand but alas, you did not think of grabbing a basket on your way in. His face brightens up with a smile anyway, and he follows you the rest of the way right at your side.

“So, you never gave him a name. What’s it gonna be?” You ask, nearly unhinging your jaw to take a bite of the Big Mac Minho begged you to order after making fun of you the whole ride home for never having one. You stopped at McDonald’s just to appease him. You look to the fish, surprised yourself over how pleasant his quiet presence is, especially with his emerald and sapphire scales that reflect and glow iridescent in the light.

“Mm,” he hums, chewing on his own hamburger and watching the fish in thought, “I think… I think John.”

You blink at him now, setting your food down. “John?”

“John.”

“Why… why John? Why not Nemo or something?” You ask, eyeing him curiously and gnawing on the straw to your soda.

“Dunno. He just looks like a John,” Minho explains, giggling cutely and looking back up to you with stars in his eyes. It feels like liquid adrenaline is being injected right into your bloodstream when you lock eyes, and looking into Minho’s cat-like eyes feels like looking into the sun for too long—it almost burns, instead, there is an entire zoo in your chest. But it feels good. You almost wish he did not stop giggling so you could giggle with him. Instead, you have found yourself lost in him, every ounce of breath stolen from your lungs.

“Are… are you going to actually take a sip of that?” He giggles again, glancing to the soda straw dug awkwardly into your bottom lip.

Your cheeks flush hot pink, stomach sinking heavily and you cannot find your voice. Clearing your throat, you look away as you begin to hyperventilate and stand up abruptly to grab John’s fish tank from the table and walk across the room toward the desk.

“___? You alright?” He asks, worry lacing his tone and you wince when you hear him push his chair in. “Y-Yeah. I’m fine,” you laugh breathlessly, placing John down and adjusting the tank so it sits catty-cornered next to Minho’s laptop.

“No, you’re not.” He is quick, you’ll give him that. In the blink of an eye he is at your side, grabbing you by the hips and spinning you to face him. Here we go again, you hiss at yourself to snap out of it, clenching your fists at your sides simply due to how overwhelmed you feel. How incapable you are to forget how you have been feeling and brush it under the rug.

“Why’d you get all googly eyes on me over there?” Minho questions, grinning like a madman when he brings his hands up to cup your face and squish your cheeks together. “And why are your cheeks all hot?” You gasp, defensive, and press your hands over his, “M’not.”

He drops his voice to a whisper, leaning in closer so his breath fans over your face, “Is that how I make you feel, ___?”

You blink at him, all the color draining from your face and you must look ridiculous right now, jutting your lips out in a pout as he continues pressing your cheeks together. And what can you say now that he has caught you? Lie? “No,” is all you quip, staring at him, practically begging for mercy. No more questions. Just a ‘goodnight’ and off to your room for the night.

“Hmm,” he hums, pondering for a moment, before grinning once more, “I have an idea.” Oh no, you do not like the sound of that. Minho? Having ideas? Bad. This thought progressively resonates louder in your mind the closer he gets, this is bad, this is bad, this is really bad. It just so happens that a whimper on behalf of your sanity escapes you the same moment his grip on your face eases and he moves his hands to rest below your ears, thumbs caressing your cheeks before his lips brush yours.

His lips are warm and taste… salty? The fries, you realize, before his tongue pressing to the seam of your lips obliterates every thought. The worries leading up to this moment evaporate like a summer shower on a hot car and, of course, you part your lips and grant him access. Drunk on endorphins, your brain seems to light itself on fire and warmth spreads throughout your entire body, your only desire to touch him, to stand up higher and to hold his cheek the way he holds yours.

His fingers run down your spine, pulling you closer until there is no space left between you and you can feel the beating of his heart against your chest. A kiss like this is a beginning, a promise of so much more. “___,” he whispers slowly when he pulls away, prolonging each letter as if to savor them. You smile, heart fluttering at his voice as you lean forward and bury your face into his chest, overwhelmed with relief and desire and worry and giddiness.

“___,” Minho repeats, running his hands up and down over your arms, calming you down before reaching your shoulders and pulling you back, “how did that make you feel?”

“You— what?” Is all you manage, searching his face for a trace of mirth, and yet you find none. In fact, he himself seems relieved, the corners of his mouth quirked up and his eyes bright and dark all at once like the midnight sky. He grins, laughing a little and stroking the baby hairs around your face with his finger. “I like when you wear my stuff,” he says, tugging at the collar of his sweatshirt you still wear.

