#but maybe she just thought that it was an acutal cool jean jacket | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nuclearanomaly · 3 years

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Prompt 22 - Fluster

(I’m still here I say as if I ever left. More continuing on from my last 2 prompts [1] [2]... which I’ve been poking at since my last one really. ~600/1782 were graciously written today after being fulled by the prompt word, ty for my life)

Estinien shouldered his way through the door of his apartment, finally home. He didn’t bother with fumbling for the light switch, instead he made his way into his dark living room by the moonlight coming through the window. Slinging his guitar case off his shoulder he rested it on his couch, before unceremoniously dumping his jacket on top of it.

He was exhausted, and understandably so. Between squeezing in some work that morning, concert prep, and then the actual performance, it was already a tiring day. Then Ninira had been there, and then Ninira had thought she could just walk herself home, in the middle of the city, in the dead of night? He pried off his boots, discarding them on the floor. As if. Of course he’d had to walk her home, arriving well after midnight. He should have just crashed at his store, but instead he’d made his way back to his own place and now it was… he pulled his phone out of his pocket to check.

The display showed him the time (almost one thirty) and a series of notifications for unread texts, the top one being from Ysayle. He didn’t need to open it, the preview easily fit the full message.

> Did you kiss her? 😘

He angrily pushed the message off his lock screen before tossing his phone into the mess of his bedsheets as he entered his room. No he hadn’t fucking kissed her. He peeled off his shirt. Had he wanted to? Yes… Multiple times.

Initially, they’d simply been doing a poor job at pretending not to look at one another. It wasn’t until a point mid way through the set when he’d caught her eye again and she hadn’t looked away. In fact, she’d smiled at him. Even remembering it now was enough to make his stomach flutter. Seeing her sitting there, smiling, unaware that her hair was sticking up oddly from when she’d pulled on her shirt. Not just any shirt, his band’s shirt, that she’d put on before she even knew if she’d like it? He’d have kissed her then, if he could.

As tempting as it was to crash into bed with his jeans still on he pulled them off, dumping them alongside his shirt onto his ever growing pile of laundry.

And then there’s been that moment when she’d tried to get a better view of Sabik before almost falling off her stool. As amusing as the look on her face had been when they’d started playing he’d been sure that would be where she’d call it. Instead she’d wanted to stay, and even looked excited to do so. He could have kissed her then, maybe. It would have been easy, instead he’d just left his hand at her back... for safety on that unstable stool, he’d reasoned.

He flopped onto his bed, ready for sleep.

Of course Sabik had played that soft, gods damn, love song. By that point Ninira must have been getting tired, or maybe it was the additional drink he’d bought her, or maybe a bit of both. Regardless she’d definitely begun to list in her place on her stool. Who knew it was possible to be so acutely aware of how someone’s arm pressed against your own. How badly had he wanted to put his arm around her, to rest his hand against her waist, and when she inevitably looked up at him... he’d have kissed her then.

Despite his exhaustion, sleep frustratingly didn’t come. His mind buzzed with thoughts of Ninira, his chest still full of restless fluttering.

Would he have kissed her on the way back to her place? Perhaps. It was hard not to smile when he thought about her after the show. Leaving the venue the shock of the cool night air must have reenergized her as she had babbled excitedly all the way to the subway station. Her voice raised much higher than it needed to be, a side effect of having loud music in your ears for the last few hours. And despite the fact that she had just sat through a whole other performance, by a band arguably much better than his own, she had only talked about Nastrond. Plenty of people had come up to him before, after their sets and at the end of shows to tell him how much they had enjoyed it, how great he had been. Never had those comments left him feeling the way he’d felt hearing them from Ninira.

He was sure he could still feel the warmth that had filled his chest in that moment.

Then there was that moment in the station itself, when they’d been waiting for the train. The platform had been mostly empty, aside from a pair of individuals who were either already fighting or on the cusp of it. Their raised voices had made Ninira drift closer to him, nervous concern apparent on her face. Estinien had taken no chances and carefully guided her over to his other side, so that he was between her and the other individuals. No, he hadn’t wanted to kiss her then, but knowing that his presence made her feel safe? That had left him feeling good.

He rolled over and grunted as the corner of his phone dug into his side. He’d forgotten he’d lobbed it into his bed and sighed as he fished it out from under him.

They’d had the subway car to themselves, unsurprising considering the hour. They’d sat side by side on one of the bench seats, both content to simply enjoy the silence of the car, especially after the tense atmosphere from the platform. Estinien had caught himself beginning to drift as he absently watched his reflection in the dark window opposite. Meanwhile, Ninira’s burst of energy after leaving the venue had clearly been expended as she’d dozed off before they’d even reached the next stop. His world had snapped back into focus then, as Estinien suddenly became very aware of how she’d slumped against his side. And glancing down at her, all the while being careful to move as little as possible, he’d noticed how her hand rested mere ilms from his own on the seat between them. How easy it would have been to hold it, and how tempting it was to do so. He’d almost done it, but Ninira had managed to jerk herself awake just as he’d thought he’d worked up the nerve.

Estinien squinted, blinded by his phone screen lighting up automatically as he lifted it. With Ysayle’s message no longer assaulting him from his lock screen the top notification now belonged to someone different. His heart leapt. Ninira.

>Thanks again for…

The message cut off there, too big to fit fully in the small preview. More awake than ever he unlocked his phone, making his way quickly to his linkpearl app. Ysayle’s message wasn’t the only other unread one waiting for him there. Aymeric had messaged him, his usual post show congratulations. An old message from Haurchefant from before Sabik had finished playing, poking him to make sure Ninira had plans to get home. The group chat, and the band’s chat, both had a collection of unread notifications. He ignored all these opening Ninira’s.

>Thanks again for seeing me home! Especially when it was so out of the way for you. I hope it’s not too late when you get back to your place! 😖 >I had lots of fun tonight though > 😅🤘

He smiled.

If he should have kissed her at any moment it was when he’d dropped her off at her apartment. That’s when you were supposed to do it, right? Ninira’s shop had a second entrance, concealed behind a door that was recessed into the wall not far from the main entrance. It was more a gate than a door, as it simply allowed access to a narrow alley that ran down the side of her store before dead-ending at a brick wall from the buildings behind. It was in this alley that the second entrance was located, it served as a service entrance, opening into the back of the store, and a more direct access to the apartment above.

He’d waited while she unlocked the gate, before following her to her actual door. Perhaps an unnecessary step, but it was late and the alley was dark and he was just being cautious, he reasoned. It was not that he wasn’t ready for this particular night to end.

“You should really get a light.” He commented as she fumbled with her keys in the dark.

“There is one.” She replied. “It’s broken though, or maybe just burnt out…” Her key clicked in the lock. “I tried to fix it ages ago but I couldn’t reach, even with my step stool, and didn’t really want to buy a taller ladder just for that.”

“If only you knew someone tall.”

She opened the door, turning a light on inside so a rectangle of golden light spilled out into the alley. She paused there, illuminated from behind by the light and he knew that this was the moment he was supposed to do something. Instead he let the moment linger too long.

