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twodimecastle · 3 years

Text

fifty bucks & six months.

spencer reid x gender neutral reader new relationship, secret keeping nonsense, 4.5k words, ao3 a/n; turns out i love writing texting fic but tumblr destroys the formatting rip

zero months.

You smile conspiratorially, extending a pinkie towards Spencer and he gives you a skeptical look.

“You know the odds of being found out immediately are-” he starts, but you cut him off.

“Astronomical, I know. I know. But don’t you think it’ll be fun to see how long we can push it?” you wheedle, not caring that your voice sounds more like begging than is strictly dignified because seeing the way Spencer’s nose crinkles in amusement at your heavy handed persuasion is too adorable to pass up. You scoot closer on the couch, tapping the end of his nose with your pinkie finger, letting him catch your hand between his as you continue “I think we’ve got a good shot at hiding it for a little while. It would be like a game.”

Spencer draws your captive hand to his lips, brushing them across your knuckles and watching fondly as you forge ahead in your campaign to persuade him, enjoying the show and the attention too much to tell you he’s already on board. Your eyes are shining with the prospect of the caper, and you’ve made no move to take your hand back from him, and Spencer’s pretty sure he’d be more than happy to sit with you in this moment forever. “I mean-” you go on, gesturing animatedly with your free hand, “you’re like-a really good liar when you want to be. And everyone else always forgets how good you are at it.”

He snorts at that and the sound makes you light up, eyes tracking the arch of his brows, the warmth in his soft brown eyes, memorising the way he looks like this; utterly unbothered, completely at ease. It might be your favourite version of him, but that race has always been a tight one with no clear winner in sight. You have lots of favourite versions of Spencer. Twisting your hand in his, you tangle your fingers together, savouring the way you feel his thumb glide delicately along your skin and the unhidden joy in his face at the simple show of affection.

Time to play your trump card.

“$50 says we can hide it from the whole group for at least six months. If everyone figures it out before then, you win. But if not everyone has worked it out by then, I win.”

The mischievous shine in your eyes is irresistible, and Spencer smiles, disentangling one of his hands from yours to extend his own pinky finger.

“You’re on.”

The words barely make it out of his mouth before you’re colliding with him, pressing your lips to his.

two months.

“So, how long has this whole thing been going on?” Derek’s question catches Spencer off guard, and, based on the way he can see you freeze in his peripheral vision, takes you by surprise as well. Sliding into the driver's seat of the SUV, Derek continues “I hope you didn’t think you were gonna be able to keep me in the dark for long, pretty boy. You should know better than that.”

Following mechanically after him, Spencer takes the passenger seat, trying to frame his next statement as carefully as possible as he hears your door close and the car start. “We were-going to tell you guys-” he begins uncomfortably, glancing back to you for support, but you look just as on edge as he feels. “We were just gonna-keep it to ourselves for a while-before telling Hotch and everything-” he tries again, the mounting tension levering his shoulders higher and higher with every passing moment, but then Derek just laughs, shaking his head.

“Hey, I’m happy for you, kid. For both of you.” He spares a look at you in the back seat through the rear view mirror, and you can feel the tension in your jaw relax, the furrows in your brow straightening out at the note of approval in Derek’s voice. “I’m glad you two finally figured it out,” he says, fondly, and you laugh.

“I bet Spence we could keep it from you guys at least six months,” you explain, reaching forwards through the centre console to link your pinky with Spencer’s, and the touch of your hand releases the last of the tension he had been harbouring as he covers your hand with the other one of his own. He knows Derek clocks the motion, filing it away in his mind somewhere, but he doesn’t care about the scrutiny so much right now. Not when your hand is so warm and comfortable in his.

Derek reaches for the dial on the radio and flicks through the channel, thinking about something, and as you watch, a slow mischievous smirk spreads across his face a moment later before he glances first at Spencer and then at you.

“I’ll tell you what,” he says to you, and Spencer can feel a familiar grin tugging at his own lips as he watches a plan take shape in his friend’s eyes. “I’m happy to sit on this information for a while for a cut of the winnings from whichever one of you comes out on top.” He snorts good naturedly as he continues “I have my own bet to win with Prentiss, so if you two help me win that one, I’ll cut you in too.”

“A quid pro quo of sorts,” Spencer says slowly, and he feels your fingers tighten around his, as you snort softly, and he knows instinctually you’re grinning the same way you always do when you’re winning a game. “I think we can do that.”

Derek grins, turning the music up as he nods, eyes on the road. “Then you two love birds have got yourselves a deal.”

two months and two weeks.

PG: youre not as slick as you think you are ;)

YN: ???

PG: ;))))))))) you should invest in some concealer for your work bag sweetness or tell the good doctor to pay more attention to whats visible in your work clothes

YN: oh my fucking god wait how do you even know thats how that happened

PG: im all knowing and all seeing im like the omnipotent goddess of the fbi

YN: derek blabbed

PG: he sang like a canary but also im an omnipotent goddess im also totally clued in on the whole bet situation with em so for the low low price of every single juicy detail about how this adorableness went down you can buy my silence :)

YN: im getting derek decaf coffee on all coffee runs from now on >:( traitors dont get caffeine

PG: darling sweet angel i need deets all of them like immediately

YN: >:( fine ok so. after that case down in georgia a few months ago? the weird one? with the creepy mother son thing?

PG: omg yuck pls dont remind me im here for the CUTENESS not the MURDER

YN: sorryyyyyyy anyway so spence was like being super weird about it all on the plane and whatever but he was doing that super annoying thing where he ignores it and says hes fine so everyone leaves him alone

PG: YEAH why does everyone here do that ALL THE TIME its SO annoyingggg

YN: ikr its insufferable and like super not subtle ANYWAY. spence was being weird and whatever and i just. refused to let him sulk on his own or whatever like i could tell there was something bothering him and so after work i insisted that we were gonna get like shitty diner food or whatever and watch a movie and he knows better than to say no to me

PG: smart boy

YN: so we got fries and milkshakes and then went back to his place to watch a movie and he was still like weird and silent and like brooding yknow? but whatever just figured hed talk about it when he was ready so i put on a movie and offered to make popcorn and then he was just staring at me and he looked so SAD and TIRED and i thought id done something wrong like the poor guy looked like he was gonna cry and i was panicking over fucking popcorn and then he says ‘why are you always so nice to me?’

PG: oh my god hes like if a sad victorian orphan was actually a triplicate phd holder

YN: i was SO thrown off i was like spencer. spencer were best friends. ive been forcing you to hang out with me for years now why do you THINK im being nice to you its bc i care about you asshole and then. like after another million years after letting me sweat it out over whether hes about to cry for like fucking years the asshole grabs my hand and says. i shit you not. ‘you know im in love with you, right?’ !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

PG: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

YN: anyway hes my boyfriend now :’) dont tell anyone tho gotta win the bet

four months.

Lingering by the elevator, you glance around at the uncharacteristically silent office building, waiting for Spencer to leave the bullpen. The sound of his footfalls drawing nearer makes you smile and you mentally applaud yourself for suggesting the two of you remained behind after disembarking from the plane, taking advantage of the manufactured privacy to take the same car home, back to his apartment.

When he sees you waiting for him, he can’t help the soft fond smile that tugs at his face, as he reaches for your hand, sliding his fingers into yours with a gentle squeeze, the quiet of the building allowing him to indulge in the show of affection. You return the squeeze, leaning your head on his shoulder with a yawn and as he presses a fond kiss to your temple he’s rewarded by a sleepy hum of approval from you that sends a rush of quiet joy shooting through him.

“At least we won’t be sleeping in hotel beds again tonight,” you say, voice weary, and Spencer nods as he shuffles you into the elevator. The doors slide shut and the elevator starts to move and in the moment of absolute privacy, you steal a kiss, tilting your chin up to catch his lips with yours, revelling in the soft huff of surprise he lets out, even as he smiles against your mouth. Even after months, the simple act of kissing Spencer still feels new and thrilling somehow, like you can’t quite believe it’s something you’re allowed to do.

His nose brushes yours and he breathes “unless something big comes up, we get a sleep in tomorrow too,” and the way you beam at him sends his heart racing in his chest, unable to look away from the fondness shining in your eyes.

As the two of you exit the elevator and make your way through the Bureau car park, you tuck yourself against his side, wedging yourself under his arm with a happy sigh, eager to get yourself horizontal and asleep as fast as possible. Spencer brushes his lips against your temple again as the two of you close in on his car, almost free and clear of the office when a voice behind the two of you brings you up short.

“Reid?”

Spencer is reacting before his mind catches up, turning on his heel towards the sound of Hotch’s voice echoing through the parking lot, conscious of the incriminating way you’re still tucked against his side, even as his brain is rifling frantically through any possible excuses for the current circumstances.

“Hotch-” you step away from Spencer, cheeks flaming, not wanting to chance a look at him. “I-we-thought everyone else had gone home,” you trail off lamely, trying your hardest not to balk under Hotch’s ominously impassive scrutiny. A second passes, then another, and the short silence feels like months, or years even as the three of you stand locked in a stalemate.

“I take it the two of you would prefer to keep this under wraps?” He asks, finally, and it registers with Spencer, somewhat belatedly, that Hotch’s tone isn’t admonishing. It isn’t enough to dissipate the tension coiling in Spencer’s muscles just yet, but he spares a glance at you as he nods, and a moment later, Hotch gives the two of you a curt nod of his own. “I’ll tell you what,” he says, a shade of irony colouring his voice. “If you two fill out the paperwork for in-team relationships for me, I’ll keep it to myself. I understand privacy is hard to come by in our office.”

The words take a while to fully sink in, and you’re conscious that you’re standing there blinking and gaping at your boss like a bemused fish for a good few seconds before you’ve composed yourself enough to say “absolutely, sir. Of course. Thank you.”

Hotch nods again, heading towards his own car, and as he passes the two of you, a brief smile flashes across his face.

“Congratulations, you two. Get some sleep.”

four months and three weeks.

Spencer isn’t sure how late it is, but he knows you’re not asleep yet, the faint glow of your phone screen casting faint distorted shadows across his room as your free hand rests lightly on his chest. In the dark blue twilight of his room, the space feels undefined and dream like somehow, the line between his mind and his surroundings blurry or indistinct somehow, and as you huff out a near silent laugh at something on the screen in your hand, a thought rises to the surface of his thoughts like flotsam on an unwanted tide.

The more clinical part of his mind notes the autonomic response in his body, the way his heart lurches unpleasantly in his chest, heart rate rising with an influx of cortisol through his nervous system, automatically rifling through ways to control the anxiety response. Age old instinct surges forwards, starting to push his spiralling anxiety down out of sight so as not to bother you with it, but then your hand shifts infinitesimally on his chest, fingers curling in the soft fabric of his pyjama shirt, and for once his body is miles ahead of his brilliant mind, your name is leaving his lips before he’s really aware of it happening.

Your gaze flashes up from your phone at the sound of his voice, soft and hesitant, and you let the screen go dark as you set it down. You can feel Spencer’s heart hammering against his ribs under your palm, and your brows knit together in concern as you shift closer to his side, tracing gentle circles over his shirt with your fingertips, the repetitive motion intended to soothe, though you’re not sure if it’s for his benefit or yours.

“Yeah, baby?” You ask softly, working hard to keep the rising worry from your voice. After three years of friendship and almost six months of dating, you know him well enough to sense when his propensity for overthinking and catastrophizing is slipping out of his control. You can feel his chest rise as he inhales sharply, whatever he’s about to say cut off by second guessing, doing nothing to pacify your concern. “Spence? Is everything okay?” You ask again.

“This-bet-hiding our relationship-it’s-” he trails off, throat tight as he rolls onto his side, facing away from you, and smushing his face into the pillow, already wishing he hadn’t said anything. You’re the kindest person he’s ever met, but offering up this kind of raw insecurity feels like pulling teeth. Even if it’s you. Especially if it’s you. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to find out if you care about him enough to stay when his racing mind gets the better of him. The pillow muffles his voice as he says “never mind.”

You feel your own heart rate tic up in response to that, matching the wild beat of Spencer’s that you could feel under your palm only a second ago. “Baby, talk to me. What’s on your mind?”

He shakes his head, face still hidden in the pillow. “It’s stupid.”

He can feel the rush of your breath on his back as you sigh, and your voice is almost achingly patient as you say softly “it’s not stupid if it matters to you.” There’s a long pause, and you press yourself against his back, settling close and letting your hand slide over his side to rest on his chest, the heat of his skin sinking into yours even through his thin shirt. In spite of his height, he feels so small as you wrap yourself around him, drawing closer, trying to reassure him without yet knowing what he needs to be reassured of. “Spence?”

“Are you ashamed of-being with me? Is that why you want to hide it?” The words are almost whispered, the sound almost lost against his pillow and your heart sinks, plummeting faster and further than if you’d dropped it off the side of a skyscraper. You should’ve known he might worry about that, should have realised it might have felt that way. Remorse rises hot and bitter in your throat and you swallow it down, trying to steady your voice.

“Spencer. Sweetheart. No. Never. I could never be ashamed. I love you. I’m so sorry.” Your arms wrap more tightly around him and you bury your face against the crook of his neck, the tension you can feel in every inch of his body making you feel more cruel and short-sighted than you already do. “I’m sorry I didn’t realise it might feel like that. I could never be ashamed of being with you, Spence. You’re my favourite person.” He takes the kind of shaky, shallow breath that comes with trying not to cry and your heart breaks a little more as one of his hands slowly moves to cover yours where it rests against his chest, just over his heart.

As his hand rests over yours, his thumb strokes lightly along your knuckles, and he knows you know him well enough to notice the way his hand trembles, just a little, because then your hand is shifting against his, turning to clumsily tangle your fingers with his, holding tighter to him as he tries to collect himself, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath as his eyes squeeze shut. He can hear the contrition in your voice as you say softly “I’ve never really liked having people know everything about what’s going on in my life. And I love our friends but-something like this, that’s so-special? So new? I wanted to be able to keep it to just us for a while.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice comes out a little shaky, scarcely more than a whisper, and it’s more than you can take as you pull back and gently force him to roll over to face you. He’s not crying, but his eyes are glassy and you recognise the fight to keep the tears unshed in the tight set of his jaw and the hard line of his lips. Leaning on your elbow, you lift your free hand to gently smooth out the furrows of his brow, letting your fingers linger along the planes of his face.

“Why are you sorry,” you ask gently. “You don’t need to be sorry, baby. Not for talking to me about things that bother you. We can tell everyone else tomorrow, if you want? We can call off the bet. Derek will live. If he’s got a problem with it I’ll turn all his shirts into crop tops.”

He can tell the joke is a last bid attempt to make him smile, to ease his fear, and it works. In spite of the anxious weight in his chest that feels like it’s pressing him into the mattress, Spencer laughs weakly, meeting your eyes, and he watches as a relieved smile breaks across your face, releasing your lower lip from where you’d trapped it worriedly between your teeth. The unmitigated affection that floods into your eyes renders him momentarily breathless as he takes in the moment. You’re still here, still trying to take care of him. Just as kind and steadfast as ever.

“No,” he says eventually, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you down on top of him like a living weighted blanket, letting your warmth chase the bulk of the tension from his body and luxuriating in the way you curl into him, one hand sliding into his hair. “We shouldn’t call off the bet. We still have to take Emily’s money, remember?”

Your sleepy laugh is the last thing he hears before his eyes close and the feel of your body wound around his lulls him to sleep.

five months.

SR: Can I talk to you about something?

DM: you dying or something? that’s a really fuckin ominous text to recieve out of the blue

SR: I’m not dying, why would that be what you assumed? I just have a question.

DM: just a figure of speech but what’s up?

SR: It’s about your bet with Emily. What’re the terms for it?

DM: wym?

SR: What exactly did you two make the bet about? What needs to happen in order for you to win the bet?

DM: does this count as collusion?

SR: Technically yes, but calling it collusion implies a certain degree of illegality.

DM: whatever anyway the terms i made with em were that you’d make some kind of move before your birthday but she reckoned you were gonna need some kind of near death experience to do anything about your crush why?

SR: I’m just making sure I have all the information.

DM: what’s going on pretty boy? you planning something?

SR: Maybe.

DM: not a helpful answer reid is everything good?

SR: Everything’s fine. We’re just figuring some stuff out. Nothing to worry about.

DM: is there something you’re not telling me?

SR: Don’t worry about it.

five months, three weeks and six days.

In the chaos that was the scramble from the briefing room to the jet, you haven’t yet had the chance to speak to Spencer about the outcome of his most recent thesis defence panel. By the time you’ve got a moment to breathe, the jet is underway, coasting across the country towards Montana, the whole team settled in for the six hour flight. You corner him in the tiny kitchen area of the jet as he’s making a mug of mediocre coffee, fingers tapping out an absent minded rhythm on the countertop as the coffee machine whirs, clearly not paying attention to anything outside of his head.

“Hey, boy genius.” He jumps, whirling around, eyes wide with surprise, and you smile fondly. “So?” You demand, and Spencer raises an eyebrow in confusion. You snort, rolling your eyes as you elaborate. “Your defence panel. Did it go okay?”

You’re shifting your weight and fidgeting restlessly with the belt loops on your pants and as he studies you for a moment, it occurs to Spencer that you’re nervous for him over this outcome. The thought brings an almost giddy smile to his face.

“You know this isn’t my first thesis defence panel, right?” He says mildly, deliberately burying the lede, enjoying the way you scowl in irritation too much to answer your question right away, too enamoured with this display of concern on his behalf.

“Don’t be difficult, Doctor Reid. It’s still a big deal.” He just shrugs noncommittally, and you huff, swatting his arm lightly. “So did it go well?” You ask again, eyes narrowing as you try to dissect his microexpressions, trying to discern the answer he seems determined to keep from you for yourself. A few seconds later, he relents.

“I can now add degree number six to my wall.” He confirms. Getting degrees doesn’t hold the same rush of pride for him now, the accomplishment feeling somewhat less exceptional as he acquires more of them, but the way your face lights up with pride for him reminds him how special the things he’s capable of can be. You’ve always made him feel like more than the sum of his parts somehow, like something infinitely more precious than he always assumed he is.

“I fucking knew it. That’s amazing, Spence,” you say, chest warm and full with pride and love, and his almost shy smile in return is enough to make a decision for you in a split second. Your hand dips into your back pocket, drawing something out, and you carefully hide it from view in your palm as Spencer tracks the motion curiously with his eyes.

Your eyes are shining with affection and something that looks like mischief and the way you’re smiling at him is more than enough to divert his attention as you step closer, just barely noticing as you slip something into his hand. You’re dangerously, distractingly close now, and he’s conscious, if somewhat distantly, that neither of you is concealed from the rest of the team, scant meters away in the seating area of the jet. But you’re smiling and close enough for him to feel your breath on his face and suddenly your lips are on his, and even after nearly seven months of being able to touch you like this, it’s enough to make him forget everything else as he melts into the contact, savouring the warmth of your skin and the faint smell of your shampoo.

You pull back a second later, the kiss over almost as soon as it started, but it’s enough to attract attention, and you can hear a belated ‘oh SHIT’ from Emily in the main cabin of the jet. In your peripheral vision, you can see money changing hands, your friends scrambling to react, but you don’t look at them, choosing to enjoy the bemused, affectionate look on Spencer’s face as his brain catches up to the events unfolding around the two of you.

“I was tired of keeping it a secret,” you say fondly, loud enough only for him to hear. “You win.”

Blinking in confusion, he finally tears his gaze away from yours, fingers uncurling to reveal the fifty dollar bill you had pressed into his palm right before you kissed him. The penny drops and he snorts with laughter, shaking his head in half hearted indignation as his other arm loops around you, pulling you in, letting you rest your head on his shoulder, hiding your face from the rest of the team as he kisses your temple, revelling in the way you wind yourself around him in response.

“I was gonna do this in like two days. I wanted you to win,” he murmurs against your hairline, and he can feel your faint laughter.

“Too bad, baby. I’m used to getting my way,” you say, pulling back to steal another quick kiss before peeling yourself out of his arms with a wink, turning to face the onslaught of ‘care to fucking explain that’ and ‘I fucking told you so’ from the rest of your friends, tugging him with you by your joined hands.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid/you #spencer reid/reader #reid #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds imagine #dr spencer reid #my writing #spencer reid fluff

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cdelphiki · 4 years

Text

“Fuck.”

Jason’s spoon clanked into his bowl, as he dropped it and fumbled for the remote. He’d been watching Jeopardy! with the volume low. Half the fun of the game was answering the questions himself, and really, the idiots on the show were often just distracting.

But Jeopardy! wasn’t on the screen anymore.

The Joker was.

The Joker and the current Robin.

“—play a game, shall we?” Joker said, and Jason just cursed louder as he tossed his cereal on the coffee table and jumped up.

“Hrnn,” Robin groaned, when the camera panned to him, “Who’d want to play with you?”

Fucking brat.

The poor kid looked in rough shape. His mask was slightly ripped, showing off a massive bruise right under one of his eyes. His fat lip and the blood trickling down his chin didn’t help much, either.

Oh, yeah. And the fact he was tied up and inside a tiny little cage.

How the hell had Joker got his hands on Robin?

Never mind, Jason thought, as he kicked around the shit on his floor, freeing the various pieces of his Red Hood uniform, he knew exactly how Robin got himself captured.

Batman was out of town.

And he’d left Robin in charge of Gotham.

Like a fucking moron.

“Uh, uh uh,” Joker said, “That’s no way to behave. Be a good little birdy.”

Robin groaned, when Joker stuck a stick inside Robin’s cage, and jabbed him in the side. He pressed a button, and Tim’s groan turned to a scream as he was electrocuted.

Jason grimaced.

“Now,” Joker continued, through a laugh, “The answer is ‘Topeka.’”

Joker’s stupid fucking laugh.

Jason should not be helping the bats.

He did not help the bats. The bats hated him. And, sure, they had good reason to, but it just meant Jason shouldn’t be helping them out of principle!

Why help people who hate your guts and wish you were still dead?

The bats are out of town, his mind helpfully reminded him, they can’t save Robin. And like hell was Jason going to let Joker kill another Robin.

“Shit,” he mumbled, as he grabbed his helmet and shoved it on his head. All he needed was his guns, now.

“Come now, Robin,” Joker said, “You’re disappointing the viewers at home.”

“No, you’re disappointing the viewers,” Jason snapped, as he placed three guns into his holsters, and grabbed his spare magazines, checking to make sure each was full. “No one wants to watch the fucking Joker fuck with a little kid.”

Even if that little kid was Tim Drake. And annoying as fuck.

The camera zoomed back on Robin’s face, and Robin finally mumbled out, “Capital of Kansas.”

Robin screamed, again, when Joker jabbed him with the shock stick, and Jason growled.

He grabbed his tablet and hacked into the batcomputer in record time. He wasn’t sure if Bruce knew he could still do that, but at the moment he was fucking glad he hadn’t been caught yet.

“You didn’t phrase your answer in the form of a question! Haven’t you ever watched Jeopardy!? That’s what the good folks want right now.”

“Fuck, kid,” Jason mumbled, as he triangulated a location on Robin’s tracker, “Where are you?”

Only Robin’s tracker was listed in Gotham, too. No one else was around. Not Alfred. Not Batgirl. No one.

Why the fuck did Bruce keep leaving Robin all alone?

Hadn’t he learned his lesson the first time?

Tim groaned on screen again, making Jason draw his gun and unload the full clip on the screen.

Shit.

His neighbors probably hated him.

“Where are you,” he growled at the tablet, just as Robin’s location finished loading.

Warehouse in Crime Alley.

Not even five blocks from Jason’s safe house.

Good.

- - -

The Joker had almost no henchmen guarding his warehouse.

Usually Joker’s operations were more thought through. Right?

This time it was just pathetic.

How in the ever-loving-fuck had he got his hands on Robin, anyway?

It took Jason not even ten minutes to reach the warehouse, break in, and incapacitate all ten of his thugs. It took only another fifteen seconds to climb up into the rafters, into the main area where Joker was ‘filming’ with Robin.

“Now, Robin,” Joker said, his his annoying high pitched drawl, “You are down in the negatives. You need to get this next answer correct or—”

Jason didn’t let him finish the thought.

Because he shot the Joker in the ass.

“Shut the fuck up,” Red Hood snarled, as he dropped down from the rafters, right on top of Joker, “No one cares as much as you think.”

“Hood,” Joker said, grinning wide, despite all the blood leaking out of him.

Or, well. Not much. Jason should shoot him again.

Robin would get all high and mighty, if Jason actually killed Joker.

Fucking hell.

“How nice of you to drop by!” Joker said, laughing, “We could use a second contestant.”

Yeah. Sure.

Jason brought his elbow down into Joker’s face. Hard. Breaking his nose and knocking him flat out.

“How disappointing,” Jason said, as he stood up and turned toward Robin, “That wasn’t nearly as satisfying as shooting him in the face would have been.”

Robin stayed laying there, where he was, curled up in his cage, clutching his stomach tight.

Whistling, Jason crossed the room and tried to get Tim’s attention. “Yo. Half-pint, you all right there?”

Tim didn’t react, other than to curl up tighter when Jason approached the cage and put a hand on one of the bars.

“Shit,” he mumbled, “Okay, kid. I’ll get you out.”

Ridiculously, it took longer to figure out a way to get Tim out of the cage.

He tried to pry the fucking lock open with a crowbar he found laying around…

Joker and his fucking crowbars.

But the lock wouldn’t budge, and the stupid replacement Robin kept flinching every time Jason got too near. Which, should have probably made Jason feel bad.

If he were, like, a good person.

Instead it just pissed him off enough that he grabbed the crowbar and started bashing it against the lock, until the damn thing fell off.

“Okay,” Jason said as he opened the cage door, “Tell me what the damage is, kid.”

Robin didn’t respond, so Jason reached in and placed one gloved hand on his shoulder. All he was going to do was shake it, a little. Just to make sure the kid was alive. And like, just out of it.

But apparently Robin was super out of it, because instead of growl at him or snap some dumbass quip, he jumped up and punched Jason right in the stomach.

“Fuck,” he huffed. The little sucker packed a mean one, but he was too damn out of it for it to do more than make Jason wince. “The fuck, kid? Knock it off.”

Tim jumped up, however, on top of the cage, then wobbled there as he tried to right his balance. The second Jason tried to reach out to him, to catch him before he toppled over, or some shit, Tim pulled out a couple of his stupid R shaped throwing stars and started throwing them.

“Shit,” Jason growled, as he dodged, “Kid, knock it off.”

“What do you want?” Robin asked, and with that, apparently reached the end of his spike of adrenaline.

Because the next thing Jason knew, Robin was falling off the cage bars he’d been perched on, and Jason had barely enough time to dive the few feet between them and catch the stupid runt before he landed on the concrete ground, head first.

“Get off me,” Robin demanded, thrashing about in Jason’s hold.

All it made Jason do was squeeze his arms around Tim tighter.

“Stop,” Tim said, his voice getting a little more desperate, “Get off.”

“Ow,” Jason complained, when Tim kicked him in the knee, “Would you knock it off. Am I hurting you?”

Tim stilled, for a second, and seemed to evaluate the situation. Jason was still holding onto him, but he loosed his arms a little.

“No?” Tim asked, like he wasn’t sure if that were the correct answer, or something.

Stupid brat. And they accused Jason of shooting first, asking questions later.

“Then why the fuck are you fighting me?” Jason demanded.

“You’re…” Tim said, then paused as he put a hand up to his head. Shit. Jason needed to get him back to a safe house and checked out.

Letting go of Tim completely, Jason set him down and maneuvered, so he was kneeling in front of the stupid runt. He put a hand on Tim’s head and forced his head back, a little, so Jason could get a good look at it. He could see one of Tim’s eyes, due to his mask having so much damage on it, and it looked like Tim was at least making eye contact.

Or, at least. As much eye contact as he could when Jason was wearing a helmet.

“You’re the Red Hood?” Tim finally answered.

Jason merely huffed. “Yeah. And you’re the boy hostage. Where are you hurt?”

“What?” Tim demanded, “Why do you care?” and Jason rolled his eyes.

“Like I’m gonna let Joker kill you. That’s my job.”

Okay.

Wrong thing to say.

Because Tim’s eye grew wide, and he shuffled backward, out of Jason’s reach, kicking his feet.

Jason tried to grab his feet, to make him stop, but Tim kept kicking, and got Jason right in the ribs.

“Ouch, stop it. I was kidding.” Tim got him on the chin, and Jason snapped, “Just stop. I’m trying to help you.”

“Why,” Tim demanded, as Jason finally caught one of his legs and held it up high enough that Tim lost his balance.

It was kind of amusing, how Tim landed on his back, and just groaned.

“Why’s there gotta be a reason?” he asked, “Maybe I don’t want to see another Robin die!”

“You beat me near to death like two minutes ago,” Tim shouted, pulling at his foot, and not succeeding in freeing himself.

Because Jason was standing, and Tim was short. It would be no trouble at all for Jason to just lift Tim right up off the ground entirely by his leg.

“It’s been four months, stop being dramatic.”

“You expect me to believe you’ve changed enough since then that it matters?” Tim demanded, just as he pulled another throwing star out and threw it at Jason.

Too bad for Tim, Jason saw it coming a mile away. And just caught it.

“Yep!” he cheered, “You done now? You’re, like, super out if it and your fight sucks. If you couldn’t tell.”

Robin mumbled something Jason didn’t catch, so Jason dropped his foot, and tried not to grin too wide when Tim groaned when his body hit the ground.

He didn’t fall too far.

And Jason was sure his head and upper back had been on the ground, already, before he let go.

“Can you walk on your own?” he asked.

Once Tim stopped being all dramatic about everything, he grumbled out a, “No,” so Jason knelt down next to him and offered a hand, to help Tim sit up.

Tim glared at him with so much derision, it risked making Jason laugh.

Instead, all he said was, “Then stop fucking fighting me and let me help.”

“Fine,” Tim snapped, lifting an arm up so Jason could wrap it around Jason’s shoulders, “But if you try anything, I’m calling for Superman.”

“Whatever,” Jason said, as he hefted Tim to his feet, and started making toward the warehouse exit, “Just shut up and let me get you out of here.”