“Um, I— thanks?” You laugh nervously, heartbeat beginning to skyrocket once more when he reaches for your arms and maneuvers them to hug around his waist. You hum, confused, but content nonetheless and link your hands together. He instantly presses closer, tipping your chin up, “I know you always say I flirt with everyone, but I don’t know how you haven’t realized by now I only want to flirt with you. It’s been you since Doongie chose you. I can’t even get you out of my head, imagine how hard it is living with you, not able to kiss you and do all the cute shit I know we would love.”

He what now? You blink up at him, more than bewildered, “Wait, are you trying t—”

“Yes,” he interjects, not even giving you a chance to finish, “whatever you’re thinking, yes. I’m confessing, or whatever. So let’s cut to the point. Do you want to be my girlfriend?”

Your brain stutters for a moment and every part of you goes on pause while your thoughts catch up. Girlfriend? Well, of fucking course you want to be his girlfriend, but how have you been misreading all of him for so long? “God, I’m an idiot, aren’t I?” You mutter instead, slapping the palm of your hand to your forehead and his giggles ring throughout the room.

“How many languages do I have to get through for that to translate into a ‘yes?’” Minho cackles, prying your hand away to return it around his waist. When you look up at him, you feel as if you may cry, so instead you opt to laugh with him in order to dodge the waterworks. “Yes, of course that means yes. It’s always been a yes, stupid.”

“Hey, you’re the stupid one. Seriously, have you seen us today? We’re so coupley already, literally nothing is changing,” Minho chuckles, walking you backward until you comfortably fall back on the sofa together, “except now,” he pauses, settling himself above you and bringing his face up to yours once more, “I can kiss you wheneeever I want.”

And he does just that; peppering your face, your lips and cheeks and nose with kisses until he has made you a giggling mess, writhing beneath him until he finally stops, sharing a mingled breath with you. “Is it too early to say the ‘L’ word?” Minho whispers, tracing your upper lip with his thumb. You smile, kissing the pad of his finger before, “No. I already know I love you, Minnie. I’m more than in love with you.”

His smile is one of happiness growing, much as a spring flower opens. “Heh. I like this. I love you too,” he answers, finally returning to kiss you in a way that is slow and soft and comforting in ways words cannot describe. And then he pulls back with a gasp.

“I forgot the cat food.”

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foolishlovebugbaby · 5 years

Text

untitled

Summary: when it comes to you, seo changbin will say everything else but those three little words to get his message across- but you’re not complaining.

warnings: kissing

word count: 3.5k

note: it’s 4am, im sick and disoriented from all the paracetamol running through my veins, and I managed to conjure up this very spontaneous and soft and delirious piece because thinking about whipped!changbin makes me all fuzzy. the goal is to get you all fuzzy too- enjoy :) leave a like/reblog/comment so i know whether yall like these kinds of pieces <3

Changbin loves spontaneous food rendezvous at ungodly hours of the night (or, to be precise, morning), which is exactly why you try to remember to keep your phone off whenever you sleep, otherwise you’d be woken from your slumber by a persistent and whiny voice begging you to get tteokbokki and mango juice from the 7-eleven on the other side of town.

That was, in fact, your current predicament because unfortunately for you, Changbin remembers the number to your landline to a T. “Pleasssseee? My treat, and I promise to help you with mechanics afterwards.” He can practically see your annoyed expression behind his eyelids as he peeks at your window from his parked car in front of your driveway. He knows that you desperately need help in mechanics, a subject he prides himself on being unexpectedly good at, and that you won’t be able to resist a tutoring session right before mid-terms. Manipulative, but in an I-just-want-to-see-you-when-are-you-going-to-take-the-hint way.

“I’m suing 7-eleven for their 24/7 policy on the grounds of sleep disruption,” Your sleepy voice softly seethes on the other end and he smiles. “So is that a yes?” He hears shuffling and quiet groans and a fuck, that hurt, before he sees the curtains to your windows open and a very sleepy, angry and disheveled you throwing the middle finger at him. “It’s a fuck you.” He grins. “Take your time, I’ll be here patiently waiting.” He teases and he sees you hang up the phone and stick your tongue out.

He smiles to himself, already turning the heater on in his car because he knows you’ll complain about it being too cold. He’s done this thousands of times, yet each time you protest he can’t help but find it more and more endearing- your cute whine and messy bed hair and the way you snuggle up in his car seat when you ultimately decide to just come down and get it over with warms his heart like no other.

Thousands of years from now, when social scientists research teen slang from the 2010’s and they stumble upon the word whipped, Seo Changbin would be the prime study example because dear lord is that boy whipped for you.

“At this rate i’m convinced you just want to fatten me up and pull some Hansel and Gretel shit come winter,” You get into the passenger seat and put on your seatbelt in all your oversized sweater and sweatpants glory, and Changbin can’t help but wish he was the one keeping you warm. But he supposes his varsity sweatshirt that you wear over your tiny frame would suffice for now.