He rocked on his heels, half considering just leaving before managing a, “thanks for--”

Right as she at the same time started with, “thank you--”

They both fell silent, but she gestured for him to speak first.

“Just, thanks for coming to the show tonight…” He shrugged. “It means a lot… the support.” He added a half gesture to the shirt she still wore, partially visible under her sweater.

“Of course! It was really cool.” She fiddled with the strap of her purse. “Maybe… invite me next time?”

Her expression brightened as he nodded. He wouldn’t be avoiding that any longer, at least. “I’ll stop by tomorrow and look at your light.” He offered.

She blinked, “Oh! Okay, yeah.” She ginned, before giving him the horns, “that would rock.”

It was, perhaps, the cutest shit he’d ever seen. He stood, mouth quirked trying not to laugh, as horror dawned on her own face and she quickly turned off the light plunging them both into darkness.

“Goodnight?” He couldn’t quite keep the amusement out of his voice.

“Goodnight!” Her response was strained, and followed very quickly by the sound of her door shutting.

He did wish he’d kissed her.

Laying on his bed he re-read her message again, and again. The image of her lit by her hall light, fingers posed and raised towards him filled his mind. He was so stupidly into her.

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard.

>I’m glad. >See you tomorrow 🤘

—

Prompt #22 | wc 1782 | All Entries | FFXIVWrite2021

#ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2021 #Ninira Nira #technically... this is not her pov #Bookshop AU #self combusts on the spot #I'm gonna need... to go find things to reblog to bury this one #because I'm...#look they're both dumb #and pining #I LIKE STUPID THEY THINK ITS UNREQUITED BUT ITS SO OBVIOUSLY NOT #pls no judge #also sorry for the weird flash back that becomes present before going back to the present #idk man #I don't write seriously enough I let the writing demons do what they want when they want to possess me #the shift if def around when I was inspired more by fluster #writing: mine

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itmighthavebeenintentional · 4 years

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Walk Me Home - Ch 4

Summary: Twenty-four years ago, Kimberly Harper met a boy who changed the course of her entire life before up and leaving one night. She spent years moving past the memories, building a stable, satisfying career as professor of folklore and mythology at the local university. Then the accidents start, and she’s forced to seek help among her hunter contacts. All it takes is a knock on her office door to send Kimber’s carefully built emotional walls crumbling to the ground.

Featuring: Teen Winchesters, high school romance, reunions, misunderstandings, high intensity emotional turmoil, Dean’s love of pie, Dean being adorable, Sam being adorable and maybe a bit nosy eventually, much group adorkable-ness, show-style investigation, mention of our favorite werewolf, gratuitous and obvious love of fall, DID I MENTION ROMANCE, fluff, smut, tension.

Warnings: Show level violence, show level parental neglect (let’s not John bash, I’m just saying), show-style witchcraft, show-level mental manipulation, stalking, bit of angst, sexual content (higher than show level),swearing, general yearning

Word Count: 2702

Author’s Note: At last!!! I almost didn’t make it, but here I am, literally in the eleventh hour (well, okay, three minutes to go until the eleventh hour, but still)! All the thanks to @mskathywrites , @fang, and @cracksinthewalls for editing, revision, flailing, and all that stuff I need. I still love this story, and I hope y’all will, too!

Keep in Mind: There are a lot of flashbacks. I tried to write current events in present tense and flashbacks in past tense. Here’s hoping I got everything right!

Please read/heed the warnings. 18+ ONLY.

In Case You Missed It: Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 ItMightHaveBeenIntentional’s Masterlist

Chapter 4

Kimber knows she’s staring, but she can’t stop herself. His fingers, rough and strong from years of the hardest work, brush circles over her wrists that send her pulse fluttering through her veins. So many emotions flicker behind his eyes, some of them mirroring her own, some of them alien and unreadable. So many years have passed, so much water under the bridge, as the saying goes.

The thing is, he was completely right earlier. She could have called him, once she learned who he and his family were, once she found a way.

But he had left town with her phone number memorized. He was in a much more logical position to get in touch, and right away, at that. And he never did. She knows he had a good reason, a completely reasonable one that would make sense if she just asked him.

But she’s scared and drained and confused and more than a little ashamed, and she’s tired of making a fool of herself.

She drops her eyes before the tears fully form and murmurs a quiet thanks as she loosens her hands from his grip. Though walking away is not what she wants to do, she forces her legs straight to the bathroom, closing the door behind her with a firm click.

She’ll feel better after a hot shower. That’s all she needs, a hot shower and a few hours of sleep. They’ll figure this out tomorrow, and then Dean and his brother will ride off into the sunset, and everything will go back to normal. She’ll go back to her classes as usual, helping out the occasional hunter or scholar with some lore, and she’ll bury all these feelings behind her heart again, drown them so deep they’ll never dream of resurfacing.

At least, that’s the fairy tale she tells herself as the scalding stream washes the saltwater from her cheeks.

She actually does feel moderately restored by the time she steps out of the bathroom. She feels a little ridiculous in Dean’s clothing. The sleeves of the t-shirt hang past her elbows, and the pants legs are rolled up several times to keep her from tripping.

At least the waist has a drawstring, she thinks as she rounds the corner back into the room. She pulls the towel from her hair, shaking it out a little just as Dean looks up from his laptop at the small table. His mouth opens, eyes widening. She’s not sure because of the poor lighting of the room, but his face seems to color a little as his eyebrows lift.

She is suddenly, acutely aware that she did not put her bra back on when getting dressed in his white t-shirt that is probably not nearly as thin as it feels.

Dean clears his throat, turning back to his computer, swallowing whatever comments have entered his mind. Kimber can’t decide whether to laugh or blush even harder and settles for the third option of hanging her office clothes up so they can air out a little before tomorrow.

With nothing else to do, she drops onto the edge of the bed gracelessly, feeling every minute of the last few weeks catching up with her. Uncertainty and fear claw at her, ripping away what little defenses she has left. The image of the mutilated doll flashes before her eyes, red paint splashed luridly on her favorite comforter. Her lungs clench, and she sags on the mattress.

She presses her fingers hard against her face. Acid burns at the back of her throat, bitter and biting. Her fingernails are just beginning to dig into her scalp when she registers the click of the laptop closing. Half a moment passes, then the bed dips beside her.

She doesn’t consciously decide to move; her body simply molds itself to his side as Dean slides his arm around her back. He turns into the embrace, his other arm gathering her tightly against him. His cheek comes to rest on top of her head. The silence between them is the comfort she needs, his warmth and solidity the anchor that keeps her from drifting too far into panic.

When he finally speaks, his words rumble through her nerves, settling heavy and soothing in her chest.

“We’re gonna get this son of a bitch, Kimber. I’m sorry they got into your house, but I’m glad I was with you. I…” She rises gently with his deep inhalation, pressed as she is against his chest. “I’m sorry.”

She hears what he isn’t saying, and her hands drop from her face, her arms slipping around his middle as her eyes close.

“Me, too, Dean.”

...

“That pumpkin pie was somethin’ else,” Dean murmured. His arms were folded behind his head as he stretched out on top of Kimber’s bedspread. He crossed his ankles, settling in like he belonged there. His thin t-shirt stretched across his wiry frame, jeans lying enticingly low on his hips, and she could just see a glimpse of pink toe through a hole in one of his socks.