Tim was in pretty rough shape.

Jason already knew that, of course, but it became even more obvious as they made their way back to Jason’s safe house.

Mostly because Jason did all the fucking work.

Tim’s left leg was obviously fucked up. Jason was a little glad he hadn’t held that leg up in the air, because then he’d feel guilty.

And that wasn’t it. He kept clutching at his stomach, and Jason was willing to bet there was at least some pretty bad burns there from all the zapping.

Dragging Tim’s ass up the side of Jason’s building was easy, of course. But annoying. Because Jason had to hold onto Tim tight, because the stupid brat’s grip kept loosening whenever Jason jostled him too much.

“Shit kid,” Jason mumbled, as he pushed Tim through the window to his safe house, “I can’t believe Bruce leaves his fucking kid all alone to protect Gotham when he’s out of town.”

Because, seriously.

This was ridiculous.

Tim was fucked up. And it was all Bruce’s fault.

“M’not his kid,” Tim mumbled, as he stumbled a few feet inside Jason’s safe house, over to the couch. He collapsed down with an oof.

Jason rolled his eyes and closed the window behind him, after he jumped inside. “You are too a kid,” he said, unsnapping his helmet and tossing it down on the ground, “You’re like, thirteen.”

Tim followed Jason with his eyes, even as he sank into the couch a little more, and said, “I’m fifteen. And I said I’m not his kid.”

“Fifteen!” Jason shouted, tossing his gloves on the ground. His safe house was pretty small, so his kitchen was his living room. And he, thankfully, had a pretty good first aid kit sitting in the cabinet under his sink. “That’s how old I was. And obviously I meant his son, you idiot.”

“I’m not his son either,” Tim said.

Jason paused, as he was pulling his kit out, and looked up over the counter at the little brat.

“He didn’t adopt you?”

Hadn’t Talia said….?

How the fuck was he even Robin?

“No,” Tim exclaimed, “I have a dad.”

Is that why Bruce was more lenient on Tim? Because he wasn’t his son?

Bruce never let Jason out of his fucking sight as Robin.

He’d thought that was because he didn’t trust Jason, and clearly he trusted Tim.

But was it maybe because he’d adopted….

Nope. Not thinking about this.

“And he lets you run around with the bats?” Jason asked, finally crossing back over to Tim and slamming the first aid kit down on the coffee table.

Tim jumped, but then scowled at Jason and said, “It’s not like he can stop me.”

“Seriously, kid?”

“Look. It’s none of your business. Are you gonna let me go?”

In that state? Not bloody likely.

But instead of say that, and get Robin all fighty again, Jason said, “I’m not keeping you prisoner, but let me look at your injuries.”

Tim rolled his eyes, but sank back down into the couch and mumbled, “I’m fine.”

“Uh huh,” Jason said, pointing toward the stomach Tim was still clutching, “lemme see.”

It took a second of Tim glaring, but he finally relented and lifted his shirt, and Jason could only wince in sympathy.

“Damn, Timbo,” he said, looking at the criss crossing scorch marks littering his abdomen, “Those look fun. I’ve got some burn cream that should help.”

Jason worked on Tim’s injuries in silence for a good ten minutes. He had so many burns, Jason kind of wanted to go back and shoot Joker in the ass again, just for inflicting them.

And maybe go find Bruce and shoot him in the ass, for leaving Tim all alone for this to happen in the first place.

“That one needs stitches,” Jason said, after he’d pulled Tim’s sleeves up, inspecting his arms for any more burns to treat. Instead, he found a jagged knife wound, that was still oozing a little. “Did you think you could hide it from me?”

Tim pulled his arm closer to himself, and mumbled, “S’not that bad.”

Jason rolled his eyes, and pulled out his suture kit. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Amazingly, Tim didn’t fight him at all, when he took his arm back and started cleaning the wound enough so he could apply the local anesthetic and start stitching it up.

Instead, all Tim did was stare at him, a little blankly.

It was actually unnerving.

“What?” he snapped.

“Why are you doing this?”

“I told you,” Jason scoffed, readjusting his hold on Tim’s arm so he could get the last few stitches in straight, “I’m not letting Joker kill another Robin.”

And, sure. Stitching the kid up and treating all his burns was going a little above and beyond.

But Jason would feel a little bad if he, like, bled to death or whatever.

“Yeah,” Tim said, blinking hard as he ran his free hand through his hair, “But like, you coulda just took him out and left. Why’re you— ow.”

“Whoops,” Jason said, bearing his teeth a little as he grinned at the accidental needle prick he gave Tim outside the numbed area, “Are you seriously complaining? Don’t you know better than to look a gift horse in the mouth?”

Tim was rich, wasn’t he? Weren’t they taught that shit, too?

Jason was pretty sure Bruce never let him be ungrateful about gifts. Not that Jason would, of course. But even Bruce Wayne taught his kids to be thankful for what they had…

Then again. Tim apparently wasn’t Bruce’s kid…

“When that gift horse tries to kill us every other week, no,” Tim said.

“Shut up,” Jason scoffed, “I haven’t messed with you idiots in months.”

Which was, absolutely, completely, 89% true.

He hadn’t attempted anything fatal on them in months. Fucked with their cases for the laughs? Maybe.

Mostly just Bruce’s. When it didn’t get anyone hurt, of course.

Just because it was fun to fuck with Bruce.

Because fuck Bruce.

“Yeah, but— ow.”

Jason might have stabbed him again.

“All done,” he said, before Tim could get out whatever it was he was going to protest, “Congratulations, you’ll survive. You can sleep here. I’m burning the safe house tomorrow, though.”

He’d shot the TV. So it was pretty useless now, anyway.

“Next time you get captured by the Joker, I’m shooting you in the ass, got it?”

“Yeah,” Tim said, rolling his eyes as he settled back on the couch a little more comfortably, “Whatever.”

Jason watched as Tim pulled his legs up and clearly just… collapsed there. To sleep. And rolled his eyes even harder.

Like that would be comfortable.

On his way to the window, after he’d put his helmet back on, Jason grabbed the blanket and pillow from under the coffee table and threw it right at Tim’s head.

Tim scowled, but did readjust himself so he looked at least slightly more comfortable.

Satisfied, Jason nodded and said, “Kay. Tell Bats I said fuck him. Later, squirt.”

“Thanks, Jason,” Tim mumbled, just as Jason was slipping out of the window.

Heh. The runt wasn’t so bad, after all.

Maybe.

But Jason was not going to make a habit of this. No way.

If he did, he’d have to go shoot Batman in the ass, for letting his stupid little Robin get hurt.

That would be fun, actually.

#whumptober2020 #no.4 #caged #batman #batfam #red hood #robin #tim drake #jason todd #c writes #fanfiction #injuries #hurt/comfort #batbros #cross posted to ao3

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letapollojusticesayfuck · 3 years

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"the way you flirt is shameful." Klavier (klapollo) and ema ?

"short fics," I said, like a liar.

anyway please enjoy almost 2k of Klapollo Nonsense.

Send me a random line of dialogue and some characters, and I'll write a short fic!

---

Another grey morning, another lukewarm cup of coffee. Apollo pulls his coat a little tighter around him, scowling at nothing in particular. It’s just his luck, isn’t it, that this week’s defendant is a fisherman, accused of murdering their boat’s captain out on the docks.

It’s also just his luck that it’s March, and he hadn’t even thought anyone would be out on the water this early in the year. Shows how much he knows about the fishing industry.

He jumps when an arm lands around his shoulders, and has to fight to keep his awful beverage from sloshing entirely out of its styrofoam cup. With an irritated huff, Apollo turns to reprimand his unexpected company, but the words die in his throat when he looks over to see Klavier Gavin—and, more specifically, the woolly hat perched on his head. It appears to be lovingly hand-knitted, in a shade of purple he’d swear he’d seen in scraps of wool lying around the office in previous weeks. It also happens to be emblazoned with Gavin’s ridiculous logo, the angular G as distinctive as ever.

“Uh…” he says instead, eyebrow raised in what he hopes is a skeptical, yet bewildered expression. He’s not sure he succeeds with that, though, considering the way Gavin’s casual smile crooks up at the edges into a more genuine grin.

“Ja, Herr Forehead? How goes the investigation?” Lazy curls of steam rise from the stainless steel travel mug clasped in his hand, dissipating into the pervasive fog that’s blanketing the docks. Typical. Apollo considers asking him if he’d like to swap drinks.

“Cold. Damp. And is this a good time to mention that I’m allergic to shellfish? I think that’s probably an important detail, considering….this.” he replies, poking an errant mussel with the point of his dress shoe. His dress shoe that he’s for some reason wearing to a crime scene out by the harbour, because Apollo has misplaced ideas of professionalism, apparently.

“Ach, it’s not that bad! For one, you have my company to brighten up your day! And for another thing...I have news for you about the case.”

“Really. And it’s not just going to be something that you’ll immediately rescind in court tomorrow?”

“HerrForehead, what kind of prosecutor do you take me for? We’re on the same side, you know—both seeking the truth.”

“That’s cheesy as anything.”

“But correct! Anyway. FräuleinSkye has just uncovered something tangled around one of the fishing lines on the boat, and she’s attempting to piece it back together. If you hurry, you might get a glimpse before it goes straight into the evidence dossier.”

Apollo hmms, considering. He’s not sure he wants to just take Klavier’s tip-off; it could be seen as collusion under some circumstances. But he’s really not accomplishing anything on his own, and any new evidence could help him prove Annette Sloop’s innocence.

He also realizes, belatedly, that Klavier still has his arm around his shoulders, and that he’s been unconsciously leaning into the warmth of the taller man’s down jacket.

“Okay, sure—it’s gotta be better than anything I can find here,” Apollo decides, and tries to subtly extricate himself from Klavier’s grasp without drawing attention to the fact that he’s actually found some kind of comfort in their proximity, that he’s really not particularly enthusiastic about losing his human space-heater.

Luckily, Klavier realizes that he’ll have to grant Apollo his freedom if he wants the shorter man to be able to take advantage of his newly-gained intel, and drops his arm back to his own side. Apollo stifles a shiver as the cool, damp air rushes back against him, clinging to his skin with a pervasive chill.

He’d assumed that Klavier had business to take care of on the dock, so the fact that the prosecutor follows him as he boards the fishing boat takes him by surprise. What also takes him by surprise is the intensity of the fishy aroma around the vessel, something that Apollo really should have considered as a factor beforehand. He wrinkles his nose and tries to breathe shallowly—and when that doesn’t work out, he buries his nose in the collar of his jacket.

And that brings with it its own set of problems, because somehow the short amount of time his jacket was in contact with Klavier’s own was enough to allow the other man’s sandalwood cologne to seep into the thin fabric. Apollo wishes this wasn’t his life. Isn’t this the kind of stuff teenagers write about?

Luckily, his panicking is cut short by Ema Skye clearing her throat from the other end of the deck, midway through spreading fabric scraps onto a plastic folding table. She appears decidedly unimpressed, but waves them over.

“Justice. I take it you were informed of the recent developments by the fop here?” she remarks, as disinterestedly as possible for someone who’s practically vibrating with the excitement of being able to do something actually forensically significant.

“Er...yeah, Klavier told me that you’d found something?” Apollo replies, trying to look as though he understands more of the situation than he actually does. He thinks he pulls it off. If not, Ema doesn’t comment on it.

Klavier, however, smiles impossibly wide at Apollo’s words, and it takes him a moment to realize that it’s because he’d called the man by his first name, as opposed to his more professional title. A slip of the tongue, nothing more! And yet…

If it’d get a reaction like that, Apollo might start using Klavier’s first name significantly more often.

“Oh, come on, do neither of you actually care about this T-shirt I found? This apparently-bloodstainedT-shirt?” Ema taps her foot against the plank wood of the ship’s deck. Apollo breaks out of his thoughts with just about enough time to look marginally interested in the new evidence—which he hopes is convincing.

And it’s not that he doesn’t want to solve the murder! It’s really just that—well, Klavier is just there, being distracting, like he always is—except it’s worse, recently, somehow. Apollo swears he used to be able to spend time focusing on other things, that he wasn’t always this preoccupied with what the prosecutor was doing, where he was standing, if he was looking at--

“Oh, for God’s sake. The way you flirt is shameful,” Ema says, entirely exasperated. She also seems to be looking at Apollo, for some reason.

“Are you talking to me?” he asks, confused. The detective rolls her eyes and sighs dramatically, visibly resisting the urge to throw up her hands.

“You, him, both of you! This used to be almost funny, you know, watching Gavin be all glimmerous in your direction and seeing you shut him down. But recently you’ve been playing into it and—you know what? I’m done! You don’t get to listen to my stunning forensic breakthroughs until you’ve sorted your shit out, because I just can’t be doing with this. It’s ridiculous. Why can’t you just act like adults?”

The outburst is followed by Ema Skye whirling around, the sensible shoes she’s wearing clacking against the ship’s deck. Halfway to the door to the crew’s quarters, she remembers that she’s left all her forensic materials spread out next to where Klavier and Apollo are standing, and backtracks with increasingly evident frustration.

“You know what? I’m not leaving! You two—off my ship!Go figure yourselves out, and I won’t tell you about this case-changing evidence until you’ve stopped acting like this.”

Apollo’s a little taken-aback—not the least because he doesn’t think that he’s been doing any flirting, especially not with Klavier. He’s been hiding his feelings far too well for that—right?

Klavier looks at him and shrugs, motioning with his head that they should retreat the way they’d arrived. It’s not necessarily the most dignified thing, climbing off a boat in shame after being reprimanded by the detective on the case.

Once they’re back on “solid” ground (as solid as one can call a fishing boat’s dock, anyway), Apollo turns to Klavier.

“So, what was that about? I’ve never seen her that angry.”

Interestingly enough, color rises to Klavier’s cheeks. “Well...I think that, perhaps, she’s...misinterpreting the situation?”

And if Klavier’s strange statement hadn’t been enough to tip Apollo off that maybe something strange is going on here, there’s the familiar pinch of warm metal against his left wrist, his bracelet constricting at the taller man’s fib.

And—they know each other well enough, by this point, that all Apollo has to do is level an unimpressed stare in the prosecutor’s direction, and deadpan “Klavier” with all the air of a man who is taking no bullshit for an answer, for him to deflate and give up, shoving a hand in his back pocket awkwardly.

“Ugh. Okay. Erm. So, HerrForehead, this wasn’t...exactly...unprovoked. It’s possible that FräuleinSkye has been on the receiving end of many conversations about how I would like to….uh…”

It’s quite something, seeing Klavier at a loss for words. Apollo hadn’t thought that the former rockstar could look as awkward as he does now, the hand not trapped in his pocket fiddling with a loose strand of his hair.

He really, really tries not to think about how endearing it is.

Klavier seems to have reached a point, however, where he’s just decided to say things and worry about the consequences later. So Apollo’s contemplations are brought to a screeching halt when the man sighs, flips his hair, and stares at him straight-on, enunciating with perfect clarity:

“Apollo Justice, would you like to go out with me? On a date? Because I must say, I’ve been trying to find the best way to ask you for a while now, but unfortunately all I’ve succeeded in doing is, apparently, annoying the FräuleinDetective until not even Snackoos are a valid enough weapon.”

And—this isn’t the setting Apollo had pictured, in his often-hastily-repressed daydreams about Klavier asking him out. For one, he’d not quite imagined the quantity of fish, or the less-than-steady footing. But Klavier looks so earnest about his request, and Apollo can’t deny the way his heart’s skipped a beat, the way he’s almost petrified to say anything just in case this isn’t real—and so, he takes a deep breath, steps forward, and twines his fingers with Klavier’s.

“You know what? I’d love to. I’ll go anywhere you’d like—with the exception of a sushi restaurant” Apollo smiles, hesitantly at first, and then more genuinely as he sees the softly disbelieving expression on Klavier’s face.

“Really?” the prosecutor asks, and isn’t that incredible—that Klavier Gavin had been worried about being turned down. Apollo can’t quite believe it himself, yet.

“Yeah, really,” he says, smiling up at Klavier, who beams down at him in return. He feels the other man squeeze his hand briefly, and can’t quite contain the impulse to lean in closer to him, consciously this time, sharing both warmth and physical contact in a meaningful way.

When they return to the fishing vessel, Ema takes one look at the two of them and narrows her eyes, proceeding to mime nausea at the way they’re still holding hands.

However, she does follow through on her promise—and by the time they’re ready to leave the crime scene, both Klavier and Apollo are fairly certain of the next day’s trial’s outcome—as well as of the location of their post-trial dinner date.

#lucy's thoughts #my writing #klapollo #thank you for the prompt!!#mogoliz #ask #asks #ask game #sorry these are taking me ages!!#you might have noticed that they keep getting away from me #also i am going to be on an island for five days starting tomorrow #so i will be very slow in answering the other two i've got sitting in my inbox #just know i am getting around to them!!#i will just have to write them out on paper rather than on a laptop #and then type them up later

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sysig · 3 years

Text

Requestober sketches 2021

Day 1 wasn’t too different from sketch to final, mostly just in framing (what is it about Vargases needing to be moved around in the foreground or background lol). I like drawing hairties being held in one’s mouth, I think the last time I doodled that was with Mousey a bit back lol. I even got to keep the sparkles around Shmee in the preview!

I like my little arrow’d note of “Edgar’s helping :)” lol

This was the warmup for the day, he’s finally got a knife lol

For Day 2, I made the prelim sketch before I redesigned Marshmallow Fluff’s outfit, but everything else stayed mostly the same other than some pretty serious refining lol I actually digitally sketched everything the day before it was posted to make sure I’d get it done in time since I knew I’d be a little out of whack, and boy was I right lol

I sketched out a different pose for Charm as well, but I ended up liking the original better, so I had to scrap it. Still cute tho!

For Day 8, I did exactly one test sketch of Pneuma and was like “Well it’s obviously gotta be something about those ears, come on now.” Almost no changes from sketch to final! Expressive ears are fun, especially when I can scallop the fluff lol

Day 18, the dip ♥ Scriabin’s was pretty solid from the get-go, Edgar’s hips were re-angled and his back was leveled a bit - drawing from the pose inspiration really helped! Especially on getting the hands to interact, pulling back from the shoulder far enough to have Edgar’s arm at full extension was a little tricky but I think I got it in the end :)

Even this one had a sketch haha ♪ Scriabin’s gotta be goading

Hm? The kiss pose? Haha weird, could’ve sworn I made some kiss doodles-

Ah right those haha. None of them ended up even close! S’cause I couldn’t figure out how to angle them traditionally, it was so much easier to do digitally. Didn’t stop me from making a bunch of test doodles anyway lol. I’m almost happy with the top center one except their jaw heights are inconsistent and it annoys me. I do like the lower right one tho, their jaws make up one straight line haha ♪

I got the prompt for Day 25 pretty late at night so I scribbled it down fairly quickly before bed. All the important parts are visible, like Scriabin being squished up into a snuggle, they look very cozy ♪

Day 31, my day! I doodled down the idea about a week? before committing to it since there weren’t any prompts for Halloween, I mostly wanted to see just how flashy I could get the scales to look lol. I was trying (unsuccessfully) to draw Edgar and an old art adage of “snake spine” hit me upside the head and then this ✨

Not much changed from pencils to digital! A little cleaning and some toning and a lot of fun with my scale brushes haha ♪ I’m happy I can translate from page to screen without too much fuss! Scriabin’s fang does look particularly pointy here tho lol

And that was everything for this year’s Requestober! Thanks to those who participated :)

#Requestober #Doodles #Vargas #All in one post since there weren't as many this year #I did still go off on my own tangents a couple times tho lol #Gotta get All the ideas down!#It was fun! Some unexpecteds this year! :0 #I do think it's a little funny that the year I've run much more out of steam I had the availability for Vargastober lol #Didn't stop me from setting a day aside anyway lol #Til next year! ♥

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zevlors-tail · 3 years

Text

Febuwhump Day 8 - “Hey, hey, this is no time to sleep!”

A/N: I can’t believe I just wrote this in one sitting. I know I’m super behind on Febuwhump, yikes...but I think this turned out pretty well! This got longer than I meant it to be, but then, so did most of the prompts in my drafts that I have for this month. This is actually my first time purposefully writing whump so I hope this was okay! Unedited btw, i’ll read it over in the morning.

TW: Burning building, explosions, second degree burns, mentions/descriptions of burn wounds, life or death situation, building collapse, concussed reader.

***

The first thing Hawks notices when he comes to is the foul taste in his mouth. It causes him to gag and cough with his eyes still closed, though that doesn’t help his situation much if at all. The smell of something burning sears the inside of his nostrils and clogs his lungs, and he finds it incredibly hard to breathe as he rolls over onto his side, eyes finally fluttering open.

The second thing he becomes acutely aware of is how hot he is. No...how hot the floor is. Speaking of which, he couldn’t seem to recall what he was doing down there anyways. If only that incessantly annoying ringing in his ears would stop-

Wait. Wait a minute...

An image of you flashes behind his eyelids as he blinks them shut harshly to block out the billowing cloud of smoke filling the room, and it all comes back to him in a whirlwind.

There were villains. High class villains. Not your every day run of the mill villains, but villains who could really pack a punch when fighting back. They had been occupying a small skyscraper at the time as their headquarters, and you and Hawks had partnered up to take them down after months of steak outs and observation. But something had gone wrong...very wrong. Those details were still a bit blurry, but Hawks remembers something akin to an explosion- a loud noise, the building shaking, and a blast that knocked him unconscious.

All of the sudden he’s hyper aware of what’s going on- and he realizes he needs to move fast if he’s going to get out of here alive. He’s at least twenty stories up in the air on unstable structures, his feathers and hair are singed, and his head is foggy after inhaling too much smoke. Luckily he can still move, and it doesn’t look like he’s been burned too severely, at least not yet. But the flames licking at the bottom of the closed door in front of him cause alarm bells to scream out in his head, and he knows he doesn’t have much time to think. He needs to find you so he can grab you and-

Ohhh, shit.

As he rolls over onto his other side, he can make out the outline of a figure lying on the floor, and he’s almost certain it’s you. None of the villains stuck around after blowing the place up anyways, and he can just barely see the dulled colors of your hero suit behind the thick screen of smoke.

“Fuck! Oh god, Y/N.”

You’re lying too still for your own good, and Hawks thinks he can see the beginning of what he can only assume to be fire slowly eating at the wall next to you. He wastes no time and flattens himself on his stomach, army crawling in your general direction to avoid the worst of the putrid air. It doesn’t help much, but it’s better than nothing. He ignores the uncomfortable heat of his body and pushes onward, his movements still a little sluggish from getting knocked out cold. He’s not entirely sure if he can even use his feathers right now while they’re this singed, and furthermore, he hopes his wings aren’t completely out of commission; he’s going to need those if the both of you are going to make it out of this alive.

“Y/N!” he tries to shout, though it ends in a horrible sounding cough that comes from deep in his chest. As he draws nearer, he hears what sounds like creaking coming from above the two of you, and to his utter horror, the support beams under floor above you have burnt to a crisp and look like they’re ready to collapse any second. It had to have been a sheer miracle that the two of you weren’t already engulfed in flames yourselves. “Y/N! Come on, kid, you gotta get up! Move!”

Even as he tries to urgently get your attention his body seems to move on it’s own accord, and before he can stop himself, he sends a few feathers your way out of habit and concern that you might be crushed any second if he doesn’t move you somehow. It hurts like hell, and he’s pretty sure he’s bleeding. This is by far the worst he’s felt when using his feathers, but it does pay off, and you’re lucky that he made the split decision to move you- no sooner had he scrambled back with you had the ceiling collapsed into the floor.

He turns to you while staying low to the ground, shaking you desperately and firmly smacking the side of your face with his hand in hopes of interrupting your forced slumber. It works but just barely, and Hawks watches as you try to take a deep breath but end up choking just as he had. He gives you a once-over while you struggle to breathe, eyes flitting over your form to assess any damage you may have taken- and to his dismay, there seems to be a good amount of it. The entire left side of your hero outfit is singed, bits of the fabric even burnt into your skin in certain places where the heat must have been too strong. You hadn’t been able to move away or protect yourself in your sleep, and the burns on your arm and leg can definitely attest to that. They’re second degree, at least; some of the fire must have actually made contact with your skin.

“Oh, fuck- Hey, look at me. Y/N, focus here!”

He leans over you to look at your eyes, and he doesn’t have to shine a light in them or have you follow his finger to know that you hit your head a little too hard. They’re glossy and unfocused, and you can’t find a single place on his face to fixate on. You just keep looking all over, and Hawks can clearly tell your concussed.

Fucking great. He’s got to get you both out, and now.

“Hey, kid. Can you hear me?” He nervously awaits an answer with eyes trained on you, and the second you start to talk he lets out a small breath of short-lived relief.

“Hawks...? Wha...” You look so out of it and dazed.

“So that’s a yes, thank god...” Before you try to ask anything else, he stops you in your tracks and shakes his head at you. “Whoa, whoa, whoa- take it easy, alright? No questions, I just need you to listen and keep talking to me. Doesn’t matter what it’s about, I just need to know you’re awake and alive-” He pauses briefly to look around for something, anything he can do to escape.

There’s the door you both came from, the one that’s barely holding back the raging heat behind it- that’s a no-go. No way in hell is he trying to brave that. His wings won’t last five seconds in that, and you don’t have the means to protect yourself while you’re concussed. Another option is to try and escape through the hole in the floor that the ceiling caused...but that’s way too risky for the both of you as is, and it looks like flames are starting to creep in from that way, too. If he is going to take that route, he needs to do it soon. Maybe he can get to a staircase, or find a-

The sound of you moaning in pain cuts through his thoughts and his head whips back in your direction to find you grimacing and trying to move. “Ah ah- Don’t do that. Just keep talking, come on. I know it hurts, but you gotta keep talkin’ to me. I’m gonna get us out of this mess, somehow...”

Panic starts to set in as he realizes his options are limited. Terror grips him in it’s icy stone-cold jaws as he comes to the conclusion that his odds of survival are even worse.

“Hawks...it hur’s...” All you can do is roll your head back and forth and try to move, but your body just won’t cooperate with your mind.

“Fuck. Fuck! I know, I know...” His teeth grit together as he thinks, his thoughts racing a mile a minute. Adrenaline is starting to kick in, and he’s desperate for anything at this point.

He still has no plan in mind when he makes another split second decision to move you from where you��re currently laying. The fire is only spreading up onto the carpeted floor the two of you are on, and the smoke is getting worse by the second; this room is a hot box with no ventilation at this point. He carefully picks you up and cradles you to his chest, his wings wrapping around the both of you to both support your frame and shield you from the onslaught of unbearable heat. It forces him to take a few steps back, and he does his best to navigate through a screen of black without bumping into any furniture. He almost trips several times, but eventually he hits the opposite wall. Or, rather...

A window. Bingo.

“S’ tired...” you mumble. Your eyes are already fluttering, rolling to the back of your head as your limbs grow heavy in his arms.

“Hey, hey, this is no time to sleep! Y/N!? Come on, stay awake!”

“C’n we go...home now?”

He doesn’t like how ragged your breathing sounds.

He almost chuckles at the absurdity of the situation, but his lungs are already full of tainted air to laugh, let alone breathe properly, so he scoffs instead- and instantly regrets it. Between fits of coughs, he presses his shoulder to the glass behind you both to test the temperature, and it’s much hotter than it should be. Part of the glass is already blown out to his right, but there’s not enough space to crawl out without the jagged edges of it tearing up his flesh and wings. But if he could somehow break it...

His feathers. He’ll have to use up more of them, but if he uses the bare minimum necessary to break the glass and saves the majority, he may be able to make it out the window and fly you both to safety.

“We can’t go home yet,” he chokes out in response to you, finally. “I’m gonna get you out of here, and then you’re on your way to the hospital, yeah? You’re gonna be fine.”

He knows that to be true, so long as he can actually manage this. He backs up as far as he can go without subjecting either of you to the hot flames now openly invading the room, the entryway having burnt to a crisp already. From where he stands now, he hopes there’s enough distance to create the amount of force needed to shatter that damn glass. After a quick estimate of how many feathers he can get away with using, he readies them, and it all boils down this moment. If he can’t do this, you’ll both die. Both of your lives are at stake, resting on his weary shoulders. He can do this.

He has to.

“Wanna go home...wanna go...” You’re just murmuring to yourself, and it really puts Hawks on edge.

He hears the glass shatter before he sees it. He stumbles forward, wings still securely wrapped around you, and all but falls out of the edge of the window right before the rest of the floor collapses in on itself. He hears the devastation behind him, feels sparks on his back where the holes of his shirt meet the beginnings of his wings. He knows if he had hesitated or stayed any longer, neither of you would be alive right now.

Replacing his hold on you with his arms, he lets his wings drift open and prays he didn’t overdo it with the feathers, begs whatever gods may be listening that the two of you can at least slow the fall somehow. And to his pure joy and bliss, his wings, though bleeding and burnt and painful, are still very much holding up and allowing him to fly.

Now if he can manage to get you to a hospital...you’ll be just fine.

#febuwhump #febuwhumpday8 #febuwhump2021 #hawks x reader #keigo x reader #whump #bnha x reader #mha x reader #hawks #keigo takami #keigo

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gojology · 3 years

Text

Escape From Reality.

The Request:

pairing : yuuji itadori x stressed! fem s/o reader warnings : mentions of death, cursing, didn’t re-read, INCREDIBLY RUSHED. wordcount : 2333 a/n : sorry anon, this has been sitting at the very bottom of my requests and i feel really bad. regardless, i hope you still like this. i’m not familiar with yuuji’s character as i am with gojo but i hope this still does you justice. this is also really rushed, since i’m leaving for a trip tomorrow.