“You and your irresponsible ass has barely been eating for the entirety of this exam season,” He pulls out of your driveway and heads towards the main road. “If anything, you should be thanking me for looking after you.” He smiles teasingly at your displeased, sulking face, and he wants to stare longer to admire your cute sleepy features and small frame curled up in his passenger seat but he’d rather not get into a car accident because he knows you’d kill him if the two of you died in a car crash.

“You’re also the root cause of my sleep irregularities, so thank you very much.” You smile sarcastically at him, and he’d return one right back if it weren’t for the fact that he felt bad about waking you up in the middle of the night. “Is it my fault that I just want to see more of you since school’s been holding you hostage and away from me?” He pouts and sends a puppy eyed look your way, and you huff. “You know you can come over anytime during the week,” You mumble, even though you understand his sentiment.

It was your last year of highschool and soon enough, the both of you would be whisked away into completely different lives. Time was withering away right before you- heck, you swore you just blinked and autumn was already all around you. It didn’t help that your senior year schedule was practically designed by satan to keep the two of you away from each other. But, as the saying goes, if there’s a will there’s a way, and Changbin’s got the will of a thousand spartans.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to distract you from your study time or steal you away from your family during weekends. So now my nights are reserved for you and only you.” He says pointedly as the car nears the 7-eleven too well-lit for its own good. He doesn’t notice the fact that you bite your lip bashfully at his words.

“You? Distract me? In your wildest dreams.” You huff, lying through your teeth, and he immediately thinks In my wildest dreams indeed. The amount of times he’s daydreamed about kissing up your neck as you whined about needing to solve a Chemistry question before ultimately being unable to resist the urge to sit on his lap and kiss the life out of him is too many to count, and he coughs the thought away as soon as it comes. “We’re here.”

He pulls up in front of the store, turning the engine off and taking his keys out of the ignition. “Do I have to go inside?” You whine, reclining further into his red pleather seats and snuggling into the Totoro pillow you purposely left in his car for nights like this. He wants to say no, that you and your adorable ass can stay in the car so long as you’re snuggled up next to him while the radio sings in the background, but he’s a coward that’s not ready to have that conversation.

“Yes, now get out of my car before I lock you inside.” You pout and force yourself out of his car.

“So, is it a tteokbokki or steamed buns kind of night?” He quips from beside you as you two walk towards the doors. It’s bloody freezing outside, and Changbin notices you shoving your hands deep into your pockets as you walk a little closer too him. He wants to hold your hands, but his own reroute themselves and open the doors for you instead. “M’lady,” He says and flashes a smile. You roll your eyes at his cheekiness.

Your eyes sparkle under the bright fluorescent white lights inside the store, “It’s a hot chocolate kinda night,” You rush over to the hot drink dispenser and he chuckles at your sheer cuteness. The cashier is half asleep when he greets Changbin, eyes half-lidded and barely standing up behind the counter, and Changbin sends him a small wave.

“Someone’s tired,” He says, pointing out the obvious. “No kidding. You kids are my only customers at this hour.” The cashier manages to get out as he yawns. “Knock yourself out,” He waves sleepily.

Changbin makes his way for the ‘instant’ aisle, trying to find his beloved spicy tteokbokki pack and some string cheese to satiate his cravings. He crouches down when he spots his favorite brand, ‘Hm, do I want it more saucy or more dry tonight? Decisions decisions…” He thinks to himself. When he finally settles on the less saucy version (of course, because practicality, duh), he sees you emerge from his peripheral vision.

“Got what I need,” You say, left hand carrying your hot chocolate while your arms hold a bag of gummy bears, a carton of mango juice, and a bottle of water while you smile sheepishly at him. His heart is screaming at how cute you look, but his face is mocking you.

“What was that again about not wanting anything from the store?” He says smugly, and you make a face at him. “Oh hush, you’re paying for it so I thought, why not?” You defend and he laughs, making his way towards you. “Sure.” He teases.

You stick his tongue out at him and he puts a hand on your shoulder, turning you towards the cashier. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

You two pay for your late-night grabs- well, he pays for everything and you pay with a bright grin and a side hug and a pat on his back (but he’s not complaining)- and he makes his tteokbokki bowl at the designated station before you two walk towards the street bench on the other side of the road.

“Want some?” He offers cutely, cheeks filled with rice cakes as you swing your bag full of goodies back and forth. “I think I’ll pass,” You say with a smile, your eyes bashfully looking away at his sheer cuteness. You cover up your embarrassment with a sip of steaming chocolate.