A pleasant, off-balancing thrill skipped down Kimber’s spine, twirling through her stomach and making her head spin a little. Dean’s jacket was hung carefully on her desk chair, his boots lined up on the floor underneath, and his button-up overshirt folded neatly on the desk.

Her parents had gone to bed long ago, and she had snuck Dean in the back door. After their exhilarating but chilled stroll that afternoon, she’d decided against the treehouse. Dean had been amused but willing, although he’d had one stipulation that had nearly made her laugh aloud.

“We get caught and your folks kick me out, you’re bringing me your mom’s leftovers to school every day for breakfast. I’m not missin’ out on home cooking just because you can’t stand to be away from me.”

Now, seeing him so comfortable on her bed, like he just belonged...Kimber knew the smile on her face was on the goofier end of sappy, but she couldn’t help it. He was just so damned…

“Cute,” he said, smirking up at her. “I know what you’re thinking. And I’m not cute. I’m adorable.”

She sighed dramatically, feigning exasperation. “Fine, you’re gorgeous, adorable, vital, the absolute most. Now close your eyes so I can change.” Smirk still firmly in place, Dean dutifully closed his eyes. She knew, despite the short time she’d known him, that she could trust Dean to keep his eyes shut.

She spent a few seconds regretting the lack of any silky, dramatic nightgowns or cute, sexy little matching pajama sets. Oh, well; couldn’t have everything. She stripped quickly, tossing her school clothes into the hamper and slipping on her “Aaahh!!! Real Monsters” t-shirt. Thick socks and plaid pajama pants completed her night ensemble.

That she had just been naked (however unseen said nakedness had been) in front of Dean Winchester had not escaped her. She licked her lips, cheeks warm, and turned slowly back to the bed. He lay still, chest rising and falling steadily, and she marveled, not for the first time, that he was here, in her room. Just for her.

Her pulse jumped, her lungs tightened, and for just a second, Kimber panicked.

“You can, uh...you can open your eyes. I’m gonna go brush my teeth; I’ll be right back.”

She fled silently down the hallway, brushed her teeth in record time, and then stared in the mirror. Her hair was just her hair, nothing amazing or horrifying; no point trying to fix that before bed. Maybe…make-up?

“Kimber. What the hell?” she muttered. “You’re not seducing him, just be cool. Jeez. You can’t wear make-up to bed.”

She splashed cold water on her face, scrubbing her skin dry with a hand towel more forcefully than necessary. She gave her reflection another once-over and took a deep breath.

“You’re his choice, too,” she reminded herself. “Just chill.”

She found him exactly as she’d left him, completely relaxed on the bed, eyes still closed. She thought for a moment that he might have fallen asleep. Kimber wasn’t sure if she felt more disappointment or relief.

“You left in a little bit of a hurry,” he murmured, eyes still closed, and she started. “Everything okay?” She almost put him off, could feel the brush-off on her lips, but his eyes slid open, pinning her on the spot. She got the eerie sense that he would know, that he already knew she was trying to put on a front, and she deflated a little.

“I’m nervous,” she finally admitted. The heat in her cheeks turned up a few degrees, spreading down her neck, and she crossed her arms over her chest defensively. “I’ve never...snuck a guy to my room before. I just...this is mostly new to me, but with you, I want...I don’t know.”

Without a word, Dean slid from the bed and crossed the room, his mesmerizing eyes never leaving hers. He stopped a few feet away and waited, his arms open. With the bed suddenly out of the equation, Kimber felt a hidden knot of anxiety untie in her chest.

She let out a breath and stepped into his embrace, her arms circling his waist in a way that felt easy and right. Dean’s lips pressed a warming kiss to the crown of her head.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered. “This is your room, your space, but even if it wasn’t-” He paused, leaning back and brushing his thumb over her cheek. “Kimber, look at me.”

She did, and his earnest expression left no room to doubt his next words. It barely left room for breathing.

“ ‘M not here to make you feel uncomfortable or scared. I’m here because you want me to be. The second that stops, the second I make you feel something you don’t want, that’s it. Period. Does that work for you?”

His eyes, so plaintive and weathered in that moment, cut right to her heart. Never in her life had Kimber felt so safe, so protected, and so very sad. She couldn’t think of any words that lived up to the magnitude of what Dean had just said, so she simply squeezed him tighter, pressing her face against the side of his neck.

“Can you stay?” she asked. She knew he had obligations, probably needed to get back to his brother or at least check in with his dad. She felt terribly selfish in her warm, safe house with her parents right down the hall. Still, she asked.

“Yeah, I can stay for a while.” His smile, soft and open, laid her doubts to rest. They settled onto the bed, fumbling a little awkwardly to find a position they both liked. There was some bumping, mumbled apologies, until they finally sorted out a comfortable twist of limbs that didn’t set her heart beating out of her ribs or threaten to cut off blood flow to anything important.

She relaxed by increments, her cheek resting on his collarbone. He hugged her close with his left arm, his right hand combing slowly through her hair over and over. The silence settled around them like a second blanket, soothing and heavy.

“What do you want to do when you finish school, Kimber? College?”

“Probably,” she murmured. “I don’t know specifically, but I like research.”

He snorted, and she poked him in the side.

“Shut up, you jerk, I do. And I like sharing the information. I like helping people. I don’t really want to be a teacher, but maybe I can find something where I can do all of that.”

Dean resumed combing her hair, having paused when she poked him, and they settled a little more closely together.

“Dean?”

“Mmm?”

She blinked slowly, sleep pulling at her eyelids. Her thoughts spun out languidly, losing their urgency as his warmth seeped through the thin fabric of her pajamas.

“How about you?”

His answer came quickly, rehearsed and without thought. “Join the family business. Dad’s been training me for years. Don’t have a lotta choice, but I know I’ll be good at it. Was raised for it.”

Her fingers crept up, her eyes staying closed for longer and longer periods between blinks. She slid her thumb over his chin, just brushing the line of his bottom lip before sliding slowly up his jaw.

His words weren’t emotionless, but they were automatic. There was so much he never said, and she hated to push him, afraid he would just leave or shut down, but…

“But what do you want?” She persisted, drowsiness interfering with her usual restraint. “Who do you want to be?”

He was silent for so long, she nearly gave in to fatigue. She drifted on the edge of unconsciousness, fingers stroking through the silky strands of hair behind his ears. She felt his face turn, his lips press against her wrist.

“I want...this,” he said. Even half-asleep, she couldn’t mistake the raw longing behind his words. “I want...I want to work a boring, regular job and come home to someone who missed me all day as much as I missed her. I want my kids to cannonball into my legs so hard they knock me over. I want…”

His words choked off, and she stilled her fingers against his cheek, waiting for him to continue.

“I want a house. No...I...when I was little, Dad would come home, and he would just...sweep Mom up sometimes, swing her around, when they weren’t fighting. Even when they were, he’d do it sometimes anyway just to get her to laugh.”