Constant twisting and turning, the fight replaying in your head. You couldn’t relax, no, the events from a few days ago had been keeping you awake for who knows how long. Eyes bloodshot, strained from being kept open all day, yet you couldn’t close them. You had paid no thought to anyone gracious enough to give you attention, instead spending most of your time to yourself in your room. Your curtains were kept shut, and a steadily growing mountain of tissues was getting taller and taller. The room was completely black, and only filled with your sniffling. To be quite honest, you didn’t know why you were crying. You won the fight, sure, but you felt so useless and insignificant compared to the likes of your peers. You knew your role, but it was horrifying. Fighting curses wasn’t something new to you, you grew to enjoy it as a sport of some sorts, but this fight left some sort of mental scar on you. Images of the curse controlling humans like they were puppets on strings, and you had to kill every. single. last. one. They looked so human, so scared of what was happening to them, their shocked faces eventually growing into solemn, dark ones. While Megumi and Nobara were off on their own mission, you had been left with Yuuji to kill the curse, perhaps it was a stroke of unluckiness, but you had been instructed to kill something you swore you wouldn’t kill; humans. You knew your boyfriend, Yuuji was taken aback too, his carefree happy-go-lucky personality evaporating into thin air, instead replaced with a neutral face. You didn’t have the power to conceal your tears like he did though, even just a few minutes away from the battlefield, you let them flow free, but you did the job anyways. You saw him stare at you, worry evident on his features from the corner of your eyes. Laying back down on your bed, you sniffled, dabbing at your eyes. You felt like a killer, something inhumane. Lost in your thoughts, you stared at your ceiling and thought of better days or random scenarios. Knock. Knock. Knock. The knocking was quiet at first, calm, and you figured it was Nobara willing to help you, she had done it a few times before when you came back from traumatic missions. You found it hard to relate to her though, and even though you appreciated her keeping you in her thoughts, you just didn’t want any contact right now. The knocking grew more aggressive, and you knew that wasn’t Nobara. Nobara was kind when she was trying to help someone, putting her usual sassy behavior aside to comfort them. You knew she wasn’t going to rapidly knock at your door, in fact she would’ve left by now. “Who is it?” you mumbled, lifting your covers up and sliding into the warmth, hiding most of your face with the blanket. The only thing that was out were your eyes. “Uhhh... Yuuji? Your boyfriend?” a voice nervously croaked, muffled. “The door’s locked, but I came here to give you some sweets! Gojo-Senpai brought them earlier for everyone to share, and I grabbed some flavors for you that I thought you’d like.” You shot back up, candy didn’t sound that bad right now. “Come in.” you respond, shuffling around with the tiny amount of time you had left to make your room look just a bit more presentable. “The door’s locked.” you heard him stifle a laugh pathetically, you could hear it from your bed. “Shit! That’s my fault.” fast-walking towards the door, you stumbled. Dirty clothes were strewn about, a mix of empty snack bags also in the mess. It would be impossible to clean this all up in just 5 minutes without Yuuji growing suspicious. Taking a deep breath in, you threw the laundry you could find closest to you into the laundry basket. You didn’t want the love of your life seeing you like this. You didn’t have enough time to fix your hair, and it seems Yuuji reads your mind. “Don’t worry about how you look, by the way. Actually, lovebug, don’t worry about anything okay? Just open the door.” he says it with a mixture of doubt and anxiety. You feel your expression soften, this was one of the things you loved about Itadori Yuuji. He was mild, he knew when to joke or not, and this time it seemed like he was keen on making you happy. Reaching out to unlock the door knob, you pause, still worried about how ugly you might look, but you open the door anyways. And there stood Itadori Yuuji, dumbly looking at you, a pile of wrapped candies cupped in the palm of his hands. Once it seems to register through your mind that you standing in front of him, he tosses the candy aside, the colorful wrappers raining down on the both of you, and hugs you. It’s a deep bear hug, and your arms loosely wrap around his too, steadily getting tighter and tighter as you realize how much you truly missed this. Head snuggling deep into his shoulder and breathing in his scent. So friendly and inviting, you stay in his embrace for a few more seconds, and your mind is finally at ease for just a little. “Hey there, sweetie.” he finally says, lifting his head up after what seemed like eons, a small smile on his lips. He looks so cheerful, leaning in and kissing the top of your forehead before pulling back, studying your face. You feel utterly self conscious, pushing his face back with your hand. “Hey. I’m kind of crusty and I haven’t washed my face in a while-” Yuuji doesn’t give you another second to finish, instead smothering your face with even more kisses, and your skin heats up as soon as the first sloppy chaste puppy kiss is placed. “Fuck, I mean, fudge. What are you talking about (Y/N)?!” he looks at you like you’re a giant spider, concerned. “You’ve gotta be blind.” “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” You swallow a squeal, instead giving him a small smile, something that you hadn’t done in days. It feels so good to see him again. “Hey- get back in bed, okay? I’ll be back in a jiffy, I’ve gotta pick all these candies up.” Yuuji kisses the tip of your nose again, using his fingers to pull at your cheeks. It’s been a while since you’ve seen his smile, and you realized just how quickly you had forgotten that his eyes almost closed when he smiled, simply because of how big and toothy it was. “Yeah. Okay.” you say, before turning your back on him, you look down, and he’s looking back at you, knees on the floor. One hand is already half filled with the candies, and he gives you yet another shit-eating grin, flashing a quick thumbs up before continuing to pick up the wrappers. You giggle, you suddenly felt so bubbly. Immediately leaping into your bed, you watch him, feet swaying in the air picking up the candies. Yuuji’s muttering under his breath about God knows what, and only then do you realize how lucky you were to have him. Not long after, he skips over to your bed, closing the door behind him, hopping on one leg and taking his beaten up shoes off. Humming a tune, his fingers flicked on the light switch, you note how he looks so genuinely happy. Setting the candies down onto the blankets, he glances at you with these sort of stone cold serious eyes, as if he meant business. Those feelings return back again. What’s with the stare? “Hey. (Y/N).” he places a reassuring hand on your shoulder, rubbing your skin, goose bumps suddenly covering your skin. “I know I was only here to give you candies- and it’s true I was, I’m actually really concerned about you.” Yuuji too crawls onto your bed. “Get nice and comfy okay? Here.” he digs into his pajama pockets, and pulls out a pre-packaged kikufuku mochi. “I know Gojo-sensei says no sweets after bedtime, but I sneaked one for you from his office because I thought It’d make you feel better.” You take it without another word. The thought was nice, after all. “Have you eaten, princess?” he breathes, placing a hand onto your forehead. “You seem really warm, do you need any water?” He was suddenly so serious, you don’t how to respond. At first you look at him, hoping your eyes tell him all he needs to know, but he looks unblinkingly back, and it seems like he wants an answer, stat. “No. I haven’t. Water wouldn’t be bad.” you answer, looking down at your lap. Why did it feel like you disappointed him? “I’ll ask Gojo-sensei to maybe order takeout, It’s not that late. Do you have any water in your room? I don’t want to leave you right now.” Something about this conversation was awkward, and you didn’t like it. “Yeah, I don’t know where though.” “That’s okay, snugglekins. I’ll retrieve them! Don’t you worry.” he rubs your hair so gently, it’s like the hand isn’t even there. “The room is really messy-” Yuuji looks at you, a bit annoyed, which you guess was justifiable, but still acting friendly. “I know, but all that matters to me right now is you, not you’re room.” he’s crawling on the ground now. “You’re acting too serious.” you cheekily retort back mindlessly, covering your mouth as you do so. “I know I am, but when my girlfriend is thinking and acting like this, I need to make sure you feel better.” he tosses you a water bottle, and you nod your thanks, the crinkling music to your ears. You twist the cap off, and take a long swig out. The liquid was refreshingly cold. “No candy until you tell me what’s going on, okay? If you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay, but just... Tell me what I can do to make you feel better. I hate seeing you sad.” “Are you my dad or something?” you joke, but he squints at you, not cracking a single smile. Then, he draws out a long, “Ohhhhhhhhhh!” for a second, eyes widening before stroking his chin, like one of those wide grandpas with the long beards you see in those Chinese dramas. He splutters for a split second, before coughing. “Well, I am merely a wise old man. I must offer you my intellect... And I’m slightly forgetful, so you know- jokes don’t occur to me very well.” he even said it in an old man voice. “That was horrible.” is all you state. You silently appreciate his stupid humor, even in what seemed to be a serious situation. “Thanks!” he chirps. Then he hops back into the bed, he too slipping under the comforting blankets. “Now, tell me, what’s on your mind?’ “Nothing.” you say sheepishly. “Stop lying to meee, come on. No judging.” his fingers weave into yours, and your breath hitches. “Promise?” “Promise.” his fingers tighten around yours as he says this. Taking a deep breath in, you straighten, leaning yourself against his shoulder, and Yuuji doesn’t move, adjusting to the newfound weight. Tears start forming as soon as you open your mouth to speak. “I just really hated how I had to- you know. Kill... Humans. A-and, It’s just that I feel really.... Guilty?” you phrase it like a question almost, and you take a shuddering deep breath in, it was going all out or never. He nods his head, and you take this as a sign to continue. “I just... I feel so useless.. I feel like you didn’t even c-care? A-and..” tears start railing down your cheeks, and you blink like it’s the last think you have to do. “Fuck. Fuck this. I hate this. I hate being so s-soft, and so weak. Why can’t I be like you, or Nobara, or Megumi?” His thumbs brush your tears away, and he looks at you, so gently and kindly it’s like the wind is touching you. Genuine eyes made you feel so comforted and safe. Like he wouldn’t judge you for a damn thing you’d say. “You’re wrong.” he says, finally speaking. You cock your head, as a way of coaxing him to continue. You feel his chest expand, and fall again, taking in a deep breath. “I did care. I hated the thought of calling people like that, but honey-” he looks down at your face, and he can just tell you’re interested. “These people were put in so much misery, of course we had to kill them. They were in pain, and being used as puppets.” “But they looked just like a human, and... They even had, you know... Their own, uh, unique voices. And the things they said..” more tears started rapidly falling. “Hey.” he puts a hard grasp onto your arm when you try to wipe them away. “Stop. You have to constantly remind yourself, these people were being controlled and put through so much excruciating pain. It’s so hard, and it was even harder not to break down and cry in front of you. But we did it together anyways, and we need to get out of this stronger, okay? The missions later on will be even harder, and I want to work alongside you- not just protect you” The last sentence punched you right in the gut, it felt so right hearing it come out of his mouth, and you start full on sobbing, rubbing your wet face into his t-shirt, your tears seeping into the fabric. You’re full aware he probably needs to change, but you don’t care. You truly missed him, even though it had only been a few days. “Fuck. I love you.” you croaked, giving him a sloppy, even wetter peck on the check. “I love you too, princess.” He really was your escape from the reality of being a Jujutsu sorcerer.

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ecto-american · 3 years

Text

Prom Season

Phic Phight Oneshot for Rikaleeta and ghostgothgeek: As Prom draws nearer, Danny finds that he has competition in asking Sam to prom. Danny/Sam

Read on AO3 and FFN

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"Dude, you're staring again," Tucker nudged him. Danny blinked, snapping out of his daze, and he stood up straight, tapping his fingers anxiously on the counter.

"Sorry, dude, it's just. What the hell would Dale want with Sam?" he scowled.

The jock was standing near Sam, the two chatting idly by Sam's favorite part of the comics store, the vinyl section. Sam was smiling, nodding and agreeing with whatever Dale was talking to her about.

"Dale's been eying Valerie lately, maybe he's asking Sam about her?" Tucker suggested. He smiled politely at a customer who came into his line, promptly beginning to check them out. "Even so, why do you care? Sammy's a big girl."

"Prom season's coming up, somebody might ask her," Danny argued lightly.

"And why's that matter?" Tucker asked. In no time at all, the customer had paid and left, and the two were left standing in the mostly empty comics store.

"Dude, you know guys!" Danny grumbled, throwing his hands up as if it was obvious. "They only want one thing, especially after prom! You should know. Don't you and Star plan on finally doing it after prom?"

"Probably, but mostly because we've already been doing it," Tucker shrugged. Danny choked on nothing.

"Wait, what? How come you didn't tell me!?" Danny asked. Tucker opened his mouth to reply, only to jerk his head to Sam.

Dale had left the store seemingly, and Sam was already at the counter, clutching a new vinyl. Danny chuckled.

"This is why we can't visit Tucker at work, you'll always end up with something," he teased her. She rolled her eyes.

"But Tucker works here now, so he'll be sweet and let me use his employee discount?" she half-asked hopefully, staring at Tucker with a bright smile. He sighed, and he entered his employee discount code as he rang her up. "Thank you!"

"Anytime," he assured her. He handed her her bag. "So did Dale ask you to prom?" Sam snorted in amusement.

"Oh hell no," she replied. "He wanted to know if anybody had asked Valerie, and if I thought his plan to ask her would go over well."

Tucker sent Danny a sideways "I told you so" smirk, and Danny made an annoyed grumble.

"Either way, you ready to drag me to Hot Topic?" Danny asked.

"Only every day," Sam said. She turned to Tucker. "You close tonight, right? Do you want us to swing by and take you home?" Tucker shook his head no.

"Nah, it's okay!" he assured her. "I have my uncle's old car now, remember?" Sam lit up a bit.

"Oh yeah! Well, just drive careful!"

Tucker waved her off with a grin.

"Don't worry about me. You two lovebirds have fun," he teased. "But not too much fun."

Danny could feel his cheeks burn. A glance at Sam, and he could see her own face flushing some. However, she rolled her eyes and jokingly flipped Tucker off, getting one in response as they walked out and into the mall.

"Do you want me to carry your bag?" Danny offered, holding his hand out.

"Sure!" Sam agreed, and she handed it over. "Have you thought about the piercing? I'll buy you one if you're going for it."

"Eh, I'm still trying to figure out how badly my mom would flip if she saw that I got my nose pierced, and if it'd be worth it lecture," Danny shrugged.

"You should totally do it, then deflect it by coming out as Danny Phantom," she joked. Danny snorted. "Come on, we could match!" Sam had gotten her left nostril pierced almost a year ago, currently occupied by a tiny black skull, as well as four total piercings per ear. As expected, her mom nearly lost it over the nose charm. She poked his nose. "You could get a little white ghost charm." He couldn't help but smile.

"Now you're tempting me to risk it," he admitted.

He gestured to the Hot Topic, and Sam went inside first, him right behind her. She went right for the piercings display, looking. After a moment, she tapped on the case, looking over her shoulder for Danny.

"See? Right there, you could get that cute little silver ghost," she told him. Danny peeked over her shoulder. She pointed at another charm, one in the shape of a laptop. "Oh! And Tucker could get that one! We could all kinda match!"

"Pretty sure Tucker's mom would actually kill him if he came home with another piercing," Danny replied. Sam had already convinced Tucker of getting his ears pierced, and his mom was Very Unhappy about it. "Just like my mom would kill me if I came home with a nose piercing."

"You're already half dead though," Sam pointed out. Danny gave a half shrug and smile.

"Got me there. Alright, I'll get it," he said. Sam grinned widely, going to the counter to immediately ask for an employee to retrieve it.

They only browsed a bit more before they finally left. No sooner were they out the door…

"Sam!" a familiar voice called out excitedly. The not-lovebirds glanced over to see Paulina and Elliot coming up to them, Paulina a few steps ahead as she excitedly half-jogged over to Sam. Elliot was carrying two Starbucks cups, taking his time following. Paulina threw her arms around Sam, hugging her tightly, the goth only giving a half smile and lightly patting her back. "If I knew you were coming to the mall, I would have invited you to get your nails done with us! Look, Elliot and I match!"

Paulina pulled away to show off white nails with pink details.

"Oh they look nice!" Sam complimented. "It's okay though. Coming today was kinda a last minute thing." Or rather, they decided to hang out here after catching the Box Ghost, who was making himself home in one of the new stores that hadn't quite opened yet.

"You got me Starbucks?" Danny joked as Elliot finally came close enough to properly hear him. Elliot rolled his eyes. "How sweet."

"If you wanna give me the four dollars it costs, sure," he joked back. He handed Paulina the clear pink drink, and she took a long sip from it. Danny noticed that he did kinda match her, with black nails and matching details, only in a pastel blue.

"What are you guys up to?" Paulina asked. "We were just about to see if Macy's had any cute prom dresses out yet." The mentioning of prom made Danny's stomach feel a bit weirdly queasy.

"We're gonna go get Danny's nose pierced!" Sam replied, pointing to his nose. Danny snapped out of the feeling.

"Wait, what? We're doing that today?" he asked. Sam grinned.

"You're eighteen, they'll let you!" she replied. She reached into the Hot Topic bag to pull out the piercing. "I gotta make you put it on before you change your mind." Oh, a bit too late already.

"Ooh, that's a lot more interesting than prom dresses!" Elliot mused. "I can drive us." He put his free hand to his ear. "I've been thinking about getting another piercing anyway." Paulina hummed thoughtfully.

"Spike should be working today, so I might see if he has my new tattoo design ready," Sam mused.

Another thing that her mom, if she were to ever find out, would flip out over. Sam already had two that her family were oblivious to. Danny knew that she had a spider on a web on her ribcage; he had held her hand while she got that one done (and nearly ended up with a broken hand). The other was a black and deep purple rose and vine on her thigh, which he had only seen right after she had gotten it. Jazz, out of everybody, had gone with her to get it, and even came back with a tattoo herself. Though Jazz, like a nerd, had opted for a book tattoo. Danny had never seen it before outside of the photo Jazz took of it, but knew that it was on her ribcage and something Spike gave her as an anniversary present.

"I guess that settles it!" Elliot grinned. "Let's go to the tattoo and piercing shop!"

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After somehow surviving Elliot's crappy little car, only somewhat affectionately called "the shitbox", they were huddled in the waiting room area of the shop. Paulina, already filling out the usual safety and health and consent forms, was standing and staring at the wall of previous art done.

"You gonna get a tattoo instead?" Elliot teased her as he handed the receptionist his own filled paperwork. Paulina shot him a smile, but still slapped his shoulder.

"Papa would kill me," she insisted.

"So? Get it where nobody will see," Elliot replied. Paulina playfully slapped him again.

Danny rolled his eyes, continuing to fill out his form as he drafted all the excuses he'd have to give his mom when she inevitably chewed his ass out when he got home. Whelp, he was already bound to be grounded sooner or later cause of the ghosts. Might as well spice up the grounding reasoning once in a while.

Sam appeared from the back, clutching a piece of paper up. Spike was behind her. Sam made a beeline for Danny.

"Dude, look at how nice it is!" she told him, holding it out for him to see. Danny glanced up. It was a skull with flowers growing out of it.

"Oh, that's sick," he commented.

"I know, right?" Sam grinned. Danny smiled, returning his attention to the paperwork.

"So you wanna get that this Saturday?" Spike spoke up.

"Uh, Danny are you free Saturday?" Sam asked. Danny glanced up at her, raising an eyebrow.

"After today I'll probably be grounded," he joked, signing his name for the last time on the forms. Sam chuckled.

"True," she replied. "Hmm, ah whatever. I can tough it out." Danny quickly looked up again as it suddenly hit him why he needed to be free. Sam had already turned to Spike. "Yeah, let's go for Saturday."

"Oh, if you want somebody around, I can come," Elliot popped up.

"That'd be awesome!" Sam grinned. "This one's going on my back, so it's supposed to hurt."

"Well, you can break my hand, I don't care," Elliot assured her. Danny's chest squeezed a bit as he felt a hot flash hit him.

"No it's okay, I can just sneak out!" he said immediately. Sam glanced at him.

"Nah, it's okay. I don't wanna get you into anymore trouble," she assured him.

"I don't care," Danny quickly blurted out. Spike chuckled.

"Man, Mrs. Fenton's scary when she's pissed, your best bet is to just obey her," Spike told him. He nodded at Danny. "Did Jazz tell you about how she nearly got into a fistfight at the bridal shop a few days ago?"

"No?" Danny raised an eyebrow. "What happened?"

"Basically when Jazz went in for her dress fitting, she had apparently gained a little bit of stress weight since the last fitting, cause she's been driving herself insane over grad school applications," Spike explained. Danny nodded understandingly. "and the lady fitting her dress kind of gushed over it cause she thought Jazz got pregnant. It made her cry, and man. Mrs. Fenton went off on her, and apparently nearly began throwing hands with the manager."

"Oh man, poor Jazz," Sam said somberly. Danny couldn't agree more as he gave a low short whistle at the audacity. Between graduating early, grad school applications, and getting married, he had never seen Jazz look so stressed out. "Why don't you guys push the wedding back a bit?"

"She'll get more money from FASFA and scholarships, plus better housing, if we get married sooner, and she doesn't wanna just elope and have a party later," Spike shook his head a bit. "But uh, either way though, I got some numbing cream for ya Sam if you're worried about pain." Spike shot Danny a reassuring smile and a wink. He felt a little better. Sam sighed with relief.

"Please," she confessed. "It's not too bad when Danny's here, but if I'm alone I know I'm going to get a little anxious."

"Aw come on, I'm not reassuring?" Elliot teased. To Danny's relief, Sam also playfully slapped Elliot on his shoulder.

"Are you kidding me? You'd probably actually ruin my tattoo by making me laugh the entire time," she told him. Danny's heart squeezed again, and he got up to silently hand the receptionist the forms.

"I think I might get a tattoo," Paulina finally spoke up. Elliot's interest was immediately piqued.

"Oh?" he asked. Paulina nodded, pointing to a tattoo on the wall, a pretty collection of flowers.

"This is sooo pretty, I think I'd get something like this," she said. Sam glanced at it.

"That'd be like, what? Four hundred-ish dollars, Spike?" she guessed. Spike glanced at the reference photo and nodded.

"Yeah, give or take," he replied. Paulina made a face.

"Maybe one day in the future," she decided. "I need money for a prom dress." Sam waved a hand.

"Prom dresses are temporary, tattoos are forever!" she told her. Paulina made a noise of disinterest, and Sam shrugged.

"Danny, did you wanna go first?" the receptionist asked as she glanced at the three stacks of piercing requests.

Danny coughed a bit nervously. He glanced at Sam, and he nodded.

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"Thanks again, Spike!" Sam beamed. Spike smiled fondly at her, offering her a hug. She gladly accepted it.

"Anything for my favorite future sister-in-law," he teased. Sam's face instantly burned. Danny scoffed as he lightly touched his new piercing anxiously.

"Sam isn't related to us, dude," he told Spike. Spike gave him a weird look, then shook his head.

"You're lucky you know how to do math, man," he told him. "Also let me know if Mrs. Fenton kills you." Danny gave a nod.

"Don't worry, you'd be invited to the funeral," he joked. Spike chuckled. "Also I give you permission to tattoo my corpse before they put me down."

"Sick," Spike grinned. "I'll give you some of those lil blob ghosts the float around."

Elliot and Paulina were chatting a mile a minute outside the shop. When the not-lovebirds came out, Paulina immediately pushed her hair behind her ear to show off her new helix piercings. Danny could already see Elliot's singular orbital piercing.

"Look! I feel so punk!" Paulina gushed. Sam snorted in amusement.

"Girl, I'm gonna have to get you into a lot more black and leather before you're anywhere near punk," she teased. Paulina giggled.

"Maybe some leather pants," she mused. She shrugged. "Anywho! Elliot and I were gonna go look at the prom dresses! Wanna tag along?"

"Yeah, sounds fun!" Danny agreed.

"Yeah! I still need to get mine," Sam agreed. "I really want your opinion on a dress anyway," she said to Paulina. "Cause you know I'm going to customize mine no matter what I get."

"Yeah, I might ask you to do the same to mine, like help me tailor something if needed," Paulina mused. "I need my dress to be absolutely perfect. But we need to make another Starbucks run."

"Really?" Elliot raised an eyebrow at her. "Boo, this is your third trip today." Paulina pouted cutely at him. He playfully chuckled. "Alright, alright. I kinda want another iced coffee anyway."

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"So, has Elliot talked to you about it yet?" Paulina asked, taking a long sip of her drink as they waited near the door to the popular coffee chain. Danny made a confused "hm?" noise as he took a sip of his own. "That he wanted to ask Sam to prom?"

Danny's heart stopped, and he instantly returned his attention back to the pair of goths. They were customizing their Starbucks drink at the counter, smiling happily and chatting casually about something he couldn't heart.

God, of course! Fuck, he was so focused on every other dude that he forgot that Elliot wasn't gay. God damn it, and Sam would potentially actually say yes to him too.

"Uh. Um. I-uh." Danny coughed into his elbow as he tried to think of some way to respond that sounded normal. "No, he, um. Hasn't said anything to me yet." Nice response, Fenton.

"Oh, well, be prepared I guess," Paulina replied, taking a sip of her fancy-looking pink drink in the clear plastic cup.

Danny took a huge gulp of his coffee as he tried to process it. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He needed to think of how to reply to Elliot if the guy were to actually confront him or talk to him about it. His gut twisted. How was he supposed to reply? Elliot didn't deserve to go out with his Sam. What the fuck was that moron thinking? They were just friends.

"You guys ready?" Elliot glanced over his shoulder at them.

"Yup!" Paulina chirped. Elliot walked over with them, Sam quickly behind.

"You got your hourly Starbucks?" Elliot teased her.

"Mhm!" she hummed.

"You almost need to start working at Starbucks," Elliot told her.

"But then I'd just spend the whole paycheck on Starbucks," Paulina playfully protested.

"Fair, fair," Elliot hummed.

They exited, and they all piled into Elliot's car. Danny and Sam in the back, Paulina in her normal position in the passenger's seat.

"Do you know what kind of dress you're looking for?" Paulina asked as Elliot pulled out of the parking lot. Sam nodded.

"Yeah, definitely something black or purple," she said. "I'm really into long dresses lately, so probably a long dress, but I dunno! Short dresses are cute too."

"Oh short dresses are sooo in right now," Paulina agreed. "I want a short dress! Definitely pink, I want a really cute pastel pink maybe? But any shade of pink, I think it looks best on me."

"Hmm, yeah but greens look really good on you too," Elliot spoke up. "Like pastel and light greens?"

"They do but it's prom so I really want something pink," Paulina replied.

"Hmm, I think I look good in purple and black," Sam mused. "What do I look good in Danny?"

"Purple, black, red, and green, but like? An ecto green if that makes sense?" Danny said. Sam thought about it.

"Yeah, I really do like ecto green," she agreed. She shot him a sly smile. "Reminds me of Danny Phantom. And well. Ya know. I think he's really cute." Danny flushed, shyly smiling back.

"Ugh he's sooo cute," Paulina gushed. "His eyes are the most beautiful shade of green I've ever seen. Elliot, why are your eyes so dark." Elliot chuckled.

"Cause both of my parents have dark green eyes," he replied. Paulina huffed.

"I think that was rude of you. You should have bright green eyes like the ghost boy," she said.

"Yeah, it's pretty rude," Elliot agreed. "I'll fix that tomorrow."

"Do you actually think Danny Phantom's cute?" Danny asked Sam. She smiled, giving a half-shrug.

"Absolutely one of the cutest guys I've ever seen," she confirmed.

Danny took a long drink of his coffee, hoping that chugging some of it would help explain why his cheeks were beginning to burn.

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"Oh, this is sooo your color!"

"Oh my god! I love it! Do they have it in my size?"

"Hmm, um, lemme see...yeah! They do! Here!"

"Ugh I cannot wait to try it on! Oh! Oh look! Look at these sleeves, it's like a princess dress! I'm going to grab one to try it on."

"Ooo, that's going to look so good on you. Hm, I think I might try on that one too, cause it comes in dark purple and those sleeves kinda look witchy...Danny what do you think?"

Danny snapped out of his zoning out to look at Sam. The goth was holding up a short dress with long, flowy sleeves. It was a mid-dark purple and plain, though he had no doubt that Sam would likely customize it to her liking. She did that a lot with clothes.

"Yeah, looks good," he said neutrally.

"Oh, that'll look so good with your bat heels!" Elliot pipped up. Danny nearly forgot that the dude was sitting with him on what was dubbed the boyfriend bench near the dressing rooms. "Especially if you wear a corset over the midsection. Like if you found a purple version of that red one you have, with the black lace over it."

"Oo, that would potentially look so cute," Sam mused. She put the dress over her arm on top of two others. "I'm gonna go try these on."

"Oh, I should too," Paulina mused. Unlike Sam, her arms were overflowing with four, five? Danny counted at least ten different potential dresses if he went by the different looking fabrics alone.

"Yeah, you need to narrow some down," Sam told her.

"They're all just so pretty!" Paulina complained. "I wanna wear them all!"

"Well, let's just eliminate some," she suggested.

The girls went off to the dressing room, and Danny leaned back against the boyfriend bench. He pulled his phone out, and he replied to a message from Tucker and another from his mom. Man, was he not ready to face her later.

"So, Sam huh."

Danny glanced at Elliot.

"Uh, yeah. She's great," Danny replied shortly.

"She is, she is," he agreed with a slight hum. Elliot shifted to rest his elbows on his knees. "Ya know I was thinking about asking her to prom." Danny felt a lump stick in his throat.

"Really?" was all he could think to reply.

"Yeah!" Elliot smiled. "I mean, yeah. I wasn't the best dudes four years ago, but I feel a lot better about myself, ya know? I think I finally know who I am now, and I still really like Sam. She's funny, smart, really pretty. Love hanging out with her. Kinda wondering if she feels the same, and if she'd be down to go with me. What do you think?"

Danny bit his tongue to avoid an unnecessarily harsh reply, but he did get anger. How dare he. After all the lies he told Sam, and the way he lied and manipulated her. Sam deserved better than that.

"I um. I don't think you should go for it," Danny said hesitantly. Elliot raised a curious eyebrow.

"Why, did she tell you something?" he asked. "Or did somebody else ask her?"

"Um. Well, not exactly," he hesitated. Danny bit his lower lip. "I mean, I know she likes you. As a friend!" he quickly added. "But uh, I dunno man. Just don't think it's a good idea."

"What do you mean, is somebody else going to ask her?" Elliot asked.

"Why does it matter?" Danny nearly snapped. "You asked me what I thought, and I said it."

Elliot snickered in amusement, rolling his eyes. It only served to irritate Danny even more. Foreign phony. God, why did they even hang out with Elliot? Paulina and Elliot made sense, cause they were both huge prep kids and did cheerleading and soccer respectively, making them both jocks. But why did he have to hang out with Elliot. Well, because Sam and Paulina were friends now, and that meant that Danny also had to be friends with Paulina's friends. Of fucking course.