“More for me,” He shrugs and you both plant yourselves on the bench.

The trees shroud around above you both as you overlook the canal, the city completely dark before you. The street lamps are dim and no cars pass on the road behind you, but the pair of you wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s soothing and Changbin wouldn’t trade these moments with you for the world.

In a flash, he finishes his tteokbokki. “You practically inhaled that.” You say amusedly as he chucks the bowl in the trashcan next to him. “I’m a growing boy, sue me.” He says as he grabs the water bottle in your bag. “May I?”

“It’s yours, stupid. You always forget to buy one and I always have to pick it up for you,” He smiles at that. “Aw, how cute of you.” He takes a swig and notices your ears turn pink at his comment. “What would you do without me?” You say as a joke but he’s completely serious when he says “I have no idea.”

You breathe out a chuckle. “Sometimes I wonder how different things will be once we both get out of this town.” Changbin sighs wistfully at that and reclines further into the bench, not liking the idea of leaving at all.

“Well, I’d like to think that we’d still facetime 24/7, obviously, and I’ll take a drive to your dorm once a week at times like this for a local food trip around your campus town.” His says as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, though his mind runs a mile a minute at the thought of losing you because of distance. He looks into your puppy-dog eyes, and he swears the entire cosmos resides in them.

“Promise?” You stick out your pinky and he intertwines his. “Promise.”

“Good, because I won’t be able to live without you,” His gut flips at your comment, and you chug down the rest of your hot coco.

“God, it’s fucking freezing.” You shiver when a gust of wind blows past you. On a chilly November night with absolutely no one around to cringe at his actions, Changbin happily decides to prove to you that chivalry is, in fact, not dead. “You should’ve worn an extra layer, silly.” He takes off his black zip-up hoodie and places it over your shoulders, running his hands over your arms to warm you up. “Better?” He keeps his arm firmly planted around your shoulders, and his face is so close to yours that he can see all your tiny, minuscule freckles in dim lighting. Never mind the fact that he was lowkey freezing in his plain black long-sleeve; he figures holding you close to keep you warm was worth the hypothermia.

He sees crimson spread across your cheeks like a wildfire, “M-much,” You mumble silently. Maybe it was the fact that your eyes twinkled up at him in the moonlight, or the fact that your face was so close to his he could almost kiss you, but Changbin’s heart starts palpitating and skipping beats all at once as he thinks to himself, god, i’m in love with you. Ofcourse, he doesn’t say this out loud. But in another world where he isn’t a coward and timing was on his side, he likes to think that he wouldn’t let you forget it.

He doesn’t know that butterflies swarm your insides and that you think to yourself, I think I’m in love, and that the combination of his intoxicating scent and the way he looks at you as if you were his entire world makes you woozy and weak in the knees. It’s frustrating, really, how two people could be so silently in love with each other and not say a thing.

But tonight was the Night of Nights, and before he knew it, Changbin began leaning closer to you. He doesn’t know what’s taken over him, but he doesn’t do anything to stop it. Because there you were, the girl of his dreams a mere inch away from his lips looking as beautiful as ever, about to be whisked away from him in a few months. Screw it.

His eyes are half-lidded as they flicker between your eyes and lips, and yours mimic his. It’s so agonisingly slow, but the moment he feels your lips on his, all his worries melt away. Your lips are cold but impossibly soft against his own, and it makes his body erupt in tingles all around. Something cheesy like fireworks, but maybe a grenade going off would better describe how his insides feel.

He doesn’t want the moment to end, but you pull away slowly and rest your forehead on his, eyes shut and teeth clamped on your bottom lip.

You don’t know why you pull back, and you immediately miss the feeling of his lips on your own, but Changbin assumes the worst. Fuck, maybe that was uncalled for, his heart sinks to the ground and he nervously chews down on his lip. “Let’s get you home,” He says dejectedly, pulling his forehead away from yours and your sorry eyes meet his. He retracts his arm around your shoulders and stands up, wanting nothing more than for the ground to swallow him whole, and you follow him silently to the car.

The drive back is anything but comfortable- the air between the pair of you is stiff and and suffocating and every synonym for awkward and you wonder why the hell you pulled away because you know your heart wanted to remain on that roadside bench, kissing him until the sun rose. But you’re stupid, so instead you sit in his car while he silently drives you back home, and every passing minute is another minute away from his lips.

Wordlessly, Changbin pulls into your driveway and his heart sinks down further to the earth’s core. “Sorry for tonight.” His voice is barely above a whisper and his eyes refuse to look at you, which breaks your heart. You want to ramble and say that it’s a misunderstanding, that you have so many bloody feelings for him, but the words get caught in your throat.