She felt his face shift beneath her hand, but his smile didn’t feel quite right, and she moved closer. His arm tightened around her back, and he smoothed the palm of his free hand down to cup her jaw.

“I want a home. I want to be a dad, a husband. I want a family.”

She felt childish, shallow next to the depth of his simple declaration. Dean wanted what she had, what she took for granted every day of her life. This was the first time he’d spoken of his mother, and though curiosity burned hot inside her, she didn’t dare ask further questions, afraid she’d break the spell of the moment.

Dean’s voice dropped until she could feel it more than hear it, his lips pressing softly against her forehead.

“I want to come home and hold someone until I fall asleep every night. I want to wake up to her and know that my whole day, every day, is gonna be just that, all over again.”

She lifted her face to his then, and in the darkness of her bedroom she could only just make out the barest lines of his features. Their noses brushed, his hand gently pulling at the back of her head, and their lips met. His cheek was damp under her fingertips, and her heart clenched.

She pulled his head down, brushing her lips over the tears trickling down his cheekbones more by feel than by sight. Both his arms came around her then, pulling her against his chest as he buried his face in his hair. They breathed together, memorizing each others’ scents, heartbeats, rhythms as the night crept by.

The moment didn’t pass so much as gradually relax until Kimber felt him shift beneath her, smoothly sliding her off his chest and down to the pillows. He kissed her temple, and her face automatically turned to his, chasing his lips. She felt him chuckle against her mouth.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I gotta go. Need to check on Sammy, make sure he got dinner, did his homework, all that mess. I’ll see you tomorrow. Walk you to school?”

She nodded, humming her agreement even as she blindly reached for him. Something soft brushed against her fingers, and she automatically pulled it down, cuddling against the fabric.

“Hold onto that for me. I’ll get it back from you sometime.” She felt a kiss press to her forehead, and then the click of her door closing. She breathed in, Dean’s scent surrounding her as she slipped under again, his button-up shirt pillowed under her cheek and tangled in her fingers.

…

Chapter 5

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thedreamsmith · 4 years

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In Heat

@atc74 @alleiradayne @arrowsandmixtapes @captain-s-rogers

Warnings: Explicit smut, swearing, canon typical violence

Word count: 2706

Pairing: Dean x OFC

Summary: Rhea has lived and hunted with the Winchesters for over a year, secretly pining after the elder brother, until she gets hit with a spiteful witch’s spell. It’s not subtle, either.

Dean’s POV

‘If you’re going to be a bitch,’ The sorceress snarled at Rhea as she raised her knife before her. ‘Then you can be a bitch in heat.’

Faster than any of them could anticipate, she hurled a bolt of golden light at the huntress, catching her directly in the chest.

‘That should keep you busy enough.’ The witch’s parting laugh was accompanied by a rustle of feathers and a raven rose from where she had just been standing.

Sam got off a couple of shots, but the bird escaped unharmed through an open skylight in the abandoned warehouse’s ceiling.

‘Rhea?’ The brothers rushed to her side, her gaze was unfocused as she got to her feet.

‘Where’d she go?’ Dean snapped at Sam. ‘Son of a bitch, we’ve been tracking her for a week.’

‘Uh, Dean?’ His brother’s voice held a hesitant note that drew his attention from the skylight. He followed his gaze to the third hunter with them. ‘I think we have a bigger problem.’

***

It had taken the combined effort of himself and Sam to get Rhea back to the bunker. Sam had had to drive, seeing as in her current condition, the huntress was making it very difficult for Dean to concentrate on anything.

‘What’s up with little Magpie?’ Crowley appeared beside Rowena without warning, head tipped to one side as he regarded Rhea mouthing at Dean’s collarbone. The sounds she was emitting were doing nothing to help the situation in his jeans.

‘Why do you care?’ Sam snapped at the demon, glowering at him from the opposite side of the table.

Crowley just shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Unlike the rest of you, she’s not a pain in my ass. She’s worked a few jobs for me in the past, mostly writing up contracts – she’s excellent with words. Must be all the research she’s done on the fae.’

Sam seemed to be gearing up for an argument when Rowena interrupted their bickering.

‘She got hit wi’ a spell. A powerful one.’ She was lent against a pillar, barely raising her eyes from the tome she was flipping through. ‘I don’t think I can undo this one, lads. Looks like you’re going to have to wait until it runs its course…or find another way to break it.’

The red-haired witch cast a meaningful look at him that he dutifully ignored. If it hadn’t been for the fraying grip on his self-control, he would’ve already hauled Rhea onto the table and fucked the magic out of her.

‘Cas, can’t you do something about this?’ Because Rhea was attempting to slip her hand beneath his shirt and her touch was everywhere…

‘I can try, but short of rendering her unconscious, I am not sure what else I can do.’ The angel laid a gentle hand on Rhea’s arm, trying to prise her from Dean’s person. ‘I need you to focus-‘

But he was cut off as Rhea whirled, pulling a knife and slamming him against the nearest pillar with the blade pressed to his jugular.

‘He’s mine.’ She snarled, eyes wild and teeth bared. ‘Don’t fucking touch him.’

For a moment no one moved, too taken aback at the normally easy-going hunter suddenly turning feral. Then everyone was in action, Sam moving into her line of sight, hands up and expression placating.

‘Rhea…’

‘Alright, that’s enough.’ Cas moved before she could react – touching two fingers two her brow and with a flash of white light she crumpled into his arms. ‘I will take her to her room and seal the door until we can figure out what to do.’

In a blink, both angel and hunter were gone, the only sign of their departure the fading echo of wingbeats.

‘Looks like things around here are finally getting a bit more interesting.’

Sam only spared the demon a sideways glance before turning on his brother.

‘Look, Dean, I don’t see why you won’t just-‘

‘I said no!’ He clenched his jaw so hard it felt his teeth would crack. ‘It’s not the same and you know it. What happens when the spell breaks and she wakes up having done something she didn’t want to? Why can’t you or Cas help her?’

‘Cause she hasn’t spent the last hour trying to get into our pants.’ Sam signed through his nose and glanced up at the ceiling. ‘Rhea wanting you isn’t a new thing – this spell just seems to have amplified her feelings.’

‘Sam is right.’ Dean started and whipped around as Cas’s gravelly voice sounded directly behind him. ‘Rhea has been radiating desire for months, all directed at you.’

‘It’s been nauseating, really.’ Crowley chipped in, grinning over the rim of a glass he’d somehow acquired.

‘Oh great. So everyone knew about this except me?’ He threw his hands up, nearly taking out a lamp in the process.

‘Pretty much.’ Rowena smirked, one side of her red-painted mouth drawn up.

‘If the feeling isn’t mutual, why don’t you love her and leave her, squirrel? And after you’ve broken her heart, maybe she’ll sell it to me; I’ve been trying to make her my right hand for years.’

The King of Hell only chuckled as Dean fisted his hand in his suit jacket and slammed him against the wall, one forearm pressed to his neck.

‘Shut your mouth, you son of a bitch.’ His voice was pitched low, but the promise of violence rippled like an undercurrent, dark and dangerous and just below the surface.

‘I’m right hear y’know!’ Rowena protested as Crowley spoke.