"What's so funny?" he demanded to know.

"I think I get why," Elliot smirked.

"What do you mean?" Danny questioned. Elliot just shook his head. Danny opened his mouth to question again.

"Hey! Whatcha think?"

Danny shut his mouth as Paulina bounce out in her first dress option. It was a bright pink dress that came to her knees, the skirt incredibly puffy and reminding Danny of a ballerina tutu, with inch wide straps.

"Oh, it looks so good on you boo," Elliot cooed to her. Paulina beamed, twirreling. "But that may also just be you, you look fabulous in everything." Paulina put her hands over her chest.

"Thank you," she gushed. "Can you take my photo? I wanna compare all the dresses I wear."

"Of course," Elliot agreed, pulling his phone out. He snapped a photo of her.

"Oh Sam!" Paulina squealed.

Danny noticed the goth coming out in a fully black dress that also came only to her knees, with a much slimmer skirt and short sleeves. It looked fairly plain, but man. Sam still made it look great. Danny was glad he was sitting, because he knew he was weak kneed.

Sam was smiling brightly, giving Paulina a light wave.

"I take it you like it?" Sam questioned, doing a quick turn around.

"Girl you always look so good in black," Paulina praised.

"She's sooo right," Elliot agreed. "It just looks so good on you, no matter what. Just." Elliot made a chef kiss motion. Sam flushed a light pink, and Danny glared at him. Dude, shut up. "No wonder you're goth. You were just made for black."

"I dunno, I think you're exaggerating," she replied. Sam glanced down at her outfit. "I mean, it's fairly simple. What do you think, Danny?"

Danny swallowed hard.

"Oh uh, I think it looks great!" he said, smiling brightly. Sam returned it. "I mean like. It's kinda? Plain but I know you'd make it something great. You always do." Sam hummed.

"Mm yeah. It's pretty plain, but I dunno if I wanna put in the amount of work it'd take to make this dress really poppin'," she mused. "I'm gonna go try another one on."

The two girls went back to the dressing room, and Danny could hear their lighthearted conversation. Soon as they turned the corner, he spoke up.

"What do you mean?" Danny demanded to know. Elliot snorted.

"Bro, just admit that you like her, and that you don't want me to take her to prom," he said.

"Where on earth would you get that idea!?" Danny scowled. Elliot rolled his eyes.

"Dude, you've been crazy about her since like, what? Ninth grade at the earliest? Paulina says you two have been making googly eyes at each other since like third grade," he said. Danny felt his cheeks flush. It had not been since the third grade. Had it?

"It's not like that," he insisted. "I just, you know. Really love and worry about her, she's my best friend."

"Best friends don't get worked up like this, this much, over a mutual friend asking them out."

Danny just glared at Elliot before rubbing his face with the palms of his hands. He took a deep breath, exhaling hard.

"How's it look?" Sam's voice asked. Danny glanced up, and his heart just absolutely flipped.

She looked amazing. Beautiful. Stunning. Like a plant goddess, a model, an angel. He felt like there wasn't a flaw to be found, and he had never seen somebody look more enchanting. Her dress made her look even more divine, emphasising and showing off the best parts of her. The purple matching her eyes, the dress fitting her absolutely perfect as it flowed almost to the floor and the strapless feature making her hair flow smoothly over her shoulders. This dress was perfect for her.

But none of those descriptors came out. Instead all he could do is nervously swallow, tongue tied as he felt his cheeks burn up. He struggled to pick just one of those adjectives, and his brain settled for just saying nothing at all and simply staring at her instead.

"Oh, you just look so lovely!" Elliot spoke up. He stood up, going over to walk around her. "It fits you perfect, like it hugs your hips just right and really shows off your-"

"Pretty!" Danny suddenly half-yelled. The group looked at him oddly, and he felt his face flush harder. "It makes you look pretty!"

"Thank you," Sam replied, pausing a bit as she raised an eyebrow at him.

"...Uh, yeah. Um, yes!" Elliot clasped his hands together. "Just stunning. I love this purple on you, it's such a beautiful color. This dress specifically was made for you."

"Dude, chill," Danny grumbled. Sam gave him a Look, and he flinched.

"Danny, can I talk to you for a moment?" Sam asked through gritted teeth.

He had no opportunity to respond, as she grabbed his arm, painfully hard owwie, and began to drag him away, towards another boyfriend bench near a jewelry display counter and out of earshot.

"What's going on?" Sam demanded to know. She finally let go of his arm, and he huffed for a moment. Instead of responding, he put his hands behind his head, pacing back and forth. She quickly grew impatient. "Well? Say something!"

"Elliot wants to ask you to prom!" he blurted out, letting his hands fall. Sam blinked.

"He does?" she asked, sounding clearly surprised and...not angry. Sam smiled a little. "Really?"

"Oh don't tell me you're gonna actually take that foreign phony up on the offer!" Danny snapped. Sam instantly glared at him, crossing her arms.

"Elliot's our friend, dude," Sam reminded him. "Why do you care?"

"B-b-because!" Danny's arms were moving wildly as he talked. "He lied to you for months, and you're just going to ignore all that!"

"That was years ago, and he apologized," she said. "He's more than made up for it. And he's a super sweet guy. I like him."

"You like him!?" Danny nearly shouted. Sam slapped his upper shoulder with the back of her hand.

"Calm down and lower your voice," she told him. "And well, yeah. As a friend. Maybe I kinda like him more than that too."

"What the fuck, Sam!?" Danny, in fact, did not lower his voice. He dry-heaved for a few seconds, briefly making Sam start to watch him worriedly. Finally, he took a deep breath, and he returned to a normal inside voice. "What does he have that I don't?"

She went from worried to a blank stare.

"Apparently liking me enough to say or do something, especially when I've dropped so many hints or made moves myself," she replied. She brushed past him and left, returning to their friends.

Danny found himself taking a seat on the bench as he tried to collect his thoughts and the wide range of emotions that accompanied them. He put his head in his hands, rubbing his face. God he was so fucking stupid.

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"And it's just! Why him! Why Elliot?" Danny continued to vent after spilling the whole story. Jazz gave a small hum of acknowledgement as she finished writing another name out on the envelope. She set it aside for Danny. "I've liked Sam for so long, and I thought she liked me too."

"You're an idiot," Jazz immediately concluded. Danny glared at her as he folded another wedding invite, slipping it into an already addressed envelope before putting the sticker on the back to keep it sealed shut, and a stamp on the other side. Both were sitting on the floor of the apartment she shared with Spike, with each sibling on the opposite side of the coffee table, with Jazz resting her back against the couch and Danny sitting within reaching distance of their TV.

"Hey!" he protested. Jazz gave him a Look, grabbing another envelope.

"I mean it. She does like you, and she has for a while," she told him. She began to write out another address. "You just always never responded. You pushed her off in favor of another girl or because of some weird commitment issue that you seem to have going on. So be honest with me, and yourself. What's the problem?"

Danny silently folded two more invites, repeating the process of putting them in addressed envelopes and putting the sticker and stamp on.

"...I'm scared," he finally admitted.

"What of?" Jazz asked, not looking up from her activity. Danny had to really think. He casually tossed the finished wedding invite into the 'finished' basket.

"I guess just...it not working out. What if it doesn't work out? What if it drives us apart, and we lose each other?"

"You won't know that until you try," Jazz replied.

"She might also reject me, cause of the same mentality. What if she still likes Elliot more, and-"

"Danny," Jazz interrupted. She finally looked up from writing. "You will never know what the future will and won't hold. Just talk to her, and let her be part of the choice rather than blowing it all off due to fear."

He thought about it, and he gave a small sigh.

"Yeah...I think she's kinda pissed that I haven't been letting her be part of the choice anyway," he mused. He glanced at the pile of envelopes next to her. "How many invites do you have left?"

Jazz checked her list.

"Least a hundred more to go," she sighed.

"What the fuck, you have like no friends! Who are these people!?" Danny cried out. Jazz glared at him, reaching behind her to grab a pillow to hit him with.

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Knock knock knock.

Danny floated awkwardly outside of her window. She didn't answer, but he could tell that she was there. Her light was clearly on, and he could hear her music playing.

Knock knock knock.

"Sam?" he called out. "Sam, can we please talk?" He knocked some more.

The longest minute of his life passed before he heard the music turn off. The curtains opened, and Sam was on the other side, staring incredibly annoyed at him. She gestured for him to come inside, and he did. His feet landed on the floor, and she reshut the curtains.

"What do you want?" she snapped. Danny exhaled deeply.

"Sam…" He took a deep breath. "I'm so sorry about how I've been acting. I've just been…"

"Stupid?" she suggested.

"Yeah. But more importantly. I." He paused. "I've been honestly such a huge coward. Still kinda am, actually. Like…" He swallowed nervously, glancing at the ground. "I've been too afraid to bring it up or to really even talk to you about it."

Sam cocked her head to the side. She took a few steps back, sitting down on her bed and patting the spot next to it.

"Talk to me," she encouraged. Danny plopped down next to her, turning human as he did so.

"I want to be with you," he said bluntly. "But just...I get so caught up in all these what-ifs. What if it doesn't work out? What if you get tired of me? What if you eventually realize that it sucks being with somebody who has to cancel dates or who ditches you because I have to stop Skulker or Technus or Ember? What if you get hurt because of me? What if…" he trailed off, not even wanting to get into deeper thoughts.

"I wish you had told me this sooner," Sam spoke softly. "We could have talked about it." Danny sighed.

"I know, I know. I just." He rubbed the palms of his hands up and down his thighs as he tried to provide some kind of a rational answer. "I'm afraid. Even now. I don't want to lose you."

"You're not going to lose me," Sam reassured him. She put her hand on top of one of his, and he stopped. "You're one of my best friends, and I love you so much."

"...I love you too," he confessed. He turned his wrist, moving to intertwine their fingers together. "I can't imagine a future without you being there in some way. And I just...I guess I've always been worried about you not wanting to be there anymore."

"I'll always want to be there," she smiled. She leaned in, lightly pecking his cheek. He sighed deeply in relief. "Even if we tried, and we found that it didn't work, that doesn't mean we can't still be friends after. But we'll never really know unless...you know. We tried."

"So, I guess that means that um...you'd be interested in maybe going to prom with me?" he asked.

"Of course, ya dingus." She lightly tapped his new nose ring. "So. How much trouble are you in with your mom?" Danny flinched.

"Man, let's just say I'm surprised she didn't fully kill me."

#phic phight 2021 #danny phantom #amethyst ocean #phics #my phics

45 notes · View notes

dadsbongos · 4 years

Text

It’s in the Walls

Movie/Game/Show: The Boy

Dynamic: Brahms Heelshire/Reader

Warnings: you got a whole ass man living in your house without you knowing, you’re a mom