“Changbin?” Is all you manage to get out. He still doesn’t look at you, not because he hates you but because he hates himself for acting on his feelings, and instead looks at his lap. Words weren’t going to get you anywhere, you decide, and you suck in a breath. You reach over and grab his face. Here goes nothing.

You kiss him this time, a lot more harder than before, and Changbin swears he’s dreaming. Like, he’s waiting for pigs to fly around in the background and for The Walters to appear in your driveway singing ‘She’s Going to Leave You’ because he can’t fathom a world in which you like him back. But none of those things happen, and you’re still kissing him with so much passion and certainty that he figures even if it were a dream, he’ll take it.

His lips move in sync against your own and makes sure that everything he’s ever held back is poured into this moment. The kiss earlier was in the spur of the moment, but this- this is completely intentional. Maybe that’s why you pulled away. The thought of a kiss between you both simply being just that- a kiss and nothing more. That in the morning neither of you would acknowledge it ever happening. You needed some type of confirmation that things were real; thank the stars you got what you were looking for.

His hands rest on top of yours and he brings you closer, needing more of you and your touch. But the compartment in between you both is a literal cockblock and he wants to rip it out just so he take you into his arms completely. He’s delirious, and he blames you.

“Want to come in? It’s a lot warmer in my room,” You say through soft breaths, the wind completely knocked out of your chest and Changbin places soft pecks from the corner of your mouth to your chin. “I don’t mind.”

It doesn’t take much for either of you to get out of his car and for him to lock it behind you. His adrenaline is rushing and he just wants to hold you and kiss you again, but goddammit, you’re fumbling with your keys not knowing which one is which thanks to the absence of lighting on your front porch- it doesn’t help that he’s decided to plant his hands firmly on your waist as he lightly kisses down the nape of your neck. Fuck you, Seo Changbin.

The door finally opens after what feels like an eternity, and you make it a point to turn around and shush him. “My parents are asleep,” You look at him with alarmed eyes and he raises his hands up. “I can be quiet, but no promises.” The nuance in his statement makes you blush and he sends a cheeky wink your way. You’re mid eye-roll when he grabs your wrist and heads towards your staircase.

You’re both clumsy and haphazard as you walk up the stairs, almost tripping and Fuck, I stubbed my pinky toe, but you both fortunately make it up to your room in one piece. Changbin’s heart is beating so fast that he’s genuinely worried you’ll feel it against your palms when you place them over his chest- and you do, by the way- but you’re leaving sweet kisses against his neck that the prospect of dying from cardiac arrest doesn’t scare him because atleast he’ll die happy.

“So, mechanics later?” He says panting, forehead against yours as he has you between him and your door, thumbs rubbing circles against your waist underneath his sweatshirt and jacket. “Totally,” You tiptoe and kiss him again.

You taste so sweet against his lips, and at first he thinks it’s the lingering taste of hot chocolate, but he’s come to the conclusion that it’s just because it’s you. His adoring, sweet girl that he takes on midnight food runs because he’s afraid of missing her. The girl that can make his gut flip and mind scramble with a smile. It’s cheesy, and you’re slightly lactose intolerant, but it’s the entire goddamn truth.

His jacket suddenly claims domain on your floor and you both kick off your sneakers, never pulling away from each other, and suddenly your bed feels a little warmer than last night. He kisses down your neck, something he’s always wanted to do, and you run your hands through his hair. Insane isn’t enough of a word to describe the way he’s feeling, but the search for a word that can encompass all his rampant thoughts would have to wait.

“You’re the best part about my day,” He whispers into your neck, and you sigh with closed eyes at the feeling. You bite back a smile “I know,”

“I know? I know-?” He pulls back, half-joking and half-serious, and you’re giggle while you run your hands over his torso. “Yes, I know,” You leave a kiss on his jaw, “And you’re my favorite part of the night,” He’s obviously the favorite part of your entire life, but that statement would have to do for now. He nods his head, “I’ll take it.” and goes back to kissing you.

Those three daunting words stuck in his throat- and, frankly, yours- make themselves out of his mouth in different ways because perhaps saying them verbatim would shake his entire world, and he’s not sure why he’s scared because he knows you’d say them back. So instead, through voices barely above a whisper and warm hands running along your body, he tries to show you what those three words really mean to him. He’s sleepy and delirious and he’s honestly convinced he’s dreaming, but it’s the greatest thing to ever happen to him. You are the greatest thing to ever happen to him. You both could come up with a title some other time, he concludes, because kissing you is of the utmost priority to him at 2AM.

Labels were overrated, anyway.

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