‘Oh look, the feeling is mutual. Looks like my work here is done. Bye, boys.’ With a final smirk, the demon vanished from his grip, leaving him clutching thin air.

‘Sonofabitch.’ Dean slapped his palm against the wall where Crowley’s head had just been.

‘Again, right here.’ The witch speared him with a glare that by all laws of physics should’ve set him on fire, no hoodoo required. ‘Now, you listen to me. You might be that lassie’s only chance for breaking this spell, so stop pretending like you haven’t been staring at her ass for the last year, get in there, and get busy.’

Momentarily lost for words, Dean gaped at the petite woman, then at his brother who was trying and failing to stifle his laughter. Asshat.

‘Fine. Fine.’ He rubbed a palm over his eyes. ‘Sammy, shut the hell up.’

With a final glare at the three of them, Dean stomped down the corridor with Sam’s laughter ringing in his ears.

****

He could hear her moans from outside her door - it seemed that Cas’s mojo hadn’t worked for very long. Letting out a long breath, Dean turned the handle and slipped into her room.

Soft lamplight illuminated the space, gleaming on the trinkets and blades that lined the shelves and walls. His heart almost stopped as his gaze found her. Holy fuck.

Her wine-red hair spilled around her head like a halo, her normally ivory skin flushed and turned to palest gold in the lamplight.

Her eyes were closed as she continued her ministrations – one slender hand worked at the apex of her thighs, back arching as her legs trembled.

His mouth went dry, and he was acutely, painfully aware of the aching press of his cock against the seam of his jeans. Rhea gasped as she buried a third finger inside herself, her thumb never ceasing in the pressure it applied to her clit. She was panting now, her cries coming at irregular intervals as she pushed herself closer and closer to the edge.

Dean could pinpoint the exact moment that she shattered, head thrown back and hand stilling momentarily as she chased her pleasure. His own hips jerked involuntarily and his grabbed onto a side table for balance, knocking over a picture frame in the process.

The noise alerted Rhea to his presence and she took him in with those crushing blue eyes as she rose from the bed on surprisingly steady legs. She stalked towards him like a predator, all lithe muscle beneath an hourglass figure like sweet sin.

Dean had seen plenty of naked women in his time – too many, probably – and this shouldn’t have been any different, but it was. This was Rhea, and she was looking at him in a way that had only happened in his dirtiest fantasies and he felt like a butterfly pinned to the wall by that cornflower gaze.

And then she was on him, pulling him down to cover his mouth with hers. The kiss was hot and hungry; the nip of her teeth on his bottom lip had him groaning into her mouth and fisting his hands at his sides.

‘Don’t you think we should talk about this, ah fuck, first, sweetheart?’ His head slammed back into the door as he tried to control his breathing. ‘You’re making this pretty damn, god, hard.’

‘That’s the plan, Winchester.’ She purred, smirking up at him from under her lashes and that snapped the final thread of his tattered self-control. ‘Please, Dean, I need this.’

One heartbeat, he had her in his arms, her long legs wrapped around his waist, vice-like.

Two heartbeats, he flipped their positions, pressing her against the door hard enough to rattle the hinges.

Three heartbeats, Rhea’s hands were under his Henley again, this time pushing it up and off to bare the lean muscles of his torso.

Four heartbeats, her lips were back on him; his mouth, his neck, his jaw, everywhere.

Five heartbeats, he ground against her, the wetness between her legs already soaking the front of his jeans. He needed to be inside her. Yesterday.

He carried her back to the bed, setting her down and making quick work of the rest of his clothes. He hissed in a breath as the cool air brushed against his swollen cock, already leaking.

‘Turn over.’ He barely recognised his own voice, the rough way it caught in the back of his throat. ‘Just how much do you need me, darlin’?’

There was no hesitation as Rhea rolled onto her hands and knees, spreading her legs as she glanced back over her shoulder, eyes dark with unconcealed lust.

‘Please…’ He’d never heard her like this, never thought he would. On cases, around the bunker, she was teasing and kind, with a spine like stainless steel. But now she was melting in his hands as he grasped her waist, lining his cock up with her entrance. The spell had made her desperate, made her beg for him. ‘Dean, please. I need you.’

Rhea cried out as he pushed into her in one smooth thrust, seating himself fully in the warm, wet heat of her. She was already stretched from her solo-session earlier but she was still exquisitely tight around him as he filled her. Her whimpers became moans as he began to move, setting a rough pace from the beginning.

There would be time enough in the future to go slow, to map each other’s bodies and strengthen the bond that he already felt shimmering between them – but right now he settled for what they both wanted, what they both needed.

The slap of skin on skin filled the room, mixing with their shared moans. Dean kept his voice low, still holding on to some inhibitions in an occupied bunker with thin walls but Rhea had no such reservations. She didn’t bother to muffle her screams as he reached around to find the bundle of nerves between her legs, clawing at the sheets as she trembled around him.

She tensed and he saw stars, his thrusts becoming erratic as he barrelled towards the edge.

‘Fuck, Rhea you feel so good…’ Dean hauled the whimpering hunter up against him so that her back was flush to his chest. ‘I’m close… come for me, sweetheart.’

His arm was a vice around her midriff as his other hand continued it’s work at the apex of her thighs. She rested her head on his shoulder, her hair spilling down his back, baring her throat to him.

‘Dean…’ His name was almost a sob on her lips as he pressed sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to the column of her neck. ‘I’m gonna…I need to…’

‘That’s it, come for me.’ His stubble was rough against her skin as he slammed into her over and over, her full breasts bouncing with the motion. ‘Now.’

As if following his growled command and not the cresting tide of pleasure within her, she came hard around him, pulling him over the edge. Her whole body trembled in his arms as he spilled into her.

With a trembling gasp, the strength left her body and he tightened his grip as she slumped to the mattress. Gold light danced along her skin, rising from her form in shimmering whorls.

It worked.

Dean’s heartbeat was still racing hell-for-leather as he set Rhea down on the bed, too intoxicated by the aftershocks of his own orgasm and the rising panic over the what now? to worry about the mess.

‘Rhea? You still with me?’ He brushed his fingers over the sharp line of her cheekbone and the sprinkling of freckles beneath her dark lashes.

Her eyes fluttered open slowly, the dark lust replaced by bewilderment.

‘Dean?’ She pushed herself upright, hair spilling over her bare shoulders. Her jaw dropped as she took in his naked form, then her own state of post-sex disarray. ‘Oh my god… Did I…?’

‘Try to climb me like a tree?’ Dean offered her a lopsided grin. ‘Yeah, you did. It was pretty damn fun.’

Rhea groaned and buried her face in her palms and his stomach dropped.

‘Look, I’m sorry, really sorry. Just, we couldn’t find another way to break the spell and you seemed uh… interested in me so I lent a hand. I told Sammy that this was a bad idea. And why would you want me without a fucking hoodoo spell? You can do a hell of a lot better than my fucked-up ass.’

He pushed himself off the bed, scrambling for his discarded clothes. He wanted to be out of there as fast as possible, to find somewhere to hide with a bottle of whiskey and no one to bother him.

He’d just found his jeans when he felt a warm hand grab his wrist.