Summary: There’s a large house up for sale on a massive price-cut, who wouldn’t take that deal?

~~~

“Mom!” the shriek was high-pitched and echoed through the winding walls of the maze the manor made itself out to be.

(Y/n) closed her eyes, pretending the scream didn’t happen for a few seconds of cheap bliss before breaking back into her mothering persona. She crept down the corridors, reminding herself to take down every painting on the wall, the eyes followed her. Eventually, she came into her younger son’s new room, leaning her body against the doorway.

The blond child was huddled in a box pressed against the right wall, his small body curled tightly into itself inside the cardboard. He looked to his mother, large blue eyes sprinkled in delight that she came. Pointing to his bed, he murmured, “I saw a rat.”

“What?” she muttered, the realtor said the rodents that only stuck to the yard, but of course, that was a lie, “Oh, sweetie, come here,” the boy stumbled out of the box and grabbed onto his mother’s extended hand, “I’ll take care of him, you go make sure Joey hasn’t lost in mind in the library, okay?”

“Thank you, Dylan,” she cooed, pressing a short kiss to his forehead before sending him off.

His pink lips, shaped nearly identically to his father’s, stretched into a large grin,

“Okay, Mama!”

As soon as her son was gone, the smile drooped and suddenly she felt the weight of her eye bags drawing on her face. (Y/n) carefully approached the bed before getting onto her hands and knees, pulling up one of the draping blankets to peek underneath. A squirming, round, fat little frame poked out in the darkness before it squealed and began scurrying away.

Her hand shot out and she squeezed the fatty body between her fingers, grimacing at the rat in her hand. She never hated the things, they just never piqued her interest in the best ways, either. It thrashed and scratched at her, a small hiss leaving the woman before she tossed one of the windows open and left the rat on the sill outside to crawl away. Shutting and locking the window once again, (Y/n) made another mental note to get rat traps. Unless there were already traps.

Exiting the room, (Y/n) huffed at every creak in the wooden planks of the floorboards. The manor was old, oh, so old, it only made sense that none of the wooden boards would be silent. Even so, it was annoying and she liked to think she had the right to complain.

Eyes drifting to paintings and peeling wallpaper, she tried to remind herself to be thankful. Divorce wasn’t easy, much less so when your ex was a greedy, manipulative joke that milked you for nearly all of your possessions - she was lucky to find the mansion. Especially at such an astoundingly low price - she doubted a typical house would be cheaper than what she got the place for. None of those houses came fully-furnished anyway. Admittedly creepy and strange, but you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, you might not like what you see.

As (Y/n) scanned through cupboards and cabinets, a loud thud alerted her of a new presence in the kitchen. She shot up, banging her head on the interior of a cabinet, her hand settled on the tender curve of her skull, softly rubbing as she stood. At the counter was her elder son, black-dyed hair messy and glasses slipping down his nose.

“Hi, honey,” (Y/n) chuckled at his frazzled appearance, “just get done wrestling one of the stuffed bears?”

Joey rolled his eyes, thumping a thick, hard-cover book against the granite countertop, “No, actually, I was looking for my shoes. Where are they?”

The woman shrugged, “How am I supposed to know?”

“I left them by the door and they’re not there anymore,” the teenage boy scratched at the back of his head, “Dylan’s either lying or genuinely didn’t steal them so I came to you.”

“Did you check everywhere?” (Y/n) questioned, brows furrowing at the absurdity of the situation, “Shoes don’t just walk away on their own, you gotta have feet in them.”

“Yes, I checked everywhere,” the boy grumbled, no longer bumping the book on the hard surface, now content to flip through the pages and allow the smell of old parchment to fill their nostrils. What a lovely smell that was.

Shaking her head, the mother fumbled for an explanation to the whereabouts of her son’s shoes, “I don’t know what to tell you, you brought more pairs, right?”

Joey nodded slowly, eyes scanning through fragmented sentences before turning to the next page, “Yeah, I just really liked those ones.”

“Alright, well, I’m sure they’ll turn up eventually, don’t worry yourself over it,” she grasped her boy’s shoulder, rubbing her thumb into the flesh tenderly before letting go, “We have a rat problem, by the way, if you see any traps, let me know.”

“Oh fun,” he mumbled, forcing a wide smile onto his lips, “I think there’s some in the backyard if you haven’t been out there. They look like shit but they’ll probably get the job done.”

“Language, but thank you.”

“English and you’re welcome.”

Deciding it was better to just walk away at this point, (Y/n) headed for the back door. It was heavy to pull open and nearly slammed shut if she hadn’t pressed her foot into the thick wood, grunting at the responding pain. A trash bag was set out with a pair of gloves next to it on a quaint little side table with spider webs running between the beige wicker legs. As if somebody had put them out for a quick run but forgot they wouldn’t be using them after they left.

After that, what caught her eye was the glint of rusted metal in the thick, untamed bushes of the surrounding greenery. Upon closer inspection, she could see that grass had entangled with the metallic gate on a small wooden box, buzzing flies being the next eye-catcher. She crouched down, instantly picking up on the putrid smell of corroding flesh and dried blood, flies nibbling on the swiss cheesed corpse of a rat.

“Shit!” she gagged, backing away, rubbing her hands on her pants despite having not touched the cage at all.

Looking back up at the house, (Y/n) barely noticed the outline of a person in one of the second-floor windows. She blinked twice, shaking her head before squinting back up at the same window. Just a coat rack. Didn’t seem right - there were pants in the outline! - but then she realized how outlandish it seemed. If there was a secret person living in the house, surely it would’ve been mentioned by the realtor.

‘Forgotten’ rats were one thing, an entire person was another.

“Mom!” another soprano level scream ruptured her eardrums.

In turn, (Y/n) huffed, clenching her eyes shut before turning around and walking back towards the porch. What she first noticed was her seven-year-old, the second being the extremely off-putting, cracked porcelain doll in his arms.

It was half his size and looked to have been haphazardly put back together with some unnamed brand of superglue. Dark hair framed its head quite well with glassy, hazel eyes and pale, pretty pink lips. Grossly realistic and abandoned in a mansion, it seemed to be perfect fire material. Or it would be, if she hadn’t been told by the realtor, very explicitly, to not use the fireplace.

“Whole house could go up in flames,” Mindy had waved her hands about, “I’m not sure how that’d work, but just… don’t test it.”

Dylan held up the doll closer to his mother’s face, “Isn’t he cool?!”

“Yeah,” she lied through her teeth, carefully taking the doll, “Does he have a name?”

Leading his mother back inside, Dylan shrugged, but his loose limbs and lack of control made it appear as though he was trying to toss his shoulders off from his body, “Don’t know.”

“Hmm,” she quietly hummed, pulling back the tightly sewn collar of the doll to peek at a possible name tag, “I’m not seeing anything here, baby. You wanna name him yourself?”

There was another creak, easily dismissed as the manor’s old bones settling as the woman handed the fragile doll to her son. Dylan pressed his lips into a tight line, staring at the toy for a few moments before bursting out an answer, “I think he looks like a James!”

(Y/n) nodded to the boy’s antics, “I think that’s a great name for him.”

Before they could continue the conversation, a hard bang on the wall knocked a picture from its spot above the stove, toppling onto the rather shiny surface. Their heads turned, eyes wide and Dylan was suddenly shaking, grasping onto his mother’s shirt and huddling into her side. The woman settled a hand on her son’s shoulder, pressing her thumb into the tensing muscles before pulling away to inspect the wall.

It was a wall, obviously. Flat, leveled, wall. Nothing particularly interesting about it aside from the wallpaper’s collection of grime and peels. Looking down, she took notice of the framed picture. Three figures stood in front of the home (Y/n) now found herself in possession of. Garden controlled and clean with no windows boarded, cracked, or dirtied. A young woman not much older than (Y/n) herself was holding a four-year-old brunette boy to her hip with, who one could assume was, her husband beside them.

Glancing between the picture and the doll, she frowned at how similar the toy looked to the little boy. Not to mention that haunting family portrait at the foot of the staircase. Turning the frame over in her hands, she opened up the back before pulling the picture out of its frame. (Y/n) searched for a scrawled title of the photograph, quickly finding an answer.

Mummy, Daddy, and Brahms!

She replaced the picture just as quickly as she got it out, debating between putting it back and tossing it out before deciding to leave it on the counter. (Y/n) took her son’s chubby cheeks between her hands, planting yet another kiss on his freckled forehead, “I think his name is Brahms, sweetie.”

“Brahms?” Dylan muttered, almost as though he was testing for another bump. When there was none, he nodded, “Brahms.”

Running away and back up the stairs, (Y/n) was ready to force herself into forgetting the whole thing happened when her older son’s voice was heard.

“It’s funny, you little brat!” followed by a loud wail.

“Give him back!” Dylan screamed.

(Y/n) rushed out of the kitchen to see Joey holding Brahms out of Dylan’s reach, the older boy was visibly angry, “Funny, I could say the same thing to you!”

“Joseph Lowy,” the woman muttered, snatching the doll from her son, and giving it back to her pouting little blond boy, “Here, go play with Brahms,” as he ran up the stairs, she called after him, “Don’t get too crazy up there, you two!”

Joey shook his head, rubbing at the bridge of his nose underneath his glasses, “Little asshole.”

“Hey!” (Y/n) looked over to the sixteen-year-old, “Don’t talk about your little brother like that.”

“He stole more of my shit,” the dark-haired boy tapped at the wall a few times with his knuckles, shaking his head, “Shoes I could deal with but now two of my shirts are missing.”

“Did you leave them at the house?” she tried to reason, leaning against the wall, “Dylan’s been with me for a while, maybe you’re losing it, sweetpea.”

Joey cringed at the pet name briefly before deciding to carry on with his point, “No, I didn’t leave my clothes at the house. I wouldn’t leave a single sock with that dick.”

“Don’t call my ex a dick,” (Y/n) breathed out, turning her son around and nudging him towards the den, “Only I can do that.”

“Unfair.”

“This isn’t a democracy, it’s a dictatorship,” (Y/n) waved off, standing there long enough just to watch the boy sit down on a leather chair and open the book in his hands. She’d have to go into town for rat traps, then.

She bit at her lip, turning towards the flight of stairs and beginning to go up the steps. Without the creeks flowing alongside her movement, the house seemed even more eerie - she didn’t bother to stop and figure out why there were no creeks. It didn’t matter to her at the time.

(Y/n) peeked into Dylan’s room, smiling softly at the sight of her little boy seated at a play table with plastic plates and cups and faux food set delicately on it. He was holding a small pink teacup with Brahms porcelain fingers using a hair tie to keep a similar purple one in his grasp. When the little boy noticed his mother in the doorway, he waved wildly, taking one of Brahms’ arms gently and copying the motion onto the doll.

Continuing down the hall, (Y/n) came upon her room, pushing it open and immediately seeing that her suitcases and bags had been peeled open. She was sure that she’d left them all zipped and sealed before leaving, but, of course, you can never be too certain. Going over to the luggage, she moved clothing around and peered through when she noticed how strewn about her things were.

The ‘fragile-minded’ female role after a heavy divorce was not something (Y/n) ever imagined herself as being. It was so played out and disgusting, she despised it with everything in her body. Yet, as she found that one of her dresses was missing, she suddenly felt as though it was depressingly truer than she’d hoped.

(Y/n) turned to another suitcase; her apple red-tinted skirt was gone. She dug deeper into the case, pulling out a few stray, tossed-around shirts in her endeavor to find her favorite skirt. She tossed a hand up, giving up on finding the articles of clothing for the time being. Not that she’d admit it, but worry was beginning to fester in the deepest crawlspaces of her gut.

Stepping over to a different suitcase, (Y/n) pulled out what probably wouldn’t make her look as though she just woke up and went over to the bathroom connected to her bedroom.

Mindy had made it abundantly clear that the two previous owners drowned themselves while on a ‘two-month’ vacation after leaving the house to a nanny. Who the nanny was or why she left wasn’t made clear to either woman, just that the house wasn’t right. Cryptic language, always appreciated.

Taking into mind the deaths and sudden missing clothing combined with bumps from the kitchen, it may be time to call the kettle a kettle. The home may be haunted. Not that she wanted a literal haunted house, but what other choice was there at this point?

Not even apartments were renting as low as the manor was selling.

As she finished getting dressed, (Y/n) began her way out of the house, stopping at her younger son’s room, “I’m going out for some things. Want me to bring you back anything?”

Dylan looked over to the cracked doll, “Do you want new clothes, Brahms?”

The doll, of course, was completely silent. Unmoving. Watching.

“I think Brahms wants new clothes, Mom,” Dylan beamed at the woman, holding up his plastic cup.

(Y/n) giggled, nodding as she pat the doorway, “Alright, honey, I’ll see what I can do for Brahms.”

“Thanks, Mom,” the bubbly little boy lowered his cup, settling his hand on the doll’s back, “Say thanks, Brahms.”

No words came from the toy, as one would be expected to expect. It sat still, not moving but still watching. Always watching. Unblinking, glassy, hazel eyes stuck on his flesh-and-blood blond friend.

“He says thanks.”

Nodding, the woman gave her boy a thumbs up, “I’m sure.”

The next son was still in the den, reading quietly to himself. Every now and again one’s ear would pick up on a small mumble of a word, small stutters slipping from the teenager’s lips. (Y/n) came up behind the boy, hands slamming onto the back of the chair loudly.

Joey jumped in his place, turning swiftly, “The hell, Mom?”

“I’m going out, bookworm,” (Y/n) teased, running a hand through the boy’s messy black hair, “Need me to pick something up?”

“Coffee grounds would be great,” he confirmed, “There’s none in this entire, literal, mansion.”

“Alright,” she gently brought her older son’s shoulders back so his head was laying against the chair, “Take a break sometime soon, okay? Stretch for a bit, make you and your brother some lunch.”

He hummed in acknowledgment but otherwise, there was no indication of him having even listened to his mother.

The next morning was just as drab and bland as the previous, and there was no doubt that the morning after this would be the same as always. (Y/n) huffed as she climbed out of bed, rubbing a hand over her droopy eyes. She stood, no longer remembering much of what had happened yesterday other than buying children’s clothes for a doll and coffee grounds for her son.

Not even the drill holes the previous owners must have never paid much mind to, which she noticed after dinner. They were strangely large for any typical drill she’d seen or owned.

(Y/n) managed to trudge into the kitchen during her dazed state, neither one of her boys was eating and so she correctly assumed both were still asleep. Scratching under her shirt at her stomach, the woman picked the coffee grounds from under the sink, laying the hefty tub on the counter next to the maker. Seemed a bit counterproductive to have a coffee maker and not a single crumb of grounds or even any beans to actually use. Not that she could say it to the owners’ faces.

“Oh, filters, right,” she mumbled to herself, immediately recalling the thin papers in the walk-in closet style storage compartment.

Her hand scanned over a few shelves, one arm crossed over her chest and the other still running along canned goods and cereal boxes. She tilted her head to rest on the raised shoulder, beginning to hum quietly to herself. The air was pleasantly crisp, oddly crisp for the interior of a house let alone a pantry. It had the same feeling as being inside an attic, if that made any sort of sense it didn’t matter to her at the time. Not much about the house mattered to her at the moment.

A few creeks and Joey was walking into the kitchen, the poor house was only getting older and with his naturally heavy steps, Joey found himself making more noise than he’d like. So much noise. Too much noise. Why did he have to be so loose with his footfalls? He’d been walking for over forty years by now.

Forty years? Forty years.

He was a grown man, he should be able to walk quietly. Just because Greta left him, he suddenly can’t be a ghost anymore?

A scream clutched the air as the pantry door slammed shut. (Y/n) turned, not finding herself much a fan of the darkness. She took the doorknob into her grip, violently twisting and pushing on the knob, “Joseph?! Dylan?!”

The door refused to budge, like a weight was pressing down onto it. It creaked and rocked ever so slightly but there was no way of getting it open.

“Joseph fucking Lowy, open this God damn door!” she pounded on the busted wood, beginning to kick when her hits proved no help, “Dylan! One of you open this door, right now!”

Suddenly, the lock made a click, and all the invisible weight was gone, a sixteen-year-old boy staring quizzically at his mother, “Mom, what’s wrong with you? How did you lock the door from the outside?”

“What are you talking about?” (Y/n) shook her head, giving the pantry a glance over her shoulder, “You locked me in there.”

“You woke me up with all your yelling,” Joey instantly denied, “I’m surprised Dylan’s not up yet.”

“Joseph, I’m not playing with you right now,” she crossed both arms, “It’s not cute.”

“I’m serious!” he shouted in his own defense, neither of them taking notice in the seven-year-old cradling a porcelain doll with a cracked face to his chest, “I wouldn’t lock you in a pantry!”

“Mom…” the boy muttered.

(Y/n)’s jaw clenched, eyes slamming shut and body turning away from her older son to look at the disgusting wallpaper of her kitchen. She sniffed hard, rubbing under her nose before looking back to her younger son, “Yes, sweetie?”

“Brahms made a mess,” Dylan quietly replied, going up to his mother and grabbing her hand, “It wasn’t me, really. It was Brahms.”

“What do you mean it was Brahms?” she huffed, following after the child as he began leading her up to the second floor, “He’s a doll, baby, it was probably just the wind knocking something over.”

“No,” he shook his head, pushing his bedroom door open wider, “Brahms made a mess.”

A mess indeed. Clothes and toys had been absolutely hurricaned around the little boy’s room, some glass from pictures and abandoned dishes shattered across the floor. Dylan’s play table had been toppled over with all the plasticware left on the carpeted ground. Looking over to her son’s feet, (Y/n) felt herself puzzled at the lack of blood; glass was everywhere. How could his reckless little feet avoid all of it?”

“Baby, did you step in any glass?”

“There’s glass in there?” the boy peeked around his mother before looking down at Brahms, “How did you do that?”

(Y/n) turned back to the bedroom, poking her tongue into her cheek as her hands found their places on her hips. Confusion laced into her bones, trickling down the marrow and soaking into her shaking fingertips. Brows knit tightly downward in the midst of her conflict and head thumping for answers, no - no, that was a headache. She was getting a headache.

Taking her son’s shoulders, (Y/n) spun him around to face the way they just came down, “I’ll take care of that tonight, sweetpea, don’t go in here for a little bit, alright? I don’t want you cutting up your feet.”

“Okay, Mama,” Dylan grinned up at the woman, holding Brahms a little tighter in his grasp, “I don’t want Brahms to get hurt either.”

“That’s very nice of you,” she cooed, taking his cheek between thumb and forefinger and pinching gently, “What a good little boy I have.”

Beaming at the praise, the mother-son duo didn’t even notice the panel in the wall rolling back and it’s spidery tendons creeping around the curve of the wall’s edge. Instead, they giggled over nothing as (Y/n) took her son’s small, fragile hands into her own and puppeteered him down the stairs. Doll boy Brahms left to sit on the landing of the house’s flight until somebody, anybody, picked him up.

Passing the portrait of another family was easy enough despite how creepy it seemed. They’d have to take it down, feeling like a guest in one’s own home was never appreciated. Then again, neither were pests in your walls, especially when you didn’t know about them yet.

“Sleep tight, sweetie,” (Y/n) blew one final kiss to her son before closing the bedroom door to her own room.

“Wait,” Dylan whined, stopping his mother in the motion, “Brahms is still gone…”

The woman pursed her lips, “I know, I know. Just try to sleep without him for now, okay? We’ll probably find him tomorrow morning.”

Pouting, the boy kicked his legs out slightly before nodding solemnly, “Alright…”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” she smiled tenderly at the child before shutting the bedroom door genuinely. Turning to her other son, (Y/n) forced a much faker smile onto her lips, “And thank you for your upcoming sacrifice.”

“I never said it was a sacrifice,” Joey grumbled, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, “You’re just dramatic.”

“Incorrect,” (Y/n) turned her boy around with a few small pats on the shoulder, descending the stairs as a pair until they reached the comically large portrait of a family that wasn’t their own.

Her hand settled against the groove of the curvy golden frame, the other resting against the painted surface as she and her son lifted the painting from the wall.

“Shit,” Joey hissed, assisting his mother in her lifting, “this thing’s heavy. Really heavy.”

“Probably wasn’t meant to be taken off the wall,” the woman reasoned with her son, muscles straining in their removal of the ridiculously big painting.

As the woman handled the painting, deciding to let it rest on the floor. Her backbones screamed as she slowly bent at the knee to lower the portrait of the wealthy family. Knuckles and joints beginning to ache as she did so.

“Mom…?” Joey muttered, voice much smaller and more fragile than she was accustomed to.

“Yeah?” she gruffed, finally letting the painting down completely. Her hands came to press on her tailbone ever so gently, practically already feeling next morning’s soreness, “Something wrong?”

“Only if you think a human-sized hole in the wall is a problem?” the boy chuckled dryly.

“A what?”

Turning swiftly, (Y/n) was quickly faced with exactly what her eldest son had just described to her. A human-sized hole in their wall. Large enough to fit a six-foot person, maybe they’d have to duck, but the fact remained. Her hands reached out for the edges of where the frame met the actual wall. She turned her head both ways, it was dark but when her eyes adjusted she could tell that there was a clear path running through the wall. Pulling her head back out, (Y/n) nodded towards the hole.

“I’ll go first, you follow.”

“Fine.”

Stepping into the hole, she noted how disgustingly crisp the air felt, it reminded her of being trapped in the pantry. It made her question what ways were waiting to be opened up by creeping little fingers inside that quiet, confined space. Her skin bumped and hairs raised at the thought of whoever had made these pathways still being inside the house. But that was insane, not a chance that somebody could live inside the walls of a manor without anybody finding out. There’d be too many creeks.

And suddenly she was remembering being locked in the pantry again, when those loud creeks were cracking into her ears and her sons had still been asleep. Her sons had still been asleep.

(Y/n) stopped, glad that her son’s eyes, though faltering, had adjusted to the dark well enough so he wouldn’t bump into her, “You’re sure you didn’t lock me in the pantry, right? There’s no way you were sleepwalking or anything?”

It was silent, so silent that there was a deafening buzz drumming into her ears.

“Joey?”

Again, all she was met with was the droning, consistent blare of buzzing in her ears.

“Joseph, I’m not playing with you.”

Once more, she was hit with buzzing.

“Joseph,” (Y/n) turned around, not meeting the eyes of her sixteen-year-old bookworm son, but instead with a stained, smelly, thin white shirt.

It hung low enough to expose the oddly shiny slick of sweat glistening over a hairy chest. Her breath grew rapid, fear racing through her body as she shook her head.

Looking up, her gut was wrenched at the dirtied prosthetic mask angled as if the person behind it was looking down upon her, as though she were a frightened rabbit. Now that she thought about it, she was a frightened, shaking little rabbit.

“Where’s my son?” when there was no response, she tossed herself into his body, attempting to push past him, “Joseph?! Dylan?!”

The arms of the secret man in her walls wrapped around her, squeezing tightly. One arm abandoned her waist, scrambling for something a little ways behind them, when he found it, the arm raised above her head.

“Joseph?!” she sobbed weakly, beginning to choke on her own nasty cocktail of tears and mucus, “Dylan?!”

A thwack left no more screaming to be heard, the tall man dropping his makeshift club in favor of picking the woman up as though she were his cute, delicate bride.

Brahms turned, heading back for the largest panel of the walls with (Y/n) dangling limply in his arms.

Finally coming to, (Y/n) sputtered in a soft muffle, eyesight unclear and spotting in the corners. The spots and blotches eventually leveled and began to mop themselves into one concise picture of the kitchen. She let out a soft hiss, wrists stinging when she suddenly realized that there were ropes binding her arms back and to her chair.

Head toppling to the left, a snoring Joey was also tied down with his glasses already having slipped from his nose. Crashed onto the floor and shattered, it reminded her of her youngest son’s room; her youngest son.

She looked over to her right, spotting an empty wicker chair immediately beside her and Dylan after that. Dylan was leaning far back, head resting on his shoulder and mouth having fallen open to let out quiet whimpers and whines as though even in Dreamland, he was frightful.

Finally, she looked forward, squinting at the collection of chairs in front of her. They were chairs, obviously, nothing too interesting about that but it’s what was in the chairs that alarmed her. Pillows conjoined together by stolen articles of clothing ranging from Joey’s shirt to her favorite dress and skirt and Dylan’s sweatshirt. Between her pillow copy and Dylan’s was the Brahms doll; staring ahead silently. Watching. Always watching.

A high-pitched, airy, childlike voice rang in her ear, it didn’t match the fully grown man standing behind Dylan. Brahms, the real Brahms, pat the boy’s blond hair before ruffling Joey’s untamed dark tresses, “Little brother… big brother…” he moved behind (Y/n), his hands settling on her shoulders before his mask moved to press it’s cold, hard lips against the goosebumped, terrified skin of her neck, “Mommy…”

Sitting down in the empty chair, Brahms smiled beneath his mask, staring into the dead, glassy eyes of his doll before letting his voice take on the deeper octave more appropriate of an adult.

“Daddy…”

#brahms heelshire #brahms the boy #brahms heelshire x reader #the boy 2016 #slasher x reader #brahms: the boy #can't believe i spelt the movie name wrong :)#clown energy people i'm telling you

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avengerscompound · 4 years

Text

The Surrogate - Chapter 1

The Surrogate: A Clintasha Fanfic

Masterlist

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing: Clint Barton x Natasha Romanoff x F!Reader

Word Count: 3305

Rating: E

Warnings: Injuries, smut (M\F, oral sex, vaginal sex, public sex)

Synopsis: A freak end of the world incident leads to meeting your two best friends, Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff. While your friendship with the two Avengers is anything but conventional, they are your all-time favorite people. When you find out that Clint and Natasha want to start a family but have exhausted all their options, you realize your powerset might allow you to give them what they want. Having your best friends’ baby might seem like a good idea on paper, but when you are as close as you, Clint, and Natasha are, will doing something so intimate mean feelings get a little mixed up?

A/N: Just a reminder as this is a new series you must tell me (preferably by ask) that you want to be tagged or continue to be tagged.

Chapter 1

The sky was on fire. Everything around you was chaos. People running for their lives and parts of buildings crashing to the ground. You were trying to not let the crowd drag you along with them because all you could think was there was nowhere you could go right now that would be safe and if you were going to die, you didn’t want it to be at the bottom of a pile of corpses.

You ducked down a side alley that stunk of trash but was blessedly empty of people. As you took a moment to decide what you would do next, there was a cry from above you and a figure rocketed down from the side of the building, managed to grab hold of the fire escape just long enough to dislocate his shoulder and slow his fall, before landing on top of a dumpster with a loud crash and rolling onto the ground. You rushed over to the figure that seemed to be trying to struggle to its feet.

“You probably shouldn’t move,” you said, crouching down and pushing him back a little. It wasn’t until that moment that you realized this was an actual Avenger. Not just any Avenger either, Hawkeye, one of the original ones. You wondered what he was doing in your town and if there were any other Avengers here. If there were, maybe you weren’t as doomed as you’d originally thought.

“Gotta,” Clint groaned trying to push you back off him. “Need to get back.”

“You’re an archer and at the very least you’ve dislocated your arm,” you reasoned.

“Not dislocated,” Clint groaned, rolling onto his side. “Broken. And some ribs. Might have bruised my spine.”

You helped him to sit up and furrowed your brow. “I might be able to help you,” you said. “A little anyway. Help you get back.”

“What? You a drug dealer?” Clint asked, pulling his arm in against his side.

“No,” you said. “I’m enhanced. I need you to kiss me. And not like a peck. With your injuries, it’s gonna need a full-on make-out session just to get you up.”

Clint’s face did not hide his emotions at all. He furrowed his brow in confusion, then widened his eyes in surprise. His lips pursed together as he considered if you were telling the truth and then a large smile broke out on it. “If you wanted to make-out you just had to ask.”

You leaned in and licked your lips, wetting them well before bringing them to the archer’s. The spark happened immediately as your powers engaged. People often thought it was that spark that happens in stories where two people who are meant for each other finally kiss and fall in love. The first time it happened you’d even fallen for that and you and the guy had ended up dating for a year too long before you realized that maybe there was no such thing as fate, and if there was it could go fuck itself because you weren’t spending another day with that jackass, destiny be damned.

Clint made a soft choked sound and his hand went to your hair drawing you in closer and deepening the kiss. It was good really. Even if he was caught up in the feel of your lips against his, and that spark that ran between you it would help with the process. You teased your tongue into his mouth and he let out a moan as they started to actually do their job.

You were a healer. Your powers worked perfectly in your own body. You never got sick, if you cut yourself it would heal instantly. One time you had been riding a bike and hit a rock. It sent you sprawling and you heard a loud crack in your shoulder and a flare of white-hot pain. People had come running to help but when you got back up, there had been absolutely nothing wrong. Not even a scrape.

They didn’t work so perfectly on other people. You’d figured out through some accidental trial and error that it worked through bodily fluid exchange. Kissing could work on cuts and scrapes, but you’d normally need to donate blood to get to the level of healing Clint Barton currently needed, and that only worked if they were a compatible blood type. There were other ways that worked better than kissing of course. None you wanted to do right here in the street with a complete stranger even if you could talk him into it.

You swirled your tongue with his and licked over the corner of his mouth, dragging the kiss out as long as possible. When you finally pulled back, his bruises were gone and most of his cuts. The arm was definitely still broken but he seemed to be holding it a little better.

“Holy shit,” Clint said. “I - uh -”

“You aren’t in love with me,” you assured him. “Don’t worry. Go save the world.”

He pulled himself to his feet and grabbed his bow from where it had fallen a few feet away. “I wanna talk to you when all this is done.”

“If you save the world, I’ll meet you back here,” you agreed reluctantly. You didn’t know if you'd just plunged yourself into deep water by outing your abilities to an actual Avenger or if he was stuck the ‘true love’s kiss’ groove and you were going to have to knock him out of it, but either way, you were dreading it, even if it did mean the world was safe.

You left the alley not long after Clint and ended up sheltering in a tunnel while you waited out the battle. As the sounds of fighting and explosions died down and the sky began to return to its usual blue, you dared to set back out again. Clean up crews and emergency services had arrived and it was a little difficult evading them, but you eventually made your way to the alley.

Clint was waiting for you alone. It looked like he'd seen a medic. His arm was now in a sling and he had stitches in his cheek. “Was starting to think you weren't gonna show,” Clint said.

“They aren't letting people back into the hub of the damage,” you explained. “Had to sneak past a bunch of barricades.”

“Well, aren't you resourceful?” Clint said playfully. “You got anywhere we could talk? Preferably where I could also get very, very drunk?”

“I doubt anything is gonna be open around here,” you said. “Might have to go further out.”

Clint nodded and the two of you walked out looking for a bar together. He was limping a little and you considered offering your services again, but the looming conversation held you back. You didn’t want to add fuel to the fire.

By the time you did find a bar that was open you had hyped up the conversation so much in your head, you were fairly sure he was going to either propose or send you to the raft for being unregistered and breaking the Sokovia Accords.

“Shots?” Clint asked as you went into the busy bar.

“Yeah. Definitely,” you agreed. “And get food. I’m starving. I’ll find a table.”

It took a while to find anywhere to sit. It was like half the city had decided to drink after the events of the day and this was the only bar open. You ended up having to share a table with a group of women who seemed to already be halfway to fully drunk.

“So,” Clint said, placing a tray of shots on the table and sliding into the booth beside you. “Enhanced, huh?”

“Yeah,” you said and took your first shot. He’d gotten Kaluah of all things, though you were grateful for the soft warmth of the coffee liqueur over a harsh burn of something like whiskey.

Clint chuckled and took his own shot. “Gonna make me beat it out of you, are you?” He teased. When you didn’t answer he shook his head and continued. “How’d it happen?”

You shrugged. “Don’t really know exactly,” you say. “I got sick as a kid, and they put me on this drug trial. I got better and I don’t think I’ve been sick since, but it was such a long time between the trail ending and me noticing that I could actually heal myself that I can’t say for sure it was that or something else.”

You both took another shot and Clint scratched at his arm like it was annoying him. “So just healing?” He asked.

“That’s not enough?” You shot back.

He laughed loudly, throwing his head back. “No, that’s plenty. More than I’ve got,” he conceded. “You’re pretty defensive you know?”

You sighed and sunk back into the chair. The alcohol was already making your head feel fuzzy and you were worried you were going to get into a fight with Hawkeye right in the middle of the bar. “I can just see how this conversation goes. You’re either gonna convince me to join the Avengers or you’re thinking about the kiss and that spark and you wanna ask me out.”

“That kiss was pretty great,” Clint teased.

“I know, it’s the powers,” you said. “People think it’s some kind of soulmate thing. I’ve had stalkers because of it.”

Clint waited as you took another shot. One of the bar staff came over and put a plate of sliders and curly fries down and you both started to eat. “God, I needed that,” Clint said with his mouth full.

“You did do a lot today,” you said.

“Yeah, I saved your ass and you won’t even date me,” he teased.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t date you,” you argued. “I just don’t want an Avengers stalker.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, if you wanted to kiss me again, I wouldn’t fight you off, but I get it. It was something to do with the healing.”

“Yeah,” you said. “Energy transference I think it is.”

There was another pause and you both took another shot. You were drunk now, you knew it. Normally you would be more careful about drinking this much with a strange man but there had been so much today, and he was an avenger.

“Why don’t you want to be an Avenger?” He asked.

You sighed. “I’d be useless. What am I gonna do, follow you all around and make-out every time someone gets a scratch?”

He laughed. “That’s the only way it works?”

“It’s a bodily fluid exchange. I could have spit in your mouth, but I thought that would be hard to talk you into,” you explained.

Clint laughed and held his side. “You kidding? I normally have to pay people to do that.”

You completely lost it laughing. “Oh my god!”

“Alright, alright, don’t make me laugh,” Clint said. “My ribs are still busted.”

“Want me to help with that?” You offered.

He looked you up and down and chewed his bottom lip. “Dunno. Next time we make out, I want it to be because you want to make out with me.”

You giggled and heat rushed to your face. It was not a reaction you were used to but then you weren’t used to good looking superheroes hitting on you either.

“So, if it’s bodily fluids, would blood work?” He asked.

“Blood works best,” you said. “But I can’t keep myself bleeding long enough to do a bleed into their wound thing, and if it’s a blood transfusion, they still have to match my blood type.”

“Well that could still be useful,” he said. “Maybe you are the same blood type as some of us? You could come and see?”

You sighed and picked up the last shot on the tray. Since you got your powers you had wanted to help, but they were so limited you hadn’t been able to find a way to do that and have it actually work. You gave blood regularly and hoped that might have led to some of the miracle recoveries some people go through, but apart from that, there wasn’t much you could do. At least agreeing to go with Clint to see if you might be able to help was something you could do.