‘Dean.’ From her tone, it wasn’t the first time she’d tried to get his attention. ‘I don’t regret it. Any of it.’ Her voice was soft as she looked up at him.

He swallowed thickly, trying to keep the hope from showing on his face because god damn it he’d been through too much, let down far too many times, so why should this be any different?

‘I’ve wanted this, wanted you for months. Sam and Cas were right. I’m in love with you, you idiot. I’m only embarrassed that I tried to get in your pants in front of everyone.’

Dean was pretty sure he was doing a fantastic impression of a landed fish as he blinked at her. It took him a second to process her words. I’ve wanted you for months. I’m in love with you.

‘Come here.’ Her smile was gentle, but her eyes gleamed with mischief. ‘I reckon we have a good while before anyone comes looking for us.’

And there she was, back to her old self again as Dean let her pull him back down onto the memory foam mattress. Her movements were languid, yet just as compelling as before as she tucked herself against his chest. He wrapped his arm around her waist, still not sure whether this was just some angel-induced fever dream.

‘This is real.’ His voice caught in his throat as he pressed his lips to the top of her head.

‘It is.’ Rhea reached up to cup his jaw in her palm and kissed him softly.

‘I love you too, darlin’.’ Dean let his own eyes shut as he breathed in her gunmetal and moonlight scent. He’d never admitted to anyone his fear of dying, not even Sam. To everyone he was the fearless hunter – facing death and danger every day. But knowing that this was waiting for him in heaven? He could live with that.

#oc appreciation day 2020 #oc's are people too #supernatural #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #crowley #rowena

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unholyhelbiglinked · 5 years

Text

Camp Beaverbrook | 019

A/N: Things are in fact drawing to a close, which is kind of emotional for me because I’ve poured so much into this. But that being said- Major trigger warning. This one is rough.

READ FROM THE START | AO3 LINK

A leaden bullet pierced skin with a sickening crunch akin to a twig snapping against just the slightest bit of pressure. It was almost instant, the scent of blood that filled the air. Beca Mitchell noticed the sharp pain in her wrist first, how hot the gun was against her palm and how much she wanted to let it fall to the dirt next to the patterned tire of the black El Dorado.

A thick syrupy blood rushed against Jesse’s hand. He let out a cry like a wounded animal and released his hold on Chloe to clench the gushing wound. She scrambled away best she could, behind Beca, behind the only weapon that the girls possessed.

“Fuck!” He shouted, stomping his foot against the ground as he let out a howl of pain that dissolved into a maddening laugher. “Ah, I should have seen that coming. Going for my arm. That was smart. A classic Bond move.”

He smiled at them then, halfway crouched over as the pale moonlight darkened the spot of slowly glowing liquid. Beca swallowed back the burning in her throat, hand quivering at the thought of shooting again. Just a bit of pressure and it would all be over. She had him right where she wanted him.

“Doesn’t the bad guy always end up going to jail?” Aubrey spoke up behind the open door of the car. Logic was replaced with an icy demeanor.

“Most of the time, yeah. They do. But they’re naive enough to work alone.” He laughed again, echoing against the trees. “Then again, you’re all clever enough to know I couldn’t be in two places at once. I didn’t have to be, I had help. I am the help.”

“You tried to drown me.” Beca’s voice was watery, her chest seizing as the memory of the murky waters toxic taste washed over her like waves. It made her tighten her grip, grit her teeth at the thought of it.

He smiled fondly at the memory. “I did, helped Chloe out with drying her hair too. Thought it would do the trick- but we got you pretty good, right?” Jesse’s attention was on Emily, steadily losing blood from the gash that pushed close to her knee. She grimaced and turned her cheek. The streaks would be easy to see against the ash.

“Who else?” Chloe’s voice was strong. Her nails digging into her palm. “Who are you helping?”

The smile faltered against his pale lips. Blood dripped in even drops from his fingertips. They twitched involuntarily from the cold, from the bullet that left a little mark in the tree behind him. A clean in and out wound that would call for some physical therapy, which he couldn’t’ attest to behind bars.

“Two lovers park a car along the side of the road after a long date, when they hear the radio crackle. It’s a special announcement.” He mocked at Aubrey; eyes glassy.

Beca’s chest seized. That stupid campfire story from the start of the summer. She had been buzzed and her mind focused too acutely on the fact that Chloe Beale was close. Close enough to smell her strawberry shampoo and the alcohol that riddled her breath. Nothing about it stuck out to her- the same story with the same killer, missing the rainy weather and the hook for a hand, but still a classic.

“Drowning… Strangling…” Aubrey’s voice was hushed, her unripe eyes trained at one spot on the ground that kept the world from spinning. When she glanced up, tears rolled towards her chin, gravity having no mercy. “You sick bastard, the camp story? That’s what all this is about? Recreating some urban legend?”

“Not an urban legend!” He exploded, voice echoing. “Did you know that poor terrorized kid had a son? Just a baby when he escaped. He’s grown now, old and dead and rotting in the ground. But he had a daughter, and that daughter had one of her own.”

This silenced the four girls. There were never any records to search for- maybe there was a kid who had been terrorized to the point of flowing insanity. A kid who was sent to an asylum and stewed against a padded room with a straight jacket binding him. Festering with revenge and finally getting far enough from his restraints to take it. Jesse seemed to quiver with excitement at the realization that washed over all four of them. The big plot twist that had been festering since day one.

A distinct sound mirroring that of a bullet pushing past tendons once again filled the air, but Beca had the sense not to pull the trigger. She hadn’t applied any pressure, in fact, the tip of the gun was pointed at the boy’s feet now, mouth half-way ajar and stomach in a series of knots.

An arrow.

It was silver against the metallic moonlight; it’s pointed tip pushing into Jesse’s throat. He sputtered and choked and released his hold on the bullet wound to attend to the new one. His teeth were stained black with blood, a gurgled attempt at words blocked by the arrowhead. Jesse Swanson fell to the dirt- body heavy and dark eyes somehow darker.

“He talked way too much.” The voice came from behind the craft director and her loyal lifeguard. Aubrey’s grip on the car door tightened and Emily stared blankly at the body that lay on the ground before directing her attention with the rest. “On and on about all the movie references. I mean God, can you just shut the fuck up?”

Stacie Conrad walked between two looming Douglas firs, her crossbow by her side. The same one she loaded with arrows each day. She had taught Emily well enough about aim- had gotten the tip to push past the black into the blue, telling her to keep her arm straight and keep her focus on the motions instead of the target.

She had opted out of the traditional bow now, switching to something that had more force, more control. Her white Camp Beaverbrook shirt was stained with sweat and dirt and something that looked like blood. It mixed into a terracotta red and hugged her perfectly in the moonlight.

“he stole my thunder,” She pouted, pushing her bottom lip out. “I didn’t get to see the looks on your faces when you found out about dear old grandfather. About daddy who’s locked up in bedlam. About Mommy who killed herself out of shame. Oh! There it is, that’s the one. Emily, you always come through, don’t you?”

“Stay back!” Beca prompted, finding her confidence, raising the gun back to her target.

“That’s endearing, sweetheart, but I think you’re out of bullets,” Stacie responded, staring her down. “Detective Wilken’s was kind enough to let me borrow it. He only came up here with a couple of rounds. I fired one into Gail’s head and you-“ She looked at the cook folded like laundry, chuckling. “You aimed for the arm.”

Beca unclipped the magazine, fumbling with her numb fingers. Stacie was right- absolutely nothing but the vague scent of gun powder and a trembling in her chest. She pushed the gun aside, letting it fall to the ground next to the body and the slowly growing scent of blood.

“So what now?” Chloe croaked out “You torment us for weeks before killing us? Just like that?”

“Oh, I didn’t want to kill you. Not at first. I attacked Aubrey in that bathroom for a little bit of fun- but when she started blaming you, Beca, that’s when I knew I could push it further than my imagination could comprehend. It’s when I recruited Spielberg over there too. From there I suppose family instinct took over.”

Emily let out a grunt of pain, losing her grip on the front of the car, Chloe not there to hold her up, Aubrey twitching with anticipation to get near the girl. She narrowed her eyes, staring like she wanted to move, but couldn’t before an arrow could break skin.

“I knew the two of you would be smart enough to smell gas in the shed, but wow, did you cut it close? Really, the diving technique was impressive. And You?” Her eyes flicked towards Chloe “You’re just lucky that Beca was there to pull Jesse off.”

The youngest camper had edged to the bumper of the car, pushing her fingers into the dirt. She couldn’t stand anymore, her breath hissing. Her lips were blue under the moonlight, running out of time. Stacie’s eyes twinkled at this.

“Wouldn’t that have been a cool way to go?” She asked, “Murdered by a hairdryer, hell, pulled down in the murky water until you just let everything escape you? I always thought drowning would be the best way. Painful, but peaceful all at once.”

“How…” Emily choked out, her voice deep her chest shaking. “How do you feel about burning alive?”

The flame was slight, a small edge in a sea of blue. It shaded Emily’s face in the warmest light, leaned up against the front of the car with as much strength as she could muster. A silver zippo that was in Jesse’s pocket. It emitted gas at an alarming rate, Emily’s aim the best it could be.

“Wha-“Stacie’s voice cracked as the leg of her jeans caught a hot ribbon of light trailing until it pressed against the base of her shirt. She dropped the crossbow, letting out a grunt as her hand rushed to pat out of the blaze to now avail. “Fuck, you fucking bitch!”

Chloe let out a scream of terror the best she could as she pushed into Beca’s neck, refusing to stare as the copper flame ate away at flesh. Their whole world became illuminated in a blazing red- shouts of pure pain and furry echoing against the trees as she dropped to her knees, and then her hands- the scent of burning skin pulling at the back of their throats rushing in their lungs.

Then it was quiet- the fire cracking against the mass, spreading across the grass like. Stacie’s fingers stretched past the flames, twitching as they melted. The warm color shading all of their faces, fire cracking without the story of an escaped patient. Just his granddaughter perishing in the night.

Aubrey was quick to kneel down next to Emily, her breath puffing out in short edges of smoke. She guided Emily’s amber eyes to hers, trying to see if they still flickered themselves, her chest moving in short rapid movements. “How did you know that would work?”

“It took me a long time to smell the gas in the shed.” Emily whispered, “Not this time. I just hoped she spilled enough on herself to…”

Her voice was fading, weak and webbed at the edges. Blood was smeared against the corner of her lips like neon paint against white canvas. Beca’s lungs felt heavy, filled with toxic lake water and slowly melting bones. Aubrey let out a thick breath and knelt down to Emily, moving her gaze, trying to get her to focus. The silver lighter twinkled under the moon.

“We have to get her to town,” Aubrey said, voice choked “She’s lost a lot of blood if we don’t-“

Chloe dropped down to the cold, wet grass before numbly searching Jesse’s pockets. She was holding her breath, patting down his bloodied shirt before pawing around his pants. Beca let the gun fall to the ground, bringing her palms up the hairline as she struggled to steady her breath. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Keys!” Chloe croaked out despite the pain her throat. “he had them on him, come on, I’ll drive.”

Things seemed to move in slow motion, Beca lifting Emily with ease, Aubrey holding her up from the other side. The black El Dorado sputtered and kicked until it roared to a vengeful life. The grass turning black as night, reflecting the edge of fire against the dusty windows of the old car. The tires skidding against mud before crunching against gravel.

Emily lay with her head in Aubrey’s lap, staring with golden eyes up at the padded ceiling with cigar burns sprinkled like a dalmatians coat. Beca sat in the passenger seat, holding on to the leather to keep her hands from shaking, Chloe white-knuckling the steering wheel. They drove quietly, precisely until the dirt turned to asphalt- sprinkled with green road signs leading to the next town over, speed no option.

“Is it over?” Emily whispered; voice weak. “Aubrey, is it over?”

Aubrey swallowed back the sour taste in her mouth, moving her thumb against the girl's cold cheek- her hair pulling away from kind and flickering eyes. “Yeah, Em. It’s over.”

#Beca Mitchell #Chloe Beale #Bechloe #bechloe fic rec #bechloe fanfiction #Aubrey Posen #Emily Junk #junksen #junksen fanfic #pitch perfect #pitch perfect fanfiction #Jesse Swanson #Stacie Conrad

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jackalopingintothevoid · 6 years

Text

Five Times Jean Lied

And one time she didn’t.

this is another x-campus fic, since apparently i’m doing this now regardless of how anyone feels about it, and while i usually avoid the scott/jean/logan love triangle like it’s personally offended me (it has) x-campus offers a unique opportunity: all three of them meet at the same time.

faced with this frankly unprecedented change in dynamic, i’m damn well doing the thing. (remember, they’re all teenagers in x-campus. logan is not 200 years old)

written for @jenny-calendar to help cheer her up after her shitty couple of days <3

It's pretty weird trying to adjust, at least for Jean. She didn’t have the position long, but she’d gotten used to being Professor Xavier’s teaching assistant. It had been somewhat awkward, helping to manage the education of students the same age as her-- or older, in some cases-- but it made a sort of sense.

For most of Jean’s life she’s been acutely aware of her... difference. She’s always known that she’s separate from ‘ordinary people’, whether they’re other kids at school or her own parents. She’s always known she isn’t normal.

Of course, she’s well aware that Xavier’s other chosen aren’t exactly run-of-the-mill themselves, but you’d never know that to look at them. It’s like they put their strangeness away somewhere before going out in public, rather than carrying it with them wherever they go. If you saw them in the cafeteria or overheard them talking on the grounds you wouldn’t think them any more or less remarkable than the hundreds of other students around them.

(Logan, she thinks, carries his strangeness with him, but he wears it comfortably and makes it seem like it belongs.)

The Professor once told Jean that her power had manifested at an unusually young age; she’d never really had a time when she felt she could act like she wasn’t abnormal. Like she wasn’t secretly harbouring a great and terrible power.

Perhaps that’s the difference. The others had their powers thrust upon them suddenly after an unextraordinary childhood and probably enjoy acting like nothing drastic has changed. Jean never even considered that she could set the burden of her knowledge down-- she doesn’t think she knows how.