“Fine,” you sighed. “I’ll go with you, but I warn you, my powers are so limited. I doubt it’ll come to anything.”

“Great,” Clint grinned and put his arm around your shoulders. “Now, to trying to get you to want to kiss me for real.”

You laughed and drank the shot. Clint went up and got more drinks. This time just a pitcher of beer for the two of you to share. Whether it was the alcohol, the stress, the thrill that he was an Avenger or maybe that he seemed to be a completely likable dumbass, you weren’t sure but it didn’t take long until you were locked together, kissing passionately and finding yourself getting more than a little bit turned on.

You were practically sitting on his lap as his hands slid up under your skirt. The spark that ran from you to him, was like a hot current, pulling you to him. He moaned into your lips, completely uncaring that there were people around you. It was likely that part of that was due to the fact you’d been at it for so long his bones were knitting, but he was definitely as turned on as you were, you could feel his erection every time he pulled you closer to him.

You gripped his thigh and he broke the kiss and began sucking on the pulse point under your ear. “I want to fuck you so fucking bad.”

“My place was in the fall zone,” you whined.

He gripped your thigh and pulled you so you were almost straddling him. “Bathroom,” he growled against your ear.

You nodded and he pulled you to your feet. The two of you stumbled to the bathrooms, making out against the wall as you waited for one to become free. As soon as it did, Clint pushed you inside, locking the door behind you. He was still sore you could tell, but even with the broken arm and ribs, he managed to lift you up onto the sink. You spread your legs and he dragged your panties down. You were already soaking for him, and he dropped to his knees and ran his tongue up your cunt. The spark you felt as your powers engaged ran hard through your cunt, making you jerk your hips. You braced your arm against the mirror and gripped the side of the sink as Clint held your legs apart and greedily sucking on your folds. He moaned loudly and his tongue pushed inside of you like he was trying to drink you up from the source. You rocked your hips against his face and he began to focus on your clit, sucking and biting at it. He thrust two fingers inside you and fucked you hard with them. With the current that was running through you, you were barely holding it together. You panted, your head resting back on the grimy glass of the mirror above the sink. Clint’s fingers moved inside you, dragging over your g-spot again and again. You weren’t sure you were going to be able to hold yourself up and your legs kept wanting to snap night around his head. He held them apart and kept going and with a loud cry, you came, gushing on his face. He let out a moan to match your cry and lapped up what he could. He stood and began to fish around in his pocket.

“Jesus, I think my ribs have healed. Should have eaten you out in the field,” Clint teased.

“What kind of girl do you think I am?” You laughed.

“Fucking filthy one,” he growled.

You grabbed him by the belt and began to unfasten his pants. “Clint,” you said, still breathing heavily. “I’m on birth control and I’m a healer.”

A slow smile played over his lips and he pulled his cock out. “Well, then,” he said and thrust deep inside of you.

You both moaned, the spark returning again. There was a banging on the door and you buried your face in his neck. “Fuck,” you giggled. “Gonna need to be quick.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” Clint teased, playfully. “I can do ‘quick’.”

You burst out laughing and let your head fall back, he held you close and started fucking you hard and deep. He shoved you up against the wall with every thrust and you bit into his shoulder, moaning into his skin. Your fingers dug into his back and you braced a foot on the wall. Everything came together perfectly, the place, the person, your powers, how deep and hard he penetrated you, you lost yourself to it. Your body spasmed and clenched and you came again, holding yourself as close to Clint as you could as it shuddered though you. He thrust hard into you, holding you in place as he came. “Fuck,” he groaned as his cock pulsed with it’s released. “That was…”

“Mm-hmm…” you hummed and he slipped from within you. “The healing thing always makes it more intense.”

“How come it’s done nothing for my ears?” Clint asked as he tucked his cock back away. “I mean, everything it’s been working on, but I still have my hearing aids on?”

You shook your head as you straightened yourself back up and pulled up your underwear. “Don’t know. The worse the injury or illness the more exchange has to happen. I can’t do things like regrow body parts. It does nothing for scar tissue. And the older the injury the less likely it is to work at all.”

“Huh,” Clint said and there was another banging on the door. “You ready?”

You nodded. “Yeah, better let the people pee.”

The two of you walked back into the crowded bar. “You coming home with me?” Clint asked as he took out his phone and tapped around on it.

You shrugged. “I guess. I mean, I don’t even think they’ll let me near my place.”

“Cool,” Clint said casually. “To the roof.”

You furrowed your brow and looked at him. He just pointed the way so you followed after him. As you reached the roof a large black military jet approached and then hovered above you both. The back end of it opened up and it began to lower itself down, when it was within reach, Clint jumped up into the back and leaned over, holding his hand out to you and helping you scramble inside.

You followed him up to the cockpit as the back end closed again. “Thanks for coming to get me, Nat,” Clint said, kissing the redhead at the cockpit on the cheek.

She scrunched up her nose and ruffled his hair. “What was I supposed to do? Leave you here?”

You watched them as you took your seat and buckled yourself in. There was an easy affection between them and you realized, they were together. Together-together. You’d just helped Hawkeye cheat on Black Widow.

Bile started to bubble up from your stomach and you weren’t sure what to do. You could keep it secret and let it eat at you forever, or you could tell her and she’d probably stab you. It wouldn’t kill you, but being stabbed still hurt and you didn’t want it to happen.

Your conscience seemed to be in control though. The words bubbled up and burst out of your mouth completely out of your control. With a yelp and covering your mouth with your hands, you shouted; “Clint and I just had sex!”

// NEXT

#clint barton #natasha romanoff #clintasha #clint barton x natasha romanoff x reader #clint barton x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #clint barton x natasha romanoff #clintasha x reader #hawkeye #hawkeye fanfic #black widow #black widow fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #reader insert #smut #pregnancy #the surrogate

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collecting-stories · 4 years

Text

Rick - ep. 09 - Georgia

Summary: After you and Daryl spend the afternoon together Rick and Michonne come over for beers, Rick finally figuring some things out.

A/N: I wanted to add more depth to the relationships in this version of the series.

Georgia Masterlist | The Walking Dead Masterlist

☼ ☼ ☼ ☼

Daryl sat in the passenger seat, window rolled down as he smoked a cigarette, watching you sitting behind the wheel of his truck was more enticing than he thought it would be. He figured, this truck being akin to a child, that he’d be keeping an eye on you so that you didn’t damage her while you were driving but in fact it was just the sight of you in the driver’s seat, taking precious care of something special to him, that was making it hard to turn his gaze away.

“Ya ain’t a bad driver.” Daryl commented, smoking blowing out the open window as he spoke.

“I told you!” You laughed, “you know Rick Grimes?”

“Yeah, how do you?”

“Our mama’s went to school together, his mom’s my godmother. But he taught me to drive.” You supplied.

A week before you got your permit your dad went on a week-long bender that resulted in his third stint in rehab. Your mom had asked Rick if he minded teaching you, telling him that your dad’s brother had passed away and he’s gone up to Virginia to be with his family. One year he’d caught the flu and another time an uncle in Tennessee had passed and he’d gone to bed with family’ because apparently your mother had married a family man.

Rick had been happy to help and you’d been happy to have him teach you. If you could’ve had an older brother you were sure you would’ve wanted it to be Rick. He was a little older than you, Daryl’s age, but he had always hung back at kids' tables and parties and church picnics with you, never letting you feel left out.

“He ain’t too bad.”

“Of a person or of a driver?” You asked, glancing over at Daryl as you slowed to a stop at a streetlight.

“Both, likes to hassle me whenever he drops by.”

“I didn’t know you were friends!” You said, already preparing all the questions you were going to ask him next time he came into the diner.

“Ain’t clipping pictures to my visor or nothing,” he remarked, grinning when you frowned at him. There was a picture of Maggie and you from last year’s Harvest Festival clipped to your visor in your jeep and Daryl had teased you about it when he’d first noticed it there.

“I’m gonna get a picture of me and clip it to your visor so you can see my smiling face every morning.” You replied.

“Lucky me.” He managed to sound sarcastic as he said it but he thought immediately that he wouldn’t mind a picture of you in his truck, tucked away to look at whenever he was having a shitty day.

“Where am I going once I get in to Woodbury?” You asked, crossing over the pike to take the back way into town. You liked backroads better than the main highways, something you and Daryl had in common. He wasn’t as much of a backseat driver as you thought that he would be.

“The industrial park on the other side of Cartwright...ya know where that is?”

“As long as you tell me where to turn.” You passed the Woodbury diner, the chrome exterior catching the sun and drawing your attention. “We should get food there on the way back.”

“This ain’t a whole day thing...I got stuff ta do when I get back.” Daryl replied, taking a look passed you to the diner as the truck continued on.

“It’ll be fun, come on.” You begged, glancing over at him.

“I’ll think about it.”

Daryl lacked the ability to say no to you, something he had already known to be true but discovered over again when he told you to pull into the diner in Woodbury after a stop off at the bank to cash his check. You led him to a table in the back that had a tiny jukebox on it and he rolled his eyes as you ignored the menu in favor of finding a quarter.

“Ya play any a that crap ya listen to I’m leaving ya here.” Daryl piped up as you dropped the quarter in.

“I was gonna play Dolly...it’s classic.”

He shook his head at you and you stuck your tongue out at him before settling on Bruce Springsteen. “You have a beef with the boss too?”

“Nah, this is fine.” He replied as the sounds of ‘I’m on Fire’ played in the booth. A little too on the nose, he thought, as he sat across from you watching you read over the menu.

“Do you like working at the slaughterhouse?”

“I cut up dead cow all day long...not exactly the dream.” Daryl replied, “my brother got me the gig after I dropped out and I been working there since. Got bills to pay.”

“Does your brother still work there?”

“He’s in jail.”

“Oh. Sorry-”

“Ain’t your fault, he’s a fucking moron, got himself arrested. Been fucking up since we were kids.” He shrugged. He loved Merle but he certainly didn’t like him. Merle had gotten him in more trouble than he could keep track of.

“I don’t have any siblings...I think I was enough.” You replied.

“I’m sure.” He teased, grinning at you.

When the waitress came around to take your orders, she winked at you, assuming, you were sure, that the two of you were on a date. You smiled back at her and Daryl rolled his eyes when she walked away.

“Are ya like that too?” He asked, “too perky for yer own good?”

“Probably. The happier you are the better the tip.” You replied, shrugging.

“I’m sure ya get tips just cause everyone knows who ya are.”

“Well yeah.” You shrugged, “I can’t wait to get a different job.”

“Ya ain’t thrilled waiting on people all day?” Daryl asked, biting at his thumb to calm his nerves. He was sitting across from you at a diner and you were fishing in your bag to play the same Bruce Springsteen song over again.

“No. I hate it. People are the worst!” You replied. There was nothing you could think of worse than having to deal with people all day. “What about you though? You have to deal with annoying people coming in to get their cars fixed.”

“Yeah I’m sitting across from one of ‘em.”

“Shut up!” You laughed, nudging his leg with your foot, “you love spending time with me.”

“You keep saying I do.” He said it but he knew that you were right. He liked spending time with you a little too much.

Rick sat in the Adirondack chair that you usually occupied whenever you were over, cooler full of beer next to him. Daryl finishing some work on your jeep, showing Michonne the repairs he had done while Rick talked about passing his sheriff’s exam.

“Ya ain’t President of the United States Rick,” Daryl cut off the second wind of the same story, laying his wrench down to look over at his best friend. Michonne laughed, shaking her head at the two of them. “Ya just made deputy.”

“Yeah and it’s a pretty big honor I’d say. Not everyone is out there making deputy D.” He replied, taking a swig of his beer.

“Well as another person who made deputy, I’d like to point out that it isn’t the hardest thing in the world either.” Michonne piped up, grabbing a beer from the cooler. She handed one off to Daryl, taking a better look at the Jeep he was working on. A tassel made of different color yarns hung from the rearview mirror with an air freshener that looked especially feminine too, certainly not something Daryl would hang in his car. “Who’s Jeep?”

“Nobody’s, just doing a favor.”

“A favor for...” Michonne trailed off, popping the driver’s side door open. Daryl didn’t say anything as she slipped into the seat, taking a look around the inside. Vinyl stickers on the dashboard and as she scanned her eye caught the picture in the visor.

“I been thinking the Jeep looked familiar to me,” Rick piped up. He’d thought one more than one occasion when he stopped ‘round his friend’s house that the Jeep he was working on was one he had seen around town though he couldn’t place it. “Just don’t know why.”

“That’s cause ya ain’t a good cop.” Daryl joked. Michonne laughed as she pulled the picture down and looked at it.

“I’m assuming it’s not Maggie Greene.” She said, handing off the picture to Rick.

“No, Daryl-”

“I’m just fixing her car.”

“What am I missing?” Michonne asked, looking between the two of them.

“She doesn’t need any trouble D, she gets enough of it.” Rick said, handing the picture back.

“I’m just fixing the damn car Rick. It’s my job.” Daryl repeated, tossing the wrench he’d been using, listening to it clang against the car before falling to the ground.

“That was her backpack, wasn’t it?”

“I didn’t ask her to come around.” He insisted.

“You gotta stop seeing her.”

“I ain’t seeing anyone.” Daryl replied, “I gotta repeat myself? Ya ain’t her family, anyway. Ya can’t tell her what to do. Or me, for that matter.”

“Someone’s gotta look out for her.” Rick replied, “lord knows she’s not good at knowing what she needs.”

“What is going on?” Michonne asked again, stepping out of the Jeep and closing the door.

“Nothing’s going on.” Daryl snapped.

“I can’t believe your-”

“Swear to god Rick, I ain’t repeating myself again. Either shut the fuck up or get the hell off my property.”

“Whoa.” Michonne held her hand out when Daryl moved closer to Rick. She turned toward Rick, “I think you need to cool off.”

“We’re not done talking about this.” Rick announced, looking passed Michonne to Daryl. Before his best friend could say anything in response Rick was walking down the driveway to where his car was parked. He climbed in, slamming the door, before taking off.

“You wanna tell me what that was about?” Michonne asked, looking back to Daryl as he picked up the wrench he was using, “And don’t give me the ‘ain’t nothing’ excuse. I know when something is nothing and this clearly isn’t.”

“Said I’d work on her car cause she didn’t have the money to pay Dale.” Daryl shrugged.

“And?”

“Don’t know.” He replied, honestly. He didn’t know and he didn’t like to think about it too much.

“Come on D,”

“I said I don’t know.” He insisted, shrugging his shoulders in defeat, “I just like having her around.”

“You got a crush.” Michonne smiled, watching the way his face flushed.

“I ain’t gonna keep ya ‘round if yer gonna make fun a me.”

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heli0s-writes · 4 years

Text

III. Paralysis*

Summary: “I’m sorry,” you sob, locked around Bucky’s bicep, his forearm, fingers digging into the smooth obsidian plates, fisting the fabric of his sleeve. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” As if he were Natasha—as if you could stop both her death and his mangling, or at least hold her the way you are holding him now.

A/N: 9.8k words. OOF.

Warnings: Language, robots v. monsters violence, Big Time angst and comfort, smutty bits (dry-humping, thigh riding).

Trinity Epoch Masterpost

He leaves around sunset. Hair combed neatly to the side and freshly shaven, Steve’s dashing in a fitted suit and tie.

In the middle of passing around a basketball, Erik Killmonger, in all his subtlety, whistles, “Looking fresh, white boy!”

Steve smirks, smoothing the front of his jacket, “This monkey suit? I’d rather be in circuitry.”

He’s been laying low since Siegehook, since Bucky’s arm, and since you. But now the story’s changed and he’s gotta get his narrative straight— he’s introducing a new character, changing the players, and guiding the spotlight exactly where it needs to go.

Jimmy Fallon— Kimmel? One of the Jimmies personally flew into Hong Kong for a special taping of his late-night show. Orion racked up eleven kills; it’s another record and the people want what they want.

Fury called the three you of into his office after the network reached out for the umpteenth time. He strategized shrewdly to have Steve on this particular broadcast because it’s not as serious as a news report and not as wordy as an interview. Too many things can go wrong in both: cross-examinations, misquoting, scrutiny after the fact.

Steve works best in front of a live audience. He’ll sit down tonight—broad and tall—smile at the camera and the host, make a few charming quips, and then he’ll let the world know.

James has been hurt. The next breach will overlap his recovery time—don’t worry, everybody, fortunately, there’s a pilot available to step in and fill his place until he’s fully healed. And yes, he’ll be back soon, both in the Jaeger and on the show— I know you miss him, he’s even more popular than me, huh? Broody and quiet, right, ladies? He’s a hit!

Then he’ll laugh and field some questions about his new partner—but keep it vague for both yours and Bucky’s sake.

It didn’t need to be said. You didn’t want to be named, Steve didn’t want to make any assumptions for the future, and Bucky didn’t want to know if anyone thought he couldn’t pilot anymore.

Erik passes and you catch, sidestepping Thor and shooting over his figure which is no easy feat considering his massive height and the way Steve is staring you down. You don’t have to be hooked up to his brain to know what he’s wondering.

Since the trial run, you’ve been feeling the after-effects of the drift in oscillating waves. Sometimes you catch yourself standing ramrod straight, physically feeling heavier, knowing it’s him.

You okay? We talked about this. Yes, you are. No, you aren’t. It’s complicated. He’s fixes his tie the same time you spot a wrinkle. After-effects.

Erik jumps for a rebound when you miss the next basket, getting it knocked away by Thor’s enormous hand. Steve’s already gone when you look back, but Erik is passing again, and your next shot sinks through the net.

“That’s fuckin’ right!” He knocks his elbow into yours proudly, pushing sleeves over elbows until you can see the patterns of scarification up his arms. Feet back and forth on the scuffed concrete with distracted rhythm, you dribble, thoughts still on Steve.

“Hey,” a voice calls over the sound of the slamming ball. Barnes toes the edge of the makeshift court. A jacket is tucked under his arm, baseball cap atop his dark head. “Come on, it’s Friday night and you’re thinking too much. I wanna show you a place.”

He leads with confidence, directing the taxi in practiced Cantonese picked up over the last two years. Then, once disembarked, he peeks back every few minutes on the street to check if you’re still following. Your gait is awkward—steps firm, but lopsided. All off kilter and wound up like a spring.

It’s okay. In Bucky’s experience, food always helps. He’s taking you to his favorite restaurant—hole-in-the-wall Sichuan. He hollers over his shoulder, "You better be prepared for spice!”

Red lacquered doors open with a tinkering sound, a tiny overhead bell signaling new arrivals. A hostess steers through a path of similarly varnished tables and decorated chairs when Bucky asks for a quiet corner. Fish tanks of koi gleam green and blue. Chandelier scatters gold and white diamond shapes on a ceiling painted like a cloudy sky.

Hot tea first, and he sips carefully, gaze moving up to the T.V. behind your back when you’re busy flipping through the menu. A few more minutes pass of your furrowed brow sinking deeper and Bucky’s hand slides quickly across the tablecloth, nudging the booklet from your clutch.

“I got this.” And relief washes over your entire body like rain.

The appearance of entrees breaks your trance. Mai Gai, Char Siu Bao, Dan Dan noodles, and eggplant in garlic sauce—you’re trying to tell him it’s too much, wondering when he even ordered, but he ignores you. Not his fault you spaced out, he says, catch, and a napkin flies directly into your chest.

It makes you laugh, and Bucky secretly wants to tell you that it wouldn’t kill you to do it more often. Why the hell not, anyway? He’s tired of being upset about something that was largely inevitable. He knew the risk of death when they signed up to be Rangers so on the bright side, at least it’s his arm and not his head. At least it’s his arm and not his co-pilot’s. You’ve proven to be more than capable and proven to be someone he can trust with Steve’s life.

If Bucky had any doubts about whether or not that damned Rogers determination would see them through—they’ve been dispelled now.

The drift was sound. When Steve stepped out from the loading dock, he was lighter like half his weight had been sloughed off. When you followed, helmet pulled from your face, Bucky could see where it landed. Your hips, your shoulders, your jaw, all defiant—even if temporarily—coming down from the high of the handshake. Squared and strong, you looked at Bucky and certainty gleamed from your eyes.

You are Orion’s new pilot. He’s gotta give it up. It could be worse.

Bucky’s fingers shift as he unsnaps chopsticks and grabs spoons, the plates on his left clicking quietly, flexing his pointer when it sticks. Sometimes the prosthetic is a little glitchy because nothing’s perfect, but Stark and Shuri are constantly making updates. They use technology from the spinal clamp to connect his synapses, running tests on its reaction time, sensitivity, and functionality. He can feel pressure, but not pain, and wouldn’t it be nice if it applied elsewhere, too?

He passes your utensils over, wrapped loosely in a napkin. It could be worse.

“Hey Barnes,” you call earnestly, running your fingers over an embossed floral pattern on the paper, “Thanks.”

He’s not looking at you yet, firmly on a mission for soy sauce and chili oil. He makes a well of it in a ceramic dish and stirs with a chopstick, moving it to the center of the table, finding distraction in small tasks.

“...Barnes?”

“It’s Bucky,” he says finally, flicking his eyes to your hopeful face, “You can call me Bucky, alright? Usually that’s just for Steve, but you’ve been in his head—know me now, I guess. So you might as well. Hold your horses—I’ll serve you.”

Speechless, you put your hands in your lap and observe him scoop food, the syllables of his offered nickname tapping like a metronome over your curious tongue.

Bucky, you consider, watching the way he moves. Bucky, with his long hair pulled back and out of his cap. Bucky, his soft and worn hoodie, boots drumming gently against the table leg, eyes discreetly glazed over because he doesn’t think you notice the change in his mood.

Bucky, who made you laugh in the Jaeger hangar—even if he did threaten your life upon the first meeting. Who could have let you rot from boredom and worry, but instead took you into Hong Kong to his favorite restaurant without being asked to. Who could hate you—truly, truly hate you—for taking half his life from him, but instead is piling a mound of fragrant jasmine rice on your plate.

“What?”

“Bucky. I like it. It sounds nice.”

A clipped noise of displeasure, “Okay. Don’t fuckin’ wear it out.”

“Bucky...?” You murmur, sly. “Bu-cky. Buck-y.” The tips of his ears swell pink as you continue, emphatically pressing your lips together, letting your jaw hang open, pronouncing with precision. A bite of a steamed bun and you lick the edge of your mouth, “Bucky…hm…”

He sputters.

“Would you stop? Jesus, you’re annoying just like him— no fucking wonder— the two of you. Just fuckin’ darling.” His words are all run together with how fast his frustrated tongue moves, a healthy flush over his cheeks, spoon clinking on his plate.

It’s cute. Stoic, serious, James—Bucky Barnes– just a boy who can’t take a bit of flirting without lighting up like a candle. It’s fun. You like him, Bucky Barnes.

An unexpected ache overtakes you and suddenly Bucky looks more familiar than he ever has. Something excruciating about the soft crinkles of his brow, the way his generous lips draw back to reveal a sliver of his teeth.

He’s Bucky wiping the sweat from his collar in a dirty alleyway, jeans torn at the knees, bruises budding along his knuckles as he yanks up a troublesome blonde friend. Bucky, young and determined, helping Steve into bed every time he got sick.

Bucky, hovering pallid and broken in the drift, hurt and afraid but you felt his resolute strength in Steve’s head even as he howled in agony. Far off and shuffling in transparent layers until he was little more than a specter, but he was there.

His eyes lift again, raising to point you toward the T.V.

“There’s our boy.”

Our boy. And it keeps hurting.

You twist your torso as Steve steps out from backstage, waving and smiling, impeccably poised. He shakes Jimmy’s hand— silently mouthing thank you and hey because the cheering and yelling is too loud to hear him anyway. You try to stop thinking about Bucky anywhere but corporeal and whole across the tablecloth.

“Hey, Jimmy, how are ya?”

“Good—good, Steve. It’s so great to have you on the show again! Wow, you look great! Specimen.”

Steve chuckles modestly, tucking his chin to his chest, “Thanks, you do too.”

“Alright, no need to flatter me, we’re already in love with you, okay?”

You grin the same time Steve does, but whereas he continues to joke and enthrall two hundred people, you grow restless. Bucky refills your tea and drops a crumble of yellow rock sugar in.

“Relax,” he mutters, “It’s fine. He’s good at this. Eat your food.”

And you know this; you know him. Steve’s good when the questions get too personal and when there’s gaps in the conversation—when the cheering interrupts him or when his jaw ticks before he morphs it into a smile.

He’s good when he breaks the news to a hushed audience, gone eerily quiet like they’ve stepped on consecrated ground. Steve gives them those big blue eyes and the room immediately bursts into applause. Some people are crying. The host is shocked into wordlessness.

You feel relieved, getting what you pleaded for. No cameras. No questions. No pressure. The truth is aired, and Bucky seems pleased, too. You’re about to turn around, offer your full attention, thankful for his company, but then something else happens.

Jimmy blinks his stupor away from the blow of Steve’s confession. He takes a sip from his mug and after a short exchange of, thank you for your transparency, it must have been hard— wow I didn’t think you’d drop a bomb like that on us tonight! I thought I was the one with the ace up my sleeve— ha!

He points off-stage and says, “After that, I think you deserve a nice surprise, Steve. Ready?”

Tall, gorgeous, lightly curled hair cascading down her back—the surprise is a woman. She steps easily in heels, an off-the-shoulder red dress hugging tight to her body. Stunning. She waves to the audience and they go wild.

Steve shoots up to meet her for a kiss in front of the host desk, shaking his head in disbelief, tangling his fingers in her silky hair. There’s cheering again and the crying keeps on.

“Oh my god— Jimmy! You sly devil!” He’s overjoyed. “Baby— how’d you—I thought you were working.”

“I can always make an exception for my favorite guy.” She showcases perfectly white teeth and the high apples of her rosy cheeks.

It’s Ophelia Reyez, Steve’s model-turned-actress girlfriend of approximately six months. Her recent appearance on the Victoria Secret fashion show blew up the internet and her last Sports Illustrated swimsuit cover sold out in every gas station you went into.

Their first meeting was at a charity event—raising awareness about pollution in the Pacific, discouraging scavengers from harvesting Kaiju parts after battles. A picture of them standing two feet away made its way through social media the next morning her PR team made contact before noon.

So of course, it was decided; it’s a beneficially mutual relationship, after all. Doesn’t matter if he hates it or not—people don’t want to know that pilots live in a metal box and play basketball on Friday nights. They want to see Rangers in a role— monogamous relationships with beautiful people, white picket fence (or gated community) future in the making, and eventually plump-faced babies in strollers.

Steve’s now back in his seat, shifted so Ophelia is sitting in his lap, turned to the side. His hands are locked around her slender waist—an incredibly believable display of public affection. She kisses his cheek, leans her head on his shoulder, beaming brightly. If you were anybody else, you’d believe it; you have before.

“Fuck me gently with a chainsaw,” you whisper in both awe and annoyance.

“Feeling it, huh?” Bucky speaks plainly around a bite of eggplant when he notices your jaw. That habitual and microscopic signal he’s grown to spot a mile away means Steve’s irritated and pissed off, and now it means that you are, too.

“Yeah,” you admit, shaking your head. You turn back to him, thoroughly bothered, having had enough of the performance.

“Uh-huh. Everyone’s a Fly—even her.”

You sigh at the label. Jaeger Flies, is what he’s saying. Ranger groupies. Derisive titles— and maybe deserved— for men and women who are attracted to pilots solely because they’re pilots. They want the opportunity to be famous or the privilege of being elite.

Even her, Ophelia Reyes. She’ll forever look at Steve Rogers as the Ranger.

Natasha always lamented—usually as she took her earrings off after a date, heels slipping off her pale feet—about another civilian man who worshipped her, and how that would be a dream for most people, to be so adored, so revered, but you always felt her sorrow in the drift mourning a love she couldn’t have.

She wanted the white picket fence. The normal life, normal husband, normal family. Her clean break from the past where monsters could no longer chase her in Decima and nightmares could no longer chase her at night. Behind closed doors, she was all torn open at the seams. And you’d wordlessly tell her shut up because she had a family with you. You loved her too, wasn’t that worth something?

She’d spiral and spiral and nothing was ever enough.

Your stomach twists and it keeps hurting.

Bucky pays for dinner. He asks as he pops a mint into his mouth, “Up for dessert?”

“God, Buck.” You groan, and Bucky takes a second to run that through his head again. God, Buck. Another thing like Steve.

“C’mon, I wanna show you another place,” he says thoughtfully, “Hold on to your hat, punk.”

A lighthearted swat to your back and then he’s shoving the ballcap hanging from his chair on your head.

The streets are lit with all sorts of colors as you follow him through the market, peering at vendors showcasing an abundance of food and miscellaneous items. You keep telling him you’re too full and can’t eat another fucking bite, but he only commands you to walk it off. The crispiest egg waffles are somewhere down this way, and even though he can’t remember the intersection, it should be close.

Between steps and dodging passerby’s, he relates his own experiences of brief PR relationships. A Russian woman one time, and a Greek woman another time. Cross-cultural because it made the PPDC look good—and it was all about looking good. He loathed it, of course, but he’d bite down a couple of months before their representatives would release those asinine joint statements about “conscious uncoupling” – schedules too busy, still have love for each other in their hearts, though.

“Couldn’t tell you those girls’ middle names. We’d get together just long enough for some media circulation—dates where we’d pretend to be offended when pictures leaked on TMZ.”

“Well,” you muse over a vision of Bucky leaned back on Steve’s mattress, returned late and bored of another paparazzi encounter swarming him in the lobby of some hotel. You know it like a dream—his ankles crossed, shoes shucked off, cracking his neck. Fuckin’ wild, Stevie. This girl. My knees ain’t what they used to be.

“Least you got your dick plenty wet, didn’t ya?”

He makes a noise like an engine backfiring—offended like you’ve pawned off his prized possessions or something.

“Jesus—you’re an ass.” He slams the bill of the cap down until it hits you in the nose. Another huff, more cursing, and then he’s saying fuck you before speeding off alone.

You chase cheerily, finding his chestnut head peeking over the crowd with ease because he’s tall and hard to lose in Hong Kong. A few more blocks down with him looking back surreptitiously to make sure you’re not lost, and Bucky ends up being the one who is actually lost.

“Shit. Can’t find the stand,” he grumbles, “Don’t give me that face. These are way better than the ones we passed earlier—fucking all soft in the middle—fresh pandan leaf, alright? You don’t get it.”

“I don’t even know what that is,” you laugh, feeling your cheeks grow tired from the way they’ve been lifted all night.

A stifled, hot breeze of urban downtown mixes with a chilly gust of wind, carrying Bucky’s petulance away though the throng. Blinking, you look around, craning your neck and shuffle to the curb. Stalls with hanging lanterns. Carts lined with pickled mango. Vendors grilling skewers of pork and cleaving roast duck into chunks.

You suddenly dart from him across the busy road and barely avoid a rickshaw balancing two enormous baskets of finger bananas. When you return, you hold up matching green popsicles. One gets shoved into his mouth, other one into yours. Pandan, like he wanted.

“Hey, it’s not bad,” you give it another taste. Lingering coconut, a little bit leafy, but not unpleasant. “Oh shit—cold!”

Bucky licks his lips, stinging red from the ice. You shudder loudly as brainfreeze hits, another chatter of your teeth following when a gust of wind whips through. He shrugs his jacket from his shoulders.

He calls you a dumbass after an embarrassing story about the time you skinny-dipped in a pond near The Icebox in the middle of winter. A handsome man, your eager libido, and a handle of whiskey had been involved. You giggle about being bed-ridden for half a week afterwards, but you got his number and a few good nights in his bed.

“Guess you’re not as boring as I thought.”

You whistle, “Sweetheart, I got stories that’ll put some hair on your chest.”

Bucky smacks you on the shoulder. “Ass.”

The Shatterdome comes into view much later.

What would have normally been a three-hour excursion, at most, has unintentionally into six and you’re nowhere close to tired—not quite ready for it to end. Bucky is bright with energy, too.

The past hours have been dedicated to recalling old tales. One led to another, threads pulled from the most insignificant of mentions—your old Boston Terrier’s underbite; Bucky accidentally knocking Steve’s bottom lip into his own braces in sixth grade and it swelled up so big he could hardly talk; Natasha, unable to pronounce fucking aluminum out of all the damn words in the world; you, unable to pronounce facetious; and then Bucky, trying his own hand at it and realizing he can’t either.

“Fa—fa-shish-shush? Fascist—tus? Factitious… Ah, shit.”

“Buck,” you gasp through another fit, “Bucky—you have to shut up. Oh—Oh my god—my face hurts.”

“Christ, who fucking made this word up?” He turns the corner toward the living quarters, shaking his head. Just you and him between the rooms and his steps slow at the advent of an inbound goodnight.

Bravely, now that you’re in more secluded space, you offer, “I can tell you more... if you want. Anything. It’s only fair.”

“Yeah,” he says, going quiet and careful. “If you want to.”

So, you take a deep breath, bookended by a nervous grin because other than Steve, the only person who knows anything about you outside a confidential manila folder is dead.

“Well, it might surprise you, since I’m just so goddamn talented—"

“Oh, here we fuckin’ go.”

“Kidding. I wasn’t good at anything,” you elbow him before fishing out your key. “Other than getting into trouble.” Clicks of the cylinder and your vault door squeaks open. “Lots of fighting—I was a small kid. Had nothing but the clothes on my back and just the biggest chip on my shoulder.”

“Sounds like someone I know.”

Yeah. It’s funny. Steve’s alleyway fisticuffs might as well have been your own. You tell him as soon as the PPDC started recruiting again, you were in line. Their standards were confusingly specific and the tests they ran didn’t make any sense, but you passed and landed in Kodiak Island under the austere care of Stacker Pentecost.

Flipping the light on, you invite him inside. “I’d been in and out of foster homes. Barely had a high school degree. Got into… bad work. You know— what do homeless young adults with questionable moral codes do when their 9-5 isn’t paying the bills?” It’s desperate joke to break up the tension but he doesn’t take the bait.

“I’m not judging.”

You plop down on the edge of your table— a spotty metal thing pilfered from a vacated room. He takes the single seat in front of you, moving a dusty glass of water toward the wall, expression only showing attentiveness.

“Well, anyway…” you pause, “I was in the Bay Area after Trespasser— you know, scavenging. But, well, it changes your perspective a little when you’re sneaking through government tape at 3 in morning, stepping over flowers and memorabilia for all the deaths to crouch over a monster’s fucking toenail.”

“Hell,” a sardonic and self-deprecating grin, “I might have been a degenerate street urchin, but someone’s family got taken from them and here I was—monetizing their tragedy.”

Arching your back for more comfort, you splay your left leg over the surface, “Pentecost always said if I was lucky enough, I’d suffer brain damage or radiation poisoning, but might as well die in a Jaeger than in a ditch like I figured I always would. Son of a bitch had my number.”

Bucky’s lips are pursed lightly, eyes are tracing the path of your laces through bent hooks when you wriggle your boot back and forth. He spreads his hand over your ankle, keeping you still.

You swallow when he squeezes.

“Uh— I met Nat at Kodiak.” Bucky is warm. You oscillate between ignoring him and focusing on him, clinging to his hold instead of chasing the thought of Natasha too much. “We were… very similar. Childhood, um, troubles and all that.” You give him a pointed look and he makes a small noise of understanding with no intention to press for details, “She became my best friend. She was the first person I had. My only family.”

A nod of mock irritation and he says, “Yeah. Steve was always a part of mine. Sometimes they say they like him more than me. Can’t blame ‘em.”

“It’s the charm. They make it seem effortless, huh?”

“Fucker can’t take a bad picture to save his life.”

You laugh. “A smile like the goddamn sun!”

“One look into those stupid blue eyes and you’re a goner.”

“Criminally pretty.”

“Hah!” Bucky snorts, “Pretty enough for all of us.”

The floodlight on the wall casts darkness in the shape of your head over his shoulder. Lines of wayward hair caress his neck, tapered strands resting on his collarbones, chestnut glowing orange. His irises stipple forest green when it touches the light, smile nostalgic and lovely.

“Don’t be stupid,” you look at him for another minute longer, “You’re pretty, too, Buck.”

A raise of his brow. Bucky’s mouth opens and closes a few times vacantly. “Thanks,” he mutters finally. Then, bashfully, “So are you.”

Then, a cautious murmur of your name that you almost miss, and he’s peering up at you, deliberately soft. Bucky’s thumb knead small circles over the stitching of your jeans.

“You loved her, didn’t you?”

You loved her, didn’t you?

The years sweep through, passing over your face in a range of rapid-fire emotions. Bucky watches them change like shadows of a bonfire. Delight, amusement, longing. Anger, despair, grief. Deep and unforgiving because she was your whole world—all you had— and she left too soon.

You inhale and it sounds like a sniffle— exhale, and it sounds like a sob. No going back now; you did promise him anything.

You loved her, didn’t you?

Of course you loved her. Natasha-fucking-goddamn-Romanoff. Yeah, of course you did.

You loved her like a sister. You loved her like a lover. You loved her in reflexive ways, like mother’s intuition, finding your motivation in the need to protect her even though she hardly ever needed protection. You loved her like precious gems. You loved her like she was made from your own rib. You loved her enough to love unreciprocated.

“Well, you spend years living with someone, in their brain, learning everything about them— every decision in and out of their control that led them up to who they ended up being. Their—all their impulses and all the things they think about themselves. How—how they hate themselves sometimes.”

You’d always said you were the stupid one. Too stupid to reflect on the past and too stupid to let it burden your conscience the way she’d let hers. A running gag whenever her hand jammed putting on a lipstick she’d worn a million times and you’d finally have to do it for her.

Cheer up, Nat. You’re too pretty to cry. You’d line her lips, pat in rouge delicately, encouragingly. And then you’d shut up because there was nothing you could tell her. A million reassurances rolled off her back because they only made her feel worse. She clung onto your care like another weapon in her chest because she couldn’t return it even though you told her you wanted nothing from her but happiness. Jesus Christ, Nat, I thought I was the stupid one.

“When you know someone like that, it’s easy, isn’t it? You see them exactly for who they are and suddenly there’s no longer the concept of good or bad. What else could I do but love her? Especially when she thought so little of her damn self—tried everything to be someone else but—Jesus, if you only knew how radiant she was—”

You shut your eyes. “A smile… like the goddamn sun. Ah, fuck—"

And now you’re crying. You haven’t cried about Natasha in almost half a year because it’s something you track like the entrance bay’s war clock. Five months. Ten days. Zero again.

You’re choking back too many words and you don’t even know why you said all of that. You start apologizing, rattling out more, too much again, desperately like a prayer, pitch escalating higher and higher. “She deserved everything. A life that was completely—solely—hers. A life that made her happy— and why— why her?”

Why not me?

Bucky hears it in the silence. Watches it descend like a funeral shroud, weighing you down until you look as heavy as Steve on his worst days—when he stares at Bucky’s arm, like Bucky can’t see, can’t feel him there. And he knows Steve is thinking, why not me?

Bucky rises to his feet, stepping next to your uselessly dangling leg, resting his left hand on your shoulder and you grasp him, clutching achingly tight, torn to bits. And it’s too much all at once.

“I’m sorry,” you sob, locked around his bicep, then his forearm, fingers digging into the smooth obsidian plates, fisting the fabric of his sleeve. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” As if he were Natasha—as if you could stop both her death and his mangling, or at least hold her the way you are holding him now.

You’re smashed into little pieces, barely keeping your head above water, holding it all in, and no one recognized how you were drowning the entire time.

Solemnly, curiously, he feels like he’s seeing you for the first time but not quite, remnants of familiarity sparks in him—the filmy plastic layer of an old photograph pressing down to reveal something he once knew and finally knows again.

You make helpless noises, staring numbly ahead, tears rolling out like marbles to drop into your lap.

Bucky shakes his head, “I’m fine,” he whispers gently—frustrated—brow furrowed, his fingers rubbing the salt from your chin, “Quit your blubberin’.” He tilts your face up to the light, watching you take a shuddering breath, exhausted from unearthing buried skeletons.

It's wet when he kisses you, supple flesh chapped around the edges from anxious gnawing, swollen hot from weeping. It’s soft and quick, and then he pulls away.

“St—sorry,” he says, mouth pressing into a thin line, lips drawn in and tentatively licked. “Sorry, I don’t know… I don’t know why I did that. I shouldn’t have.”

Your eyes are sad—big and vulnerable, inflamed red, confused, worried, something else weaving through the damp gaze. Your strong, small fingers are still tight on him, and even though Bucky pulled away and apologized, he rushes forward again.

His free hand curls around your neck, supporting your head. Lips part and close, pressing firmly, expertly, naturally. It feels like he’s kissed you before and missed it— like a kiss he’s been waiting on for a long time.

Banging on your door jerks him away. You careen off the tabletop, smooth the back of your hair, wipe your face and the vault creaks open.

“Marshal,” Bucky greets.

“Rangers…” Fury’s steps are suspicious, phone in his hand aglow. “I thought we had a plan.”

Your heart is beating too fast, the press of Bucky’s plush lips still warm, the scent of his skin still near. You sense it like an imprint, feel it like a brand. The room spins with an onslaught of possible scenarios—all horrendously unclear.

“Care to explain this to me?” The marshal turns his phone toward you, the lit screen displaying a photo of a dark street, illuminated by red and yellow lanterns. A thick crowd is spread around stalls of fruit and knick-knacks.

The headline reads James Barnes Spotted in Hong Kong with Mystery Woman, and the two of you are circled inside a red ring. You’re teetering off the curb of the sidewalk next to a sewer grate. It’s grainy and distorted, but Bucky’s striking features are clear.

“And this one?”

Bucky’s cap on your head, popsicle sticks between your teeth and his.

Steve Rogers on Jimmy! Jimmy Barnes on a Date!

James Barnes Officially Over Penelope Mercouri.

James Barnes’ Injury?

Fury tucks his device back into his coat. “Not that I care what you get up to on your spare time, but we had a tale to tell. It’s hard pushing an agenda when you’re pushing the wrong way.”

“We just got dinner,” you stutter, an upsurge of guilt rising. The speculation, the kiss, the gut-wrenching reflex that feels like a crime. Fury’s calculating now, looking from you to Bucky, assessing the situation with some pity because you truly look pitiful.

“What you got is PR on cleanup. Potts has been trawling Twitter for the last 20 minutes. For someone who doesn’t want to be in the public eye, you’re making a lot of noise.” He points to Bucky’s jacket still over your shoulders.

You tear it off. “It’s not—”

“Oh no—I won’t be losing sleep any over it.” The marshal’s single eye blinks calmly, “She can spin the story, but you become responsible for this.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, Ranger, that the spotlight is on you now. And there is nowhere to run.”

And if you didn’t think it could get any worse, footfalls down the hallway reach your ears in a pattern that you recognize immediately. Here he is, stepping into your room like it’s his own, suit jacket over his forearm, shirt halfway untucked and tie pulled loose. His lips drawn together and unreadable.

But you read it: Steve’s seen the pictures, too.

And goddamn, if you didn’t think it could get any worse— the earsplitting alarm announcing sudden movement in the breach startles you all.

“Orion Bravo, report to Bay 08, Level B. Codename Polidori. Category 2 Kaiju.” Shuri’s reedy voice is collected but critical. The thin screen next to your bed blinks on primary colors, wavy lines of activity rising and falling, counting down until emergence. Three hours.

Banner streams down the hall. The ruckus drowns him out.

Fury’s dark skin is ochre beneath the lights, “Category II,” he says, “Should be achievable. Odinsons will be on standby, guarding the Miracle Mile. Maximoffs on the coastline. They’ll come to you if necessary. Shelve your personal troubles, Rangers, we’ll continue this conversation later.”

Circuitry. Battle armor. Helmet beneath your arm. Muscle memory cuts down the time to seven minutes until you’re set to board, but you need more. Just a few—you have to tell him—better now than later—better from your mouth than from the drift. So, you blurt, “Bucky kissed me.”

Steve turns.

“We kissed. It—it’s nothing. I just needed to tell you before we get in. Didn’t want to seem like I’m hiding anything—I’m not.” It sounds so stupid, like a child admitting fault for breaking a window with a too-hard throw. It sounds like betrayal.

His helmet is gripped tightly in the crook of his elbow. Steve’s chin juts out incrementally, chewing on the inside of his lip, the air around him gone stagnant until he makes a noise both like a scoff and a hum.

“Sure. Fine. I get it—you’re lonely.” It’s worse than any response you expected to receive. “You know what I mean.”

It must be a testament to the depth of your connection now— you knowing him, him knowing you in all the ways that can make an argument escalate into atomic warfare. Precision strikes and then the two of you walking Ground Zero in its aftermath.

“Wait—you think I’m lonely?” You block his way out, furious. “What the fuck does that— have you met yourself? Girlfriends who will never see you for who you are. Ophelia Reyez? Katherine Lau?”

Orion Bravo. Report to the loading platform.

“I know exactly what I’m doing—do you? I spent all evening on T.V. for you--”

“Oh, boo-fucking-hoo, Mister Martyr in front of a drooling audience telling white lies and screwing a Victoria’s Secret Angel in some penthouse suite— such sacrifices you’ve made in my honor.”

Orion Bravo. Report to the loading platform.

“What the fuck have you done lately?” Steve snaps, “Other than try to fuck my co-pilot?”

His words hit like a kick in the goddamn teeth. You slam your helmet into his chest and the polycarbonate shells knock together violently.

“I’m your fucking co-pilot,” you snarl, “You wanted me.”

Steve steadies himself, twisting until he’s snarling at you down the bridge of his nose, “Enough. We’re being hailed, I’m not breaking this record because of you, and not for a Category II. Get your shit together.”

You grind your molars when he pushes you aside, stumbling on shaking legs. Your brain feels gnarled—misshapen and bent up in sharp, jagged points—and as much as you want to stomp his goddamn face in, he’s right: you can’t feel this way. You can’t. It’s your first drop in two years with the best pilot by your side—and you’re responsible for his life. The last one proved disastrous, and you cannot risk that again.

Your suit feels heavier with each step. When you climb in after Steve, the rig feels more obstinate. Your head, chest, heart are all swollen with turmoil and hot rage.

He’s next to you, breathing deeply. You mimic, shelving personal troubles like the marshal commanded.

Out of alignment, the automated voice of the system calls, and you push it back further, grabbing the entire shelf and hurling it into the depths. Steve sends you an incisive look. A blame. You take a breath, another, and another. Fuck!

“Orion.” The heads-up display spotlights Bucky’s face in the control room, emotionless. “Focus.”

You inhale one more time, seeking reassurance in his unwavering gaze—necessary peace in the silhouette of his phantom left arm. Bucky. Steve. Natasha. You. There can be no more loss. You cannot let it happen again.

Levels stabilizing.

To your right, Steve makes a noise like he’s shaking something off.

Neural Handshake complete.

Bucky stands behind the glass, watching aircrafts lower their hooks. A nod of his dark head is the last thing you see before Orion is lifted from the hangar.

There would be a fucking storm.

You’ve always hated fighting in the rain because Kaiju are enormous, slippery, alien amphibians, and Orion’s left fist slides off more times than you’d like. This one’s much smaller than Orion, which allows it the slight advantage of speed, slicing through the water like a shark, corkscrewing for an extra boost of velocity before emerging with a splash from behind.

A miss when you and Steve weave away, hazarding a minor scratch to the right shoulder before Orion’s shield knocks it back.

Despite the vexing evening and the simmering hurt in the pit of your chest, the drift is steady. So, you take it for what it is, cast the rust off your bones, and the two of you do some fucking damage on this thing.

Banner named it Polidori, after the writer credited with inventing the vampire genre. K-Science sonars detected protruding fangs and petal flaps folded on its back like vestigial wings. So, Polidori, he shrugged, it’s cute.

You discover with swift horror that the flaps are neither vestigial nor cute when Polidori pulls one sliver of leathery skin free with a splat. An atrocious shriek rings over the storm as it struggles with its own body, then another shriek and the left pillar continues to stretch, knobby blunt end of its shoulder blade shooting high, ripping itself full of gaping holes in its endeavor.

Banner was more accurate than he realized.

“Orion!” Shuri’s voice is sharp, “Bring it down! Do not let it into the air! Use your cannon!”

You’re frozen stuck, eyes squeezed shut at the sight of stretched membrane. A terrified whimper and a puncture of nauseating memory nicks at Steve’s concentration.

No! Levels spike on the HUD screen. Fuck! Steve is caught in the undertow and the rig jams beneath both your feet.

“Orion! You’re out of alignment! Orion!”

She’s here.

Natasha’s bright hair is unfurling all around you. There’s deafening splintering when the incisors of her killer punctures through Decima’s chest and both her legs. Metal grinds against metal, the sound searing itself into your eardrums—your brain—your heart. Wings are beating—wild flaps of rubbery sails against the downpour—muffling screams from Decima’s cockpit.

It’s as real and cruel as the last time you saw it.

Bi Fang, like the bird from Chinese mythology, beaked and blessed with flight to make up for its one leg. Bi Fang the Kaiju was legless, and Natasha was convinced Decima could take it. You had no reason to think otherwise; five previous kills cultivated your confidence. You had her by your side, after all. Two orphans with something to prove, proving it again and again.

Wings and fangs? No legs? Six is an auspicious number. The smirk on her lips blooms fiercely. You’re laughing when Decima hovers above the water. Alright, Tasha. Six drops.

A tremendous splash and you touch ground.

She grins. Six kills.

Polidori has one limb fully flexed, fragmenting pixels bending into the shape of Bi Fang. Natasha is bending, too, lowering her center of gravity. Her elbows are against her ribs, fists set. This is gonna hurt. Come to–

Come to me! To me!

He’s stepping in ink. In water. And then metal is beneath Steve’s feet. There are flashes of rain, lightning, and he recognizes her dead center of the storm.

Natasha Romanoff, vibrant and joyful through the glass of her helmet. You, next to her, reciprocal smile on your face stuck in hysteria, tears streaming down your cheeks in wide stripes. Steve’s hand is reaching but going nowhere. Echoes overlap of crying and shouting. Yours. Hers. His.

Come to me!

He yells again, but you’ve chased the rabbit too far.

Come to me!

He’s trying his hardest, stretching himself like ropes to bridge the fissure. He feels your fear, your hurt, and for a flash, it eats him whole, spits him out a twisted-up way and his brain screams for Bucky.

Bucky is doing the same through the control room, reaching his will out to Steve, praying their connection still holds despite their distance. He’s yelling for you, too.

“Steve! Get the hell out of it! Steve, you need to get her!”

The ripping of his red left arm loops three times in quick succession before Steve can temper it down. Bucky is howling, crying, sobbing. Steve is breathless, stuck, rattled, steeling his entire body to witness the amputation for another inescapable replay until your frozen body smears across his blurry field of vision.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

Bright whites burst behind his eyelids. Flares of panicked emotion. Bucky. Natasha. Him. You. An endless rippling chain of trauma lashing Orion open.

“Come on— Steve! It’s moving! Steve!”

“Buck! I’m— I’m okay! Just— need a second.” Steve scrambles for his sanity, latching on, knowing Bucky’s well— alive and not hurt. Shuri begins urging him to get up faster. Polidori’s moving slow, but it is moving, and it needs to be put down now. She’s calling for the Odinsons—Colossus, be prepared to walk-

The metal under Steve’s feet slides away. Water returns, ink flowering behind it—molasses and murky. His steps are unsteady, chest heaving as he advances through a field of speckled glimmers like fireflies at dusk. Each flicker reflects an agonized shard of your distorted face.

A flit of your voice rushes behind his head. Steve whips around and tries to catch it but no such luck.

Again, to the right, then gone each time he spins. It builds and builds until he feels half-deaf, frantically invoking your name into the ether where it becomes lost in dissonance. Butterfly-winged iridescence scatter and plummet, shrieking, shrieking, shrieking.

Then, nothing.

He finds you crumpled over on Anchorage’s shore.

Decima reaches sand as a crackling mess of Jaeger parts, chest piece ripped clean off the right side. You clamber out of the rig, hugging Natasha’s mutilated corpse. Your drivesuit is split open down to the hip, the glass of your helmet fractured and splattered with blood from your nose– still dripping.

He shakes his head, attempting to free himself of your scarred clutch. You had been hooked into the rawest fear—linked up when she died— gored and broken with half your brain believing it is also dead. Chills race up his spine and breaks him out in a cold sweat. He feels strangled to his very soul.

Then, seizures take you—the casualties of solo piloting—the neural damage come to collect. Nobody know how many miles you steered Decima alone and truthfully, it should have killed you.

Your eyes roll up to the sky, body convulsing before slamming into the ground like a rag doll, shaky fingers still reaching for your co-pilot. Steve shudders quietly, flinching with each impact. A final wail and everything slackens to a dull vibration. You quiver on the sand, howling and crying for Nat.

Polidori’s right wing casts itself loose, jaw opening wide. Steve’s on a time limit; there are only a few grains left in the hourglass. He croaks your name.

A second of recognition triggers from behind the curtain and it’s miraculously enough for you to see him. It’s enough.

He begs. He begs on his goddamn knees, crawling to you.

Look at me, only at me. Come back to me, please. Please. Please.

Steve gathers you in his arms, both of you trembling and afraid. Your suit heals itself, pieces stitching back together, blood little by little disappearing from your nose. Natasha shimmers away.

He presses the glass of your helmets together. He needs to get closer.

Steve? S-Ste-Steve—Steve?

You’re still crying. You’re breaking his heart.

Yes. I’m here.

St-Steve, what d-d-do I do?

You’ve got me now. I’m here with you. You understand?

He can see you struggling to escape, consciousness clawing with nails and teeth to return to the present.

Yeah. Y-Yes.

We have to move.

Steve—Steve—everything hurts.

Just for now. Just for a little bit—but I’ll make it better, I promise. Nothing’s gonna hurt you again. Will you hold on to me? Do you trust me?

Y-yes… Yes, yes. I trust you.

The rig lurches back to life beneath his feet. Jittery and creaking with strain, Orion rocks forward with a rumble. The drift stirs once more, noise giving way to silence.

Steve’s vision clears. You’re back in the present, precariously grounding your strength inside his guidance. You raise an unsteady left arm. He powers it up. Energy surges through the cockpit, tremors running up your side as it charges. Your hand splays. Steve’s palm takes aim.

Activating plasma cannon.

The beam pierces Polidori’s shoulder and its roar chases a simultaneous thunderclap.

A crack of lightning flushes the sky purple. Orion’s right arm lifts high above its head and slams back down, the glowing hot edge of its shield cleaving through Polidori’s skull.

Bucky’s grip on the control room’s railing feels like it could warp metal. Wilson is on his right, other pilots in a row next to him. All is silent.

Through the relay of Orion’s camera, Polidori’s writhes one final time. A death throe—pathetic trilling drowned by rising water, falling into deep darkness. Overhead, Kaiju clean-up advances, jet engines rumbling behind an ashy horizon. Orion’s shield retreats to its side with a wet, sloppy sound. The handshake pulled through. Steve got to you.

Abruptly, the room vibrates with the shouting of about fifty voices. Sam is banging on the railing, strong fists rocking the entire length of it, roaring with glee. The others are even wilder— shoving each other in triumph.

Bucky tunes it out, waiting for quieter confirmation. He can hear the both of you despite the racket. Steve’s steady pants, cut with throaty relief—this one, Bucky’s familiar with. Your small, weak sobs strangled with tears—this one, he’s quickly learned, but knows now in his bones.

“Twelve drops,” you announce hoarsely. Raw. “B-Buck?”

He grins, dazed comfort rushing over, your voice chasing the torture away.

“Twelve kills, sweetheart,” Bucky says, “You did it.”

The raucous celebration in the Shatterdome simmers down around four, sunrise just a couple hours behind the horizon. Unruliness had broken out, triggering a party that lasted from the time Orion got picked up ‘til now, and still there’s chatter in the common room.

It’s normal; Anchorage celebrated too after most kills—as long as no one died.

You’re freshly showered and changed, barefoot as you patter it back to your room. Voices from other beds are lowered as you pass—friends taking banter back to private spaces, couples pressed up against each other. All standard-issue revelry to commemorate the endurance of life.

It’s how these things go. Violence on a massive scale, humanity threatened with extinction—the people closest to death feel it the most. When routine becomes monotony, it’s good once in a while to be stimulated again.

Damn near two thousand people in close quarters—Rangers in perfect form, friendships assembled on the foundation of sharing an exceptionally singular purpose. Even Pentecost in all his grave formalities couldn’t ward off human nature. Plenty of pilots hooked up with each other and other staff in Anchorage and no one cared as long as it didn’t muck anything up on the job. At least the marshal could control that; mishandle your personal relationships and you’d be off the docket for your next drop.

Sex is biology. Desire is human.

It’s hard for you to feel human this morning. Exhausted by the fight and the prior evening—awake now for over 24 hours, you broke away from the commons as soon as you arrived, spending an hour simply breathing in the steam, the habit achingly comforting. Your chest still feels tight, heart bloated with invasive flashbacks.

You used to decompress with Natasha. A few drinks, tales from the cockpit, shadowboxing and putting on a show, glad to be in the company of friends— to be back safely with each other. Then you’d scatter with the crowd, meet her in the showers, and help her wash her hair in silence. Nothing but the trickle of shampoo down the drain.

She’d cry, sometimes. Catharsis, mostly. Curled up in your arms, the both of you cozy in pajamas on the floor. Then off to bed where she’d climb under your sheets, falling sleep with her head on your shoulder, your fingers in her hair.

A love unspoken. A home in the shape of a twin-sized bottom bunk. Cramped and narrow. Too brief.

You sigh. Everything hurts.

A few rooms away from yours, Steve’s door is open just enough for a line of orange to escape. You know he’s there, waiting patiently as he has been. You went near catatonic on the way back, lying down in the cockpit, no longer needing to be hooked up. You shed the armor, holed yourself into the corner of Orion’s hull, and said nothing when he sat by your side.

Walking in front of the light, he places himself in the entrance way until he’s looking at you. His face is a gentle blue shadow, resplendent halo glorious behind his head. He’s dressed in soft pants and a t-shirt damp at the collar. A droplet of water runs down his neck.

It emerges like an orchestral arrangement. Leisurely notes creep into your ears—a tune you’ve always known. Plucks of strings, escalating windchimes. It echoes, the trails on his skin, his measured breath, his percussive voice layering and pleating until there are dozens of him.

Look at me. Come to me. I need you.

You feel it all at once. A knotted, chaotic tempest. Hesitation. Confusion. Ache. Bucky. Him. You. Your eyes lock with his. A mistake and a revelation.

Steve holds out a steady hand. You take a step, terrified, pulled into his overwhelming atmosphere like magnets, your bodies humming a secret frequency, purring for each other.

The drift opened everything up, but the battle tore it all out. The both of you are laid bare, everything else fallen away.

Nothing’s gonna hurt you again. You’ve got me now, you understand?

You reach the shadow he casts, eclipsed entirely by his bulk. Steve threads his fingers between yours and with a tug, you surrender your worries to him.

He’s kissing you before the door is entirely shut and latched. He fumbles for the locks, wraps his arms around your waist. A click and a clatter. He moans into your mouth.

You exhale from deep inside your chest. He inhales like it’s all the oxygen he needs.

Your hands move to one place, his hands to another. Before your bodies can savor it, the both of you have roamed on, reading each other’s minds, knowing what’s next.

More. More. More.

It’s impatient and fast and Steve picks you up with ease. You forget yourself, forget the world outside the room, outside the three-by-three tile area of where he’s got you lifted, legs wrapped tight around his hips. Fingers dive into the back of your pants, squeezing, up your shirt, pawing at your breasts.

His groans blow heat onto your neck. You arch away, giving him more skin to brand kisses onto. He nips at your throat, light, then again, rough. His voice is raw and thick, husky little clouds making their home on your body.

Gentle sucking on your bottom lip follow each kiss. He takes you to bed, dropping himself onto the mattress, you on top of him. He’s been in your head; he knows what you like. Knows where you want him. Your voice is getting higher, sounds quick and shallow.

Steve guides you with one hand on your hip and the other beneath your thigh, soft pajama bottoms pressing against his. He groans each time you rock forward, needy for more contact against his groin.

You’ve been in his head, too. He likes feeling hands in his hair, so you grip his flaxen strands. He likes hearing, so you make a little more noise. He likes seeing his partner helpless because of him, losing all control, falling apart for him.

So you do.

Pleasure rushes from the top of your head to the tip of your toes, his name burning in your throat. It’s an incredible shock and you’re spellbound, enraptured by him drinking in the parting of your swollen lips. Quickly, he places you on his thigh, enormous and strong, needing a better position to see— to feel you on him. Hungry attention, eager eyes, pleading like a mother tongue.

“Keep coming for me. Just like this— don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

The shamelessness of it—your underwear soaked to your pants. The fever of it—his body like a fire, low, husky begging just from watching lighting up your spine. It’s extraordinary adrenaline— the heightened and profound connection of knowing one another in every way—as if you were made for each other.

Animal instinct liberated from human sentience. Desire pursuing release. Two bodies colliding and igniting.

You can’t stop the next cresting wave, crying out again.

Steve pushes you on his leg repeatedly, back and forth, solid and firm between your thighs even as you shudder and whimper, telling him it’s too much— you’re too sensitive. He kisses your neck, jaw, chin, cheek. He doesn’t stop moving.

“Hold on to me.”

A bead of sweat collects on the dip of your cupid’s bow. He looks at how sweetly your skin shimmers as you shiver, how your pupils are blown wide, how you look so perfect to him. He presses his forehead to yours, looks into your eyes like the way he did in the drift.

You reach for him and rub in quick strokes, fumbling when he rocks you back, gripping when he rocks you forward. Parted lips hover, “One more time for me—ah, please,” he begs, “Before I do.”

But he’s too late and too heated. Steve makes a mess of his sleeping pants, taken over the edge by how you feel without hardly feeling you at all. He buries a groan into your shoulder, riding it out with indelicate thrusts into your palm.

“Oh,” he murmurs, “Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.”

He’s blush pink and beautiful when he remembers himself again, rubbing his cheek against yours. He knows what you’re thinking— the realization in the comedown, the leaching fear of what could have been a mistake. But it isn’t, and Steve remains faithful to your body.

“Stay. I’m sorry—for hurting you. I’ll make it better.” Velvet kisses to your lips and you shake your head, apologies no longer necessary.

A whisper of his name like it’s the most radiant word. You cling to him, kissing him, answering only to him.

In the afternoon when Steve is still sleeping, you retreat to your room. You pause at the sight of Bucky already on your bed, caught in the bleary focus of his gaze. With lashes soaked wet, his throat constricts around a forceful swallow.

“Hey,” he says, voice breaking on the syllable. He pats the space next to him and you come sit, turning your knees until they knock into his.

“Bucky…”

He laughs like you’ve told a joke, like the sound of his own name is a funny thing escaping your mouth. “Hoped I could catch you last night, before—” he laughs again. “—Before bed. Just wanted to—I guess I don’t know what I wanted to do.”

The hurt resurfaces. You find him through the rose-dappled lenses of Steve’s eyes. Those warm summers with two boys running wild, effortlessly devoted to each other. Your heart swells like you’re there, gazing at russet locks flying in the wind. Years and years between them—Bucky’s smile, lopsided and carefree. Steve’s gaze, illuminating Bucky in every memory.

“Bucky,” you say again, so wonderfully soft, he thinks, even as his chest feels stretched to bursting. “You love him.”

He places his temple on your shoulder, face hidden by the long strands of his hair.

“You’ve been in his head. He’s easy to love.”

“Yes,” you agree, touching his bangs, pushing them over his ear, streaking four affectionate lines through, “He is.”

“So are you.”

Bucky turns into your palm, smiling openly, like the truth is the simplest thing in the world.

#steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #stucky x reader #steve rogers x reader x bucky barnes #pacific rim #marvel #reader insert #fanfiction

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jjungkookislife · 4 years

Text

The Key to My Drawer Ch. 10

pairing: taehyung x reader

genre: angst!, bf2l. 18+

wc: 1.2k

warnings: cursing, mentions of sex

date: July 10, 2020

The next morning you wake up early. You feed Tannie and take him out for a walk before going home to have breakfast, shower and get dolled up for Taehyung’s return. You're excited and bubbling with nerves as you sit in his bed, reading the second to the last letter.

Jungkook stopped by today. Guess what he brought over, love? An album packed full of pictures of us throughout the years. I told him I planned on telling you soon, and he looked for all the pictures he had of us.

I’ve kept most of them in the album under my bed, but I put my favorites in my drawer. You know the one I started wearing a key for? I bet you’re curious about it but I always keep the key around my neck ‘cause I know you like to snoop and I don’t want you finding out about any of this until I tell you.

Anyway, I found a picture in the album of us slow dancing at prom. Fuck, that’s so long ago now. You look beautiful, but I look like a mess. Okay, I’m lying, I look pretty good, but only because you’re beside me.

Thinking back now, I should have kissed you then. Right on the floor with everyone watching us, but we kissed later that night… We did so much more.

At the time, I might have been annoyed with Kook for taking pictures of us and all our friends, but now I’m grateful. I’m glad he didn’t listen to me and took those photos of us at the beach on our Freshman Orientation. You look so radiant, smiling and wrapped in my arms. I’ll treasure these photos of us, these memories, forever.

Our entire lives are laid out in that album, well from high school until now. Our moms have everything though, nobody can beat them at capturing and keeping memories. I think they’ll have another album ready for us for Christmas… haha.

The moment I told Jungkook I was planning on telling you, he screamed, “finally! Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this moment?! Finally, the eye-fucking will end!”

We don’t eye fuck each other, do we? I mean… sometimes I stare at you ‘cause you look unbelievably hot and I think about the times I’ve had you writhing beneath me and I…

Oh.

I guess we do… or at least I do.

Whoops!

Jungkook keeps trying to read over my shoulder, so I need to end this here. He keeps telling me we need to strategize but I know he just wants me to order takeout and pay for it. I guess it’s the least I can do for bringing me these pictures. I can’t wait to sit with you and look at each one.

I’m excited, baby.

Soon....

I know I’ve said that time and time again, but I mean it this time. Jungkook says he has some ideas. Apparently he’s been dreaming of this moment since he found out.

Wait, he just whipped out a binder… is he serious?

I gotta go, baby.

Jungkook’s talking about renting out a blimp and flying it over the city. I need to stop him, he’s already getting quotes.

I’ll tell you soon, my love.

It won’t be on a blimp, but I’ll tell you soon....

I just need to figure out how…

I love you, baby.

So much…

You really hope Taehyung was able to talk Jungkook out of the blimp. You don’t think you could handle the embarrassment. You reach for the last letter, realizing it’s the one you had first read on Friday. Has it already been two days since you’ve started reading them?

Excitement bubbles in your stomach. Taehyung should be home soon and you’ll be able to tell him. You don’t know if he has something planned, but you can’t wait any longer. He needs to know. He has to.

Your phone ringing draws you out of your reverie, your eyes widening in surprise. You answer it, smiling to yourself, “hello?”

“Hey, Y/n…” Taehyung sighs heavily. Your brows furrow in worry.

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you still at my place?”

“Yeah, I’m with Tannie. I was about to feed him.” You answer, wondering what’s going on.

“Can you do me a favor, love? I got Hoseok a card and I’ve dumped everything out of my duffel bag and it’s not in here. I think I may have left it on the kitchen table when I checked the mail on Friday. I don’t think I dropped it anywhere. Can you take a look?” Taehyung sounds a bit sad, so you assure him that you’ll check.

“Okay, I’m heading to the airport so just text me if you find it, okay?”

“Sure, Tae. See you soon!” You hang up before going to the kitchen, feeding Tannie and looking through the small stack of envelopes on the table.

Bill.

Y/n.

Bill.

Wait, Y/n? You go back, seeing an envelope with your name on it. Your brows furrowed in confusion as you open it, walking toward the living room.

Dear Y/n,

I’m sure by now you’ve read all the letters.

You gasp, eyes wide in surprise.

You didn’t think I was careless enough to leave my key on the bedside table by accident, right? I’ve kept this key around my neck for a reason, but I don’t need to anymore because I’m tired of locking away my feelings for you, baby.

I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist opening the drawer, so I left the key on top. I even pretended to forget it before I left so I could check to see if you had opened it. You did. Just like I knew you would. I made sure it was left open a tiny bit for you so you could read all these letters I wrote you.

I know it’s long overdue, and I truly am sorry for that, love. I really am, but I love you. I’m in love with you and I have been for as long as I can remember. I know you love me too, and although I would have preferred to hear it from your lips, it gave me the push I finally needed to tell you.

I’m still a coward, though. I waited until I had to leave for the weekend to do it, but I’ll be home soon. I hope I’m not too late, baby. I’ve got a lot to make up for, I know I do.

I’ve loved you since I took my first breath and I’ll love you until I take my last…

Do you love me too…?

The front door opens. You look up, tears in your eyes as Taehyung walks in with a shy smile on his lips.

“I see you got my letters,” he states with a grin as he sets his duffel bag aside, shutting the door after him. He only has a second before you’re running into his arms, crying tears of joy. He wraps his arms around your waist, holding you tight.

Taehyung presses his forehead against yours, his thumbs wiping away the tears, but they just keep flowing.

He chuckles before asking, “do you?”

You answer him by pressing your lips against his, enjoying the taste of his lips, “I do.”

<< previous // next>>

#the key to my drawer taehyung #taehyung fanfic #taehyung x reader insert #taehyung x you #bts fanfic #taehyung angst #best friend!au #best friend!taehyung #jimin x taehyung x you #taehyung x reader #the key to my drawer jjungkookislife #taehyung bf2l

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fanfalc-616 · 3 years

Text

The Rights Of A Nindroid

Chapter Thirty-Two: How The Game Is Played

(Previous Chapter Here)

Yesterday I realized that posting two chapters over Memorial Day weekend was not my best idea, so I waited until today to post the next one I had prepared dhjsgdh

Cole looks at the computer again, blinking a couple times. “You can’t be serious,” he mutters, more to himself than anything.

He flashes the device a glare before turning back towards the main room. “Guys?” He calls. “We’ve got a problem.”

In any other circumstance, it might’ve been funny how quickly Kai bolted in- but as of now, with Zane being gone for over a year, it’s hard to find humor in much of anything.

The others follow soon after, of course, but by that time Kai’s already next to him, a thousand different stressed expressions flashing over his face.

“What’s wrong now?!” He demands, practically vibrating with his intensity.

Cole holds his hands up in a way that’ll hopefully be calming. “Okay, okay, take a deep breath. It’s not that big of an issue, we can figure this out.”

Jay peers over his shoulder, looking at the computer. “Uh. Actually. That looks like a really big issue.” He chuckles nervously, and Cole can already see the freak out that’s coming.

“What is it?” Lloyd prompts, but before Cole can answer, Kai’s already talking.

“Oh hell no!” He protests, concern flashing over to rage. “Is that-“

“A smear campaign.” Cole finishes, looking back over at the site. “Against Lloyd.”

With that, Lloyd comes over. The surprise on his face seems to wither into a more hurt and guilty expression. “I-“

“Alright, I get that we haven’t met in person, but I hate Harumi.” Kai suddenly declares. “So what if Lloyd opened the serpentine tombs?! The Great Devourer was Pythor’s fault! And that was years ago, too! Counting the tea, he was what, eight?! How is that fair?!”

Nya grimaces. “As much as I hate to admit it, she has a point. And with all the chaos we’ve gone through-“

“It’ll be easy to find things to blame on him.” Cole finishes, the realization sinking in.

Jay makes grabby hands at the computer, and Cole rolls his chair back to let him reach it. Glancing over at Lloyd, he fights back a wince at his expression.

“… okay, the serpentine thing is valid. A low blow, but technically valid. But accusing him of purposefully summoning Morro and the Preeminent just to see his dad again? Come on!” The ginger crosses his arms with a scowl, and Cole can see Kai preparing to say- or more likely, shout- something else.

Before he gets the chance, Cole stands up from his seat, intentionally getting everyone’s attention. Forcing confidence that he doesn’t feel into his voice, he tries to redirect the conversation. “Alright, this isn’t ideal,” he admits, “but we need to keep going. There’s gotta be records for times people have won things with a smear campaign against them, right? We can research them and figure out how to counter this.”

Kai opens his mouth, but Nya talks over him. “That’s a good idea,” she agrees. “I don’t think there’s ever been one in an election this big before, but we can definitely get some ideas from that.”

Looking back to Lloyd for confirmation, he sighs internally at the way the blond is still intently staring at the screen, clearly dozens of thoughts flashing through his head.

Putting a hand on Kai’s shoulder, Cole leans down enough to softly whisper in his ear. “Go take Lloyd somewhere he feels calm,” he suggests. “You’ll both be able to do more when he’s doing better.”

For a moment, Kai looks like he wants to argue. But after a glance at his honorary brother, he hesitates, and then gives a small nod.

“C’mon, Green Bean, let’s go take a break.” He starts guiding Lloyd away, and even though the blond looks conflicted, he lets himself be led out of the room.

With that, Cole turns back to Jay and Nya. “How about you guys do that research?” He offers. “I can do some digging on Harumi while you do.”

“Sounds good.” Nya gives a nod and looks over at Jay. When the ginger keeps staring at the computer, she sighs, glancing back at Cole.

Tapping Jay on the shoulder, Cole waits for him to look back. “Huh?” The other frowns, clearly not having been paying attention.

“With me, Sparky. I’ll give you the rundown.” Nya grabs his arm, and Jay gives a guilty smile.

“Let’s go, then,” he nods his agreement as she leads him out.

Once the two have left, Cole turns back to the computer, giving the campaign- or more accurately, slander- another glare. But he quickly changes gears, opening a new webpage.

“Alright, Harumi…” he mutters, beginning to type out her name.

“Let’s find out just why you’re so desperate to win.”

{ { { { { { { { { { ~ } } } } } } } } } }

Sentry narrows his eyes at his internal screen, trying again to get answers.

It’s obvious at this point that the direct approach isn’t working. It’s been thirteen months since Zane was taken- meaning Cryptor has been there for over two and a half years.

So they’re still working on this election plan, unable to do anything that might have a more immediate effect. It’s not ideal, but at least he’s begun to make some progress.

Actually… hang on. He might have something here. Another thing on the candidate running, Rune Duncan. He’s seen enough about Harumi to know that she’ll be the competition no matter what, but if he plays his cards right, he might be able to work with Rune enough to-

Perfect. According to this security camera, Rune was last seen entering a shady part of town- a place that usually only gangs meet up.

Hmm. If Sentry can’t get him to help, then maybe he can at least get some blackmail on him.

As he heads out, he sends a message to Dad letting him know that he’ll be out for a while- he knows that he’s been working on rescuing Cryptor, so he probably won’t need a rundown on what exactly he’s doing.

It takes him only about fifteen minutes to reach where Rune was last seen- Borg Tower isn’t exactly close, but with this, Sentry is nothing if not determined.

Quietly, he makes his way down the alley where the candidate was last seen. This place is insanely suspicious, so he-

“And what are you doing here?” A voice behind him prompts.

Flinching, Sentry spins around. How did this guy sneak up on him?! With all the sensors he has, it-

Wait. Looking over the guy’s dark ginger hair and tanned skin, he suddenly recognizes him.

“Looking for you, actually.” Sentry forces a smile he doesn’t feel as he studies Rune. “My name’s Sentry. I’m the general of Borg’s security forces.”

Rune arches an eyebrow, but all Sentry can think of is how out of place he looks in this back alley with a three-piece suit. There’s definitely something going on here.

“Huh. Well, you found me. Is there something you need?” He sounds unimpressed and maybe even a little annoyed. But there’s no way Sentry’s going to back out now.

“Yeah, actually. I wanted to ask you a couple questions.” Sentry keeps his forced smile, but he knows the other can see past it- he’s not exactly trying to hide his malice, anyway. “Maybe a bit about your past, if you don’t mind.”

Rune tenses for a moment, but then relaxes. But even then, the discomfort is still visible on his face- even though he seems to be trying to hide it. “And if I decline?”

Letting his smile turn cold, Sentry looks him dead in the eyes. “Y’know, I wonder what the public would think if they heard about a finalist in the Emperor Election poking around in a place like this. I don’t think that would look too good for them, now would it?”

There’s a tense moment, both of them staring each other down. Sentry doesn’t break eye contact- instead, he lets them glow an even brighter red in an unspoken threat.

Actually, it’s longer than a moment. Time seems to stretch on as the two of them glare into each other’s eyes. He’d check his internal clock to see how long it’s been, but that would involve glancing away, and he refuses to be the one who flinches first.

After what feels like an eternity, Rune looks off to the side with a growl, crossing his arms.

“Ask away.”

The tenseness coming off of him clearly shows that he’s got something to hide. And one way or another, Sentry’s going to find out what.

“Alright.” He pauses a beat before choosing to lead with a statement instead of a question- though it’ll hopefully get him more answers then outright asking.

“Whoever made you this fake identity did a horrible job.” Rune’s eyes widen the smallest amount, but Sentry keeps talking. “I dug everything up in a matter of weeks. The family tree, the missing records, the faulty information… honestly, I’m surprised that I’m the first person to realize.”

The ginger clenches his jaw. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Seriously? That’s got to be one of the most transparent bluffs he’s ever seen.

“I think you do, actually. I’d just like to know why you can’t run with your real one. You got something to hide, Rune?” He puts a little too much emphasis on the name, making sure the other gets the point.

There’s the beginning of another stare down, and this time instead of indulging him, Sentry tries something else.

Not breaking eye contact, he runs a scan on the other- maybe he can compare it to the ones in the criminal database and…

His thoughts clatter to a halt as he looks at the results.

“Oh,” he gets out. “That’s why.”

The other starts to say something, but Sentry speaks before he can as he finally fully processes the information.

“You’re a nindroid, too.” He breathes.

And he is. The scan shows it, he- Sentry’s never seen such a believable hologram as a disguise, but there’s no other explanation! That-

‘Rune’ narrows his eyes, and Sentry notices him starting to draw a blade from behind his back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he repeats, this time with more force.

Taking a step back, Sentry lets the possible scenarios flash through his head, struggling to figure out what the hell is going on. The design doesn’t match Cryptor or Zane’s, and it most certainly doesn’t match the ones Dad did, so-

“Who built you? Why are you doing this? Do you- do you not know what’s at stake here?! Who even are you-?!”

He’s cut off when he’s tackled, the move so abrupt that he can’t counter. He struggles underneath him, but in less than a heartbeat, there’s a blade pressed between his scope and skin- a spot that underneath connects almost directly between his CPU and motor functions.

The cloak drops, and he stares at the other’s metallic skin, worn and scratched from who knows how many battles.

Red eyes boring into his own, Sentry feels himself almost shiver at the dark, smug expression the other nindroid has.

“You want to know my real name? Fine.” The voice suddenly has a more distorted, robotic lit to it, his vocal box not hiding his true nature with the cloak dropped. “I doubt you’ll get the chance to use it…”

“But I’m known as Mr. E.”

#the rights of a nindroid #trauma #psychological torture #torture #ninjago fanfiction #angst #zangst

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honney-boy · 4 years

Text

Best Thing You Never Had (part one)

Pairing(s): JJ Maybank x Reader ,

Reader x Topper Thornton

gif by→ @sci-fi

WORD COUNT: 5.7k+

Summary: You're dating Topper; lately the relationship has been a bit rocky but you guys can get through it right? You also meet the pogues, and begin hanging out with them, especially JJ when the others weren't around. Being around both boys makes your head spin, and as it turns out, they're both the best thing you never had.

Warning: fluff, angst-ish, underage-smoking + drinking, mentions of implied smut

Request: yes by @jjxobx

A/N: Sorry again for taken so long to get this up but here it is! I got carried away and ended up splitting this request into a couple of parts.

if you want to be tagged in any of my work, send me an ask or message me! taglist is at the bottom of the fic :)

The sun sat high and bright in the sky. Blue skies with a gentle breeze, but it felt like a hotbox. Your dark sunglasses shielded your eyes from the bright light, but even with your tank top and denim shorts, the rays still heated your skin, leaving it warm and sticky.

Unamused and bored, you sat on the short rough grass of the golf course at the Island Inn Resort. Home and the heart of the country club, your parents insisted on paying a lot of money for memberships just for four people. The place wasn’t all that bad; there were plenty of things you could do. There was a tennis court, a pool, a gym, and other group activities. Still, some members embraced the stereotype of the luxurious lifestyle, flaunting the money, and being snooty. Some members had kids you went to school with, and you hated them just as much as their parents even though all your parents were friends.

You really shouldn't have come with him, or the other things you did with him after the fight you two had last night. It was another stupid fight that started out as a playful banter when he was taking you home. It escalated to the two of you yelling at the top of your lungs once someone said the wrong thing that got the other irritated, you getting out the car and deciding to walk yourself home. That didn't settle with him either. He ended up convincing you to get back in the car - really your feet were beginning to hurt - and took you home where he came in, and you two spent the next two hours forgetting about what you were fighting about.

You let your head fall back, and a sigh left your lips while closing your eyes and listened to what was around you. You could hear the water splashing along the shore, a little chatter from others on the course in different areas, and the frequent smack of a golf club hitting the hard rubber ball across the green. You wanted to be anywhere than here right now. You wanted to have a beach day and hang out by the water. Even hanging in your pool sounded nice, but you were being a nice girlfriend and came to the country club because your boyfriend asked you too.

He could pretend that the fight didn't happen, but you were over his recent nitpicking.

The sound of little laughter pulled you back and drew your attention away from the sun.

"Hey babe, this one is for you," Topper said, pointing a finger at you and his face serious. Rafe rolls his eyes while standing next to him and mimics Topper with a different pitched voice.

"" Hey babe, this one is for you." don't dedicate an air shot to her," Rafe said, walking around Topper so he could get a better view of where his putt would go. Topper scoffs, shaking his head at his friend, but decides to not pay him much attention as he turns to look at you again. Though he could see your face, he couldn't see your eyes past your dark sunglasses, which means he didn't catch your eye roll. You held your hand up, hiking your thumb, and adding a smile to show you heard him and appreciated the gesture. But to top it all off, you cheered him on.

"You got this, babe! Hit the ball in the hole for me," Your words seemed to brighten Topper's spirit before he turned around. Rafe snickered at your lack of knowledge with golfing terms, but he knew you didn't really care too much for it. Topper fixes his posture, positions his feet shoulder lengths apart, relaxes his body, and concentrates on the ball for a few seconds before swinging his club. The hit sent the ball a few feet in the air, landing on the ground with a few bounces then rolling the rest of the way to the hole. All three eyes watched the ball slowly draw closer to the hole, catching the edge and circling its shape a few times before finally landing in the cup.

"Ha eat that." overjoyed, Topper threw his hands in the air, a grin set on his lips as he looked from you to Rafe.

"Yeah, yeah, nice back door putt, but I can do better."

"Okay hotshot, I want to see you try."

"Alright then, let's move on up so I can show you how much better at golf I am than you." Rafe grabbed his bag containing his other clubs and balls, leading the way to the next part of the course. Topper doing the same, took ahold of his stuff but made his way over to you and held out his hand. You graciously take his hand, letting him help you off of the ground. You felt his fingers lace through yours as he pulled you both in the direction of Rafe.

He turned his head to look at you, "Did you see that play?" he asked you, and you smiled, pulling yourself closer to him and nodded. "For a minute, I thought the ball would decide not to go in—you know you should let me teach you how to play."

"I don't golf, tennis is more my sport," you say. You reach for your glasses and lift them to sit on your head; you glance at Topper, seeing him still look at you smiling.

"I know you don't, but I still want to teach you," You arched a brow giving him a hesitant look but still shook your head lightly. "Oh come on, Y/n, don't you trust me? I promise I won't set you up for failure." He gave you a little nudge with his shoulders, hoping to win you over. You knew that if you didn't at least let him try, he would be bugging you about it for the rest of the afternoon, and you surely wouldn't be leaving anytime soon, not like you were anyway.

"Fine, you can teach me your golfing ways," you reluctantly agree. Here you go deciding to do something with Topper again even though you should be mad at him, but you were irritated with yourself that you gave in to him quickly. Topper grinned even more at you.

"You'll be learning from the best," you force another smile on your face, and the two of you walk across the fairway to the next tee. Since Rafe walked ahead of you guys, he made it to the next tee and began setting up for his turn. You were too focused on getting to the next area that you didn't notice that Topper stopped; you only figured that out when you got pulled back with your hand still entangled with his.

You glance back at him, the grin on his face is gone, and his cheery mood is replaced with a serious one. "What's wrong with you?" he asks and pulls you closer to him. "I know there's something up, so don't say there isn't anything wrong." He knew you too well, you couldn't say he never paid attention.

"Nothing is wrong-" he gives you a look, but you continue. "-it's just a bit hot out today." you shrug your shoulders half-heartedly and pull his hand to get him to start walking again. "Come on, let's not have Rafe wait on us all day." He didn't budge, his eyes were still set on you.

"Is it because of the fight we had? I thought we were past that, we made up," You turn away from him, wanting to drop his hand but you didn't. You took a deep breath, faced him again, and shook your head.

"I know we made up Topper, it's not that," you answer and tug on his hand once more, and this time he did move, so you took that as a sign to continue walking to where Rafe was.

"Then what is it? I can tell something is bothering you, we've been together for a while. You gotta give me more credit than that."

"I know that that's why I see no point in lying to you," You see Rafe almost done setting up for his next turn, which ushered you to pick up your guy's pace. "So please believe me when I say there's nothing wrong." Topper stopped in his tracks, which caused you to stop once again. You whipped around, ready to snap at him for not believing you and keeping up with his stubbornness, you saw it in his face, but his words threw you off.

"Okay, I believe you," He meant it, and you knew it, though his eyes said something else, you knew he was sincere with his words. "I'm sorry."

You stepped closer to him and stood up, kissing his cheek. You flashed a smile once you stepped back. Topper smiled back, it was almost sweet, but when his hands wrapped around your arms, it stopped you from dwelling. And then he kissed you.

"Hey, you two, we're supposed to be golfing, not sucking each other's faces off." Rafe sounded a bit annoyed, but you both knew he didn't give a shit.

You pulled away first, patting Topper's bicep and stepping back. "Well, you have a bet to foresee and some lessons to teach." He held your gaze for a split second, nodded his head and walked over to Rafe, and stood next to him.

Rafe was right, he did better than Topper, and he wasn't going to hear the end of it. You knew you wouldn't either, along with the future constant complaining of your boyfriend. But now, it was your turn at attempting to be a golfer.

"Alright, it's pretty easy. Just uh, line up to your target..." Topper took his club—shifting on both of his feet to get into his stance. He glanced up at you for a second and then focused back down on the club. "Nice, easy backswing." moving his arms a bit, he tapped the ball twice with the club, and the third time he went full swing and hit the ball. You both watch the ball fly in the air, bounce a few times, and roll into the hole. "And voila. That's the basics of the swing."

You ready yourself by grabbing a ball - Topper had already gotten you a club - and kept repeating Topper's instructions in your head. Line up to your target, Was his feet shoulders width apart or just a little bit? You stood where he had lined your ball, standing on the same side of the ball you saw him stand and with a deep breath, you tried your best to remember his instructions and went for it. You swung at the club and felt the melt slip right through your fingers.

You wince seeing it land some feet away, turning to look at Topper, the corners of your mouth turn down with a pout. "Did you see that I suck." Topper smiled, finding your pouting state cute, it even brightened his poor mood.

Shaking his head, he grabbed another club by Rafe - who had a massive grin on his face at your feeble attempt, he and you both knew he would tease you about it later - handed it to you. "No, you're new to this, it'll take some practice, I promise you'll get better," he says.

"I highly doubt that this is why I play tennis."

"Yeah, and I like watching you play," he said with a smirk and moved to stand behind you. You began situating yourself - rolling your eyes at your boyfriend and his boyish ways.

"You only like to look at me with a tennis skirt on." You said in a matter of fact tone, which made his smirk grow.

"Hey, what can I say, my girl looks good in a skirt," you playfully huff at his comment; you stood in your previous stan, lining the club with the ball ready to swing but hands on your hips distract you.

"Hands to yourself, Thorton."

"I'm not trying anything," he says through an airy chuckle. "I'm helping you fix your stance." His hands stayed on your hips as he got closer to you; close enough, you could practically feel his body heat. He put his left leg in between yours and used his foot to spread your feet apart. "It helps if your feet our about shoulders widths apart,"

"Shoulders width apart, got it." Topper moved his arms around you until his hands were on top of your own gripping the club. Not only was your back to his chest, but you could feel his breath against your neck; when he spoke to you, you shivered as a chill went down your spine.

"You're gonna want to look at your target first. Imagine the ball going toward it till it lands - or rolls - into it," all you could do was nod as you gazed at the hole. "Then look at your ball-" your eyes quickly move down to the highlighter yellow rubber ball at your feet. "-take a deep breath while your mind imagines you making a putt. What I like to do is take my club and ready my swing with small taps on the ball." Topper, with his hands on yours, moved yours back a bit and then forward to tap the ball, he did it two more times before he spoke again. "After taking a deep breath, I relax and give my club a full swing like so," He pulled your arms back a bit further this time, and you both swung your arms forward, only missing the ball since he was simulating how it should go. "Think you got it this time?" he asked, moving his arms from around you but kept his hands on you.

"Yeah, think so," you mumbled, and he took a step back.

"Alright, let's see what you got."

You loosen up a bit, keeping your feet shoulders width apart and took a deep breath. You had this, if you made it, maybe you wouldn't have to play golf with them. You look over your shoulder at the boys, both of them waiting for you. Rafe looked like he wanted you to hurry up, and Topper just sent you a smile, which you returned. Turning back, you eyed the hole, imagined the ball flying in the air, and then rolled until it fell into the hole. You looked at the ball, doing what Topper did - tapping the ball three times with the club - and then when you got ready to swing, you drew back your arm and swung as hard as you could, keeping the grip you had on the club.

"Holy shit Top, Y/N did better than you!"

You get out of the car, grab your bag you had packed, and walk toward the water. You scan the beach - hand held up to your eyes, blocking the sun - looking for your bubbly blonde friend. You catch her running out of the water, being chased by a guy with a severe tan and shaggy brown hair - that had to be John B, the guy you hear so much about. You smile, watching him wrap his arms around her waist, making her laugh with the biggest smile on her face. You didn't want to ruin their moment, but she was expecting you to come.

After hitting a 'perfect putt' as Rafe referred to it as you were super proud of yourself that you couldn't help but tease your boyfriend about being better. He called it beginners luck, he was just too bitter about it, but you didn't care. At some point, while the boys were playing, Sarah sent you a text asking you to come to hang out with her and a few others at the beach. You gladly accepted the invitation and let Topper and Rafe know you were going to go see Sarah. Rafe didn't care, and if Topper did, he didn't voice it or show it. He told you to have fun, be safe, and gave you a kiss on the cheek before you left. You headed to your house first to grab a suit just in case. When you get to the beach, you see a handful of people scattered along the sand and in the water. At first, when you left Topper, you felt bad because he wanted to spend time with you. It was sweet of him, but you know he's only kissing butt because he was trying to get you to not be mad at him, but leaving the club and coming to the beach was the right decision.

"Hey Sarah," you called out to her. You pulled the attention of a few people on the beach, but she didn't seem to hear you, so you cupped your hand around your mouth and called her name again a little louder. "Sarah!" She turned away from John B, her eyebrows pulled together as she looked around. You wave your arms around, which finally grabbed her attention; she pulled away from John B, said something quickly to him, and ran toward you.

"You made it!" she beamed and pulled you into a tight hug. "I thought Topper would never let you go," You give her a squeeze and pull away enough that just your arm is around her waist, and she left an arm around your shoulders; you didn't really care if she got you wet.

"He almost didn't. After that fight last night, he hasn't really let me leave his side,"

"Now you see why I left him," You gave her a side glance, one she missed while waving toward the group of people a few feet away around what looked to be an unlit fire pit in the sand. "Hey guys, this is y/n, the friend I was talking about. Y/n this is the gang, Pope and Kiara," she gestured to a guy with a tan hat that sat backward on top of his head. Though he was sitting down, you could guess that he was a decent height - taller than you, of course - his skin was dark brown, and he was toned. Then she moved to the girl that sat next to him, Kiara. She had long wavy dark hair; her skin was a strong brown-red that was sun-kissed and warm. Kiara gave you a small smile while Pope gave you a little wave. "And John B, you already know." John B took two of his fingers and gave you a salute.

You met John B a while back when you went to bother Sarah when you were bored and didn't want to be bothered by Topper. When you got to her house, the one place you knew she would be - if not outside - was in her room. What you didn't expect to see was a pair of broad shoulders hovering over your really good friend's small frame. It was awkward, to say the least.

Your eyes move over to the last person she hadn't introduced yet. He had sandy blonde hair, a hat on his head backward like Pope, his skin sun-kissed like Kiara and a pair of sunglasses to top off the surfer boy vibe he was giving. Even with the sunglasses on, you could feel his eyes on you, and his gaze was almost intimidating. "And this is JJ." Sarah finished. You could finally put a name to the face, but as soon as his name fell from her lips, he moved his attention to the ocean. It bothered you when it shouldn't have, but you hated when others weren't polite.

You just smile, keeping your arms crossed. "It's nice to meet you guys; hope I'm not intruding your hang out."

"Oh, no, you're not intruding. The more, the merrier," Kiara said. "Don't just stand there, come sit with us, we don't bite." She waved you over, scooting away from Pope to make room from you, which you thanked her with a smile.

"JJ might," Pope jokes, JJ tilts his head back, probably rolling his eyes.

"Haha, funny. Better watch it before I bite you,"

"Oh, kinky," Sarah teased.

"Bet that does get a rise out of you." John B added with a snicker.

"Bet that does for you too; you and Sarah don't hide those hickies very well. That bandana isn't fooling anyone." Pope and Kiara let out a course of 'ohs' and Pope whistled, and you joined in with a muffled laugh covered by your hand.

You guys carry on with the conversation, all light-hearted and entertaining, staying on a topic no longer than ten minutes, not counting the 30-minute discussion about if F.r.i.e.n.d.s or That 70s Show was better. You liked That 70s show the most, and Pope agreed with you while Sarah, John B, and Kiara loved F.r.i.e.n.d.s, and JJ liked both shows. You liked hanging with pogues, you could finally see why Sarah liked them too. They kept you in the conversations, easing the awkwardness at the beginning; you were chiming in. That's what it seemed like, and you hoped you were. Even though you were included in the conversations—every once in a while, Kiara would say something to you, Pope would ask you a question. John B would ask for your opinion, and Sarah answered for you sometimes—it didn't take you long to figure out JJ hadn't said anything to you. He just chimed in when it seemed best, laughed when something funny was said, but he didn't ask you questions or ask for your opinion. You usually didn't mind if someone never said anything, but that made you feel weird after it came to your attention, it was like JJ chose not to say anything. When you did speak, you'd see from your peripheral that he was looking at you, you even caught his gaze, but he always averted his eyes.

You guys had been talking and hanging out for a few hours, and you knew that because the sun had set and the moon began to slowly rise in the sky. At some point, Pope had gotten up and lit the small bonfire you guys sat around, and like the other times before, the topic had changed.

Through some laughs over something dumb, JJ said, Kiara took a drink of one of the beers passed to her. After her laughter died down a bit, she asked everyone: "Okay, okay, so if anyone of you were on Fantasy Island, what would be your fantasies?" It was definitely an interesting question, and one you - all of you had to think about. Sarah decided she would go first, immediately, piping up with her fantasy.

"If I were on the island, I would wish for my future home to be an animal rescue. I'd live by the water, saving baby turtles and sea life with my rescue dogs running around enjoying their life."

"That's so cute, I can see you doing that in real life anyway. Make it a reality Sarah," you say, and some of the others nodded their head agreeing with you. John B pulled Sarah closer in his side, kissing her on her forehead and mumbling something to her, which caused her to smile. After Sarah, it ended up being Pope's turn, and his fantasy was to be a successful man, and with that success, he wanted to take care of the people he loved. He would get his parents a house in the figure eight - Pope knew his dad would never leave the island he was born and raised on - he would pay their bills, and the rest would go toward black-owned businesses that need it.

John B wanted his own boat business where he built and repaired boats for others or sell. On top of that, he would have a little surf shop where he crafted surfboards for tourons to rent, or for the ones who wanted to get their own. "I want everyone who gets a board for me to have a great experience, and if someone is buying their first—ever surfboard, I want to be the one to give them their first."

Kiara wanted to live through her favorite decades. Experience the music, styles, compelling, and peace movements of the '60s and '70s. Live through the time where iconic musicians like Freddie Mercury, Mariah Carey, TLC, Tupac, Micahel Jackson, Aaliyah, and more were in their prime. But if she had another choice, she wouldn't mind being the first woman and woman of color president. You loved both of their fantasies, they were empowering and selfless. Both Kiara and Pope, even Sarah, wanted to make the world a better place or live through experiences that haven't lived before. Heck even John B wanted to make an impact. Their fantasies put yours to shame, they could turn theirs into a reality.

When it was finally your turn, you didn't answer right away, and to the others, you looked like you were still thinking about your fantasy, but you already knew it. Your fantasy was a bit silly, but maybe you could think of a cover like a self-owned business idea like John B's. Or a world and local changing influence like Kiara, Pope, and Sarah. "Well, this may sound weird, but it's a fantasy right, so who cares," you started off, lifting your shoulders in a shrug. "If I were on Fantasy Island, I would bring back my childhood best friend Chewie; he was the family dog. Chewie and I would live on an island in Greece where everyone knew each other, loved each other, sang and danced their hearts out." Hearing yourself describe your fantasy caused you to laugh as if it were a real fantasy. "Basically, I'd live with my dead—but an alive dog in the movie Mamma Mia."

Kiara tilted her head with a thoughtful look. "That is definitely one fantasy, but i really like its sound." she pulled her lips into a grin, laughing softly and slightly buzzed. Some time ago, JJ had lit a blunt, and it was being passed around.

You smile and shake your head at Kiara, you agreed with her, you had one hell of a fantasy, but it's something you always wanted. Sarah joined in and giggled along with Kiara. She leaned forward, passing the blunt to JJ, then laid her head back on John B's shoulder. "I miss Chewbacca, he was a good pup," she mentioned, her words making you smile more significant, and you couldn't agree more.

"You are right about that."

"Wait, you named your dog after a Star Wars character?" John B questions; you nod and from the corner of your vision, JJ offering the blunt to Pope but, he shook his head. JJ just shrugged and took another few hits of it.

Still looking at John B, you answer: "Yeah, my dad and older brother are huge Star Wars fans, and they got me hooked on it at a young age. Chewie was a big dog with curly brown hair like Chewie, and at four years old, he looked like the Wookie copilot. Can you really blame me?"

John B chuckled and shook his head. "I guess I really can't."

JJ leaned forward, already knowing it was his turn to speak. He inhaled the smoke of the blunt and held it out for you and tilted his head toward it. "Wanna take a hit?" You looked at him with round eyes, caught off guard by him, finally saying something to you. But just as quick as it happened, you blinked a few times and reached for it only for him to pull it from you. "Have you ever smoked?" You wanted to roll your eyes

"Yes, I've smoked before JJ," you replied, with an unamused face. "Now, give it here."

Huffing out a short laugh, JJ let you take hold of the blunt. "Alright, chill out, no need to get serious and demanding." He was shocked that you have actually smoked. Sarah mentions you here and there when she was around them and not once had anything she said about you hinted at such actions. You were good, you weren't rebellious like Sarah or outspoken; JJ assumed you were a goodie two shoes, and he still thinks it. Maybe you could change his mind. He watched you place the blunt to your lips, draw in the smoke, then take a deep breath to let it take over your lungs.

He tore his eyes away before you looked at him, and when he looked at the others, they two were impressed at how well you handled it. You hadn't choked like Sarah did her first time. "Let's see, if I were on Fantasy Island and granted a fantasy, I'd want unlimited days to chill with my friends and have tons of Mary Jane, beer, and some waves. Probably use some of that time to find my true self, do some more things I love, learn something new, fall in love if it comes," he lifted his shoulders in a half shrug and sat forward on his elbows. "That's all."

"And what if something goes wrong like John B goes crazy and has black gooey crap come out of his eyes because, I don't know, he went crazy." Pope picked at the fire with a stick he found while gathering wood earlier in the day. Pope had a good point. Fantasy Island was known for its fantasy granting and the dark and twisted reality that comes out of it.

"I'll throw 'em in the water, problem solved," JJ replied, as you passed to Kiara.

"Here, Kie."

"Well, if he comes at you with a weapon, would you still throw him in the water?" Pope asked.

"Duh, and I'd run, it's a basic human instinct," JJ said like it was the most obvious thing in the world to do. All those horror movies you've seen only supported his answer; all the people seemed to stay and try to figure out what the noise was or trip on thin air, giving the killer a chance to get them.

"JJ does have a point," John B Spoke. Clapping his hands together, he threw in another question for the group to go around and answer. "Alright, in your opinion, what's the best pizza topping slash pizza?"

Sarah's expression lit up at the question. "Good pizza, that's the best pizza."

"That doesn't answer the question, Sarah."

"She's stoned, let her be, "Kiara said through a chuckle. "Hmm, to me, the best pizza is veggie pizza."

John B shook his head "Veggie pizza is alright but not the best. The best topping is cheese." JJ made a disgusted face, one John B frowned at because he noticed. Pointing at him, he says: "Dude, I'm telling you, the best pizza is cheese pizza."

JJ scoffed, clearly not liking his friend's choice. "John B shut the hell up, cheese is the most disgusting flavor of pizza ever,"

"Well, without cheese, is it really pizza?" Kiara wondered aloud, causing you and Sarah to giggle at the thought.

"Whatever," JJ brushed you guys off. "We all know the best pizza is pepperoni pizza." you pretend to gag. To add dramatics, you lean forward as if contents we're coming out onto the ground. You earned an eye roll from the blonde and giggles from Kiara and Sarah, even a soft chuckle from Pope.

"For a dude that smokes, you have horrible taste."

He frowned, offended by what you said, "What is that supposed to mean? I have an amazing taste."

"It means your taste is bad once you're high. I don't know about you, but when I have the munchies, I mix stuff that tastes amazing. Like for example, the best pizza, Hawaiian." JJ's face scrunched up; Pope thought about it but ultimately agreed with you that Hawaiian was a good type of pizza, he wouldn't say it was the best, but he had his opinions, and you had yours.

"Never had Hawaiian, you'll have to introduce it to me, "Kiara confessed while gazing into the fire until she peeped up at you. You grinned and nodded already planning possible days for you two–even Sarah–to meet up and hang out so you can make them your homemade Hawaiian pizza.

"Definitely! Just let me know when and we can plan a hangout."

John B cut in, letting his thoughts out. "I think I tried it once...I don't think I liked it."

"Yeah, you did, I was there, and you kept throwing pineapple at me—which by the way, pineapples do belong on pizza." You all grew at JJ's response, Pope even pretended to hold back hurl.

"JJ, man, just stop."

"I agree with Pope and acknowledge my previous statement: "For a dude that smokes, you have a horrible taste"." You say to the blonde boy across from you.

"You don't even know me, so how would you know what my taste is?" Whether he meant it to sound the way it did, you didn't miss the irritation in his voice. You were only joking, but you guess he took it to heart. Before you could say something else, John B leaned forward, tapping JJ on the arm, gesturing to the blunt before speaking up.

"Chill JJ, no need to be hostile, this is supposed to be an enjoyable hangout, just enjoy it, "JJ grumbled something you couldn't really hear from where you sat, but you didn't make a fuss about it. He just sat back in one of the fold chairs the group brought and took the blunt back from John B, smoking the rest. For the rest of the night, you guys continued talking and laughing, even going for a swim in the water. You liked hanging with the pogues, and you also admitted it to Sarah when you dropped her off at home after you guys were done hanging out. She even asked what you thought of everyone–disregarding John B because you had already met him–and you weren't lying when you said you enjoyed their company, you would totally hang with them again if you could, and they didn't mind. You knew right, then Kiara would be a close girl friend like Sarah, and the boys would be like brothers, but when it came to JJ, your mind wondered. You wanted to know more about him, you weren't sure why but that boy intrigued you.

Taglist :)

#outer banks imagine #outer banks netflix #outerbanks #obx #obx fic #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank #jj x y/n #jj imagine #kiara carrera #topper thornton #topper thorton x reader #topper thorton imagine #pope heyward #john b routledge #sarah cameron #rafe cameron #pogues x reader #obx pogues

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