So they get to live day to day like ordinary young people, lessons and homework and late night parties and arguments over hogging the bathroom, while Jean had become Dr. Grey, the new teaching assistant who held authority over the students but deferred to the Professors. At least as a teaching assistant she still had a place, was expected to be held apart.

Now she’s just another little girl that doesn’t fit in.

“Jean?”

Jean starts, looking up from her paper to see McCoy-- Hank. To see Hank looking at her from the desk in front of her. It’s Xavier’s biology class so they both know he won’t mind his team chatting quietly as long as they don’t disrupt the class. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t catch that.”

He smiles warmly, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “You doing alright? This has got to be a pretty big jump, all things considered. I mean, you were teaching half this stuff a couple weeks ago.”

Pushing her hair behind her ear, Jean smiles at Hank’s thoughtfulness. “Oh, no. Not at all! I mean, I only really handed out papers and things. Besides, now I don’t have to worry so much about someone asking me a question I can’t answer.”

Smirking, Hank responds, “You still do actually, but hey! Bobby never knows the answers and he’s doing just fine.”

Jean giggles along with Hank’s joke and thinks she’s doing okay with this ‘acting normal’ business.

The first night as Anna and Ororo’s roommate is nerve-wracking.

Jean’s an only child and her family never let her go to sleepovers or invite friends over when she was young enough to still have them. (Friends, she means. When they were all young enough to not care that she was different.)

She’s acutely aware of how powerful she is... and how little control she sometimes has.

It’s fine when she’s awake. She’s always focused and controlled when she’s awake. But she’s had enough nightmares to know that’s not the case when she’s asleep. More often than not it looks like a hurricane swept through the room, and though the same power that caused the problem makes it simple to fix, she can’t undo any damage done to her friends. She can’t heal wounds.

She’s not even sure what would happen-- would she drag their unconscious minds into her nightmare with her? Would she just crush them with the wardrobe?

Needless to say, she doesn’t get much sleep that night.

The second night’s no better, and neither is the third. But it’s more than her own fear, now.

Ororo moves. Constantly. She can go to sleep in a perfectly reasonable position and wake up having turned 180 degrees with the blanket bunched up on the headboard. Jean’s so used to quiet that all the shifting and shuffling brings her back to alertness even from actual sleep.

Anna doesn’t move at all but when she was young, she fell out of a tree and broke her nose. So sometimes, if she goes to sleep at just the wrong angle, she snores like someone’s put gravel in a dryer. And stays in that position until morning.

Somehow, neither of them wakes each other.

On those mornings Jean doesn’t bother with makeup. She likes it most of the time, wore it even while masquerading as an adult, but right now she’s too tired and irritable to put in the effort. Instead she focuses her telepathy on everyone else’s perceptions so she’s the only one who knows how awful she feels.

Ororo’s got that look in her eye, and Jean can tell from her surface thoughts that she’s bursting to tell a secret.

(Jean tries not to pry so much now that she’s no longer their teacher. It feels less justified somehow, now that she’s in the same boat.)

“So!” Ororo sets both of their textbooks aside, halting Jean’s attempt at the homework. She’d be glad of the break if she wasn’t so worried about the reason. It’s hard not to look deeper into her friend’s mind for the answer, just to get it over with.

“Have you noticed the attention you’ve been getting? I mean, you’ve got that ‘good girl’ thing going for you, that’s always a bit of a tease, but your similarity to the hot teacher that mysteriously left? People are looking at you like they hit the jackpot!” But not quite as much as--

“What?” Jean interjects before she can pick up that thought. It’s frustrating not to peek when her thoughts are so loud, but the idea feels like cheating. She doesn’t want to spoil whatever surprise has Ororo so excited, even if Jean herself would rather avoid it. “What are you talking about, why would anyone be looking at me?”

She knows they look. She tries to ignore it, tries to ignore all the objectifying thoughts that plague her as she walks between classes. She ignored them as Dr. Grey, too, and she’ll happily keep ignoring them, but she honestly doesn’t know what about her, specifically, is so appealing to them.

“Are you serious? Jean, you’re like the definition of the dream girl! Green eyed redhead? Everyone’s fantasy?”

Oh. Ew.

“Well, I’m not interested in being anyone’s fantasy girl. So they can keep on dreaming.”

Ororo sits up and slaps her hand on Jean’s textbook as she reaches for it, dragging her unwillingly back to the conversation. “But Jean! There’s someone in particular that has a full-on crush!”

Arching her eyebrow sceptically, Jean parrots, “A full-on crush?”

“Yeah, definitely! He keeps trying to play it cool but he can’t stop talking about how powerful and clever you are. He’s got it bad.”

It takes everything not to read Ororo’s mind. “Who?”

She leans in close, dark eyes dancing as she whispers, “Scott. Summers.”

Well, that’s... flattering. Scott’s a sweet guy, and she’s never picked up anything inappropriate from him. He’s sensible, level-headed, and a good friend.

"Scott? Really?”

“Oh yeah, really! So what do you think? Is the polite but brooding Scott the kind of guy that puts stars in your eyes?”

No. She’s never thought of Scott as anything other than a friend... but now she knows he’s interested, he would be a good choice. He’s caring but grounded, and his occasional little dry quips are always a pleasant surprise. Reliable.

He’s not the kind of guy that puts stars in her eyes, but maybe she could learn to love him.

So she smiles coyly, shrugs and says, “Well, if I had to pick...” Before telekinetically stealing back her textbook.

Ororo laughs. “Knew it! He’s so your type. A strait-laced boy for a mature girl.” She lets the textbook go, but rolls over onto her back, covering the space Jean was going to put it. “Too boring for me. If I was gonna send you on a blind date, I’d set you up with Logan.”

Logan. Logan who stands out without being out-of-place, who sits alone at an empty table in the cafeteria but banters seamlessly with his classmates, who speaks his mind and fights for what he feels most strongly without caring what anyone else thinks. He seems content with the place he’s carved out for himself in the school, and Jean finds herself jealous.

She shouldn’t be. He’s reckless, wild, aggressive and downright rude. She’s surprised he didn’t stab any of the students-turned-sentinels that night, and he doesn’t seem to care about his grades at all. And he’s constantly looking scruffy, wearing that old leather jacket and those torn jeans that so perfectly hug his--

Jean lifts the pillow from Ororo’s bed with her mind and flings it at her roommate’s face. “Logan? Are you kidding? Ororo, I thought we were friends!”

“Oh come on, it would be fun!”

“Yeah, for you!”

When Anna gets back from class, she’s met with a room full of feathers. “Seriously? You guys actually had a pillow fight in here? God, you two are an actual teen flick. I’m not cleaning any of this up!”

Ororo protests while Jean smiles sheepishly and doesn’t think about leather jackets.

She’s been spending more time with Scott lately. And why not? They clicked pretty well on getting to know each other as students, and they often get a lot out of studying together. His presence is always undemanding, always keeping things simple. When Jean’s with Scott, she almost feels normal.

Of course, this is all getting a lot of attention from her roommates. Ororo delights in teasing her about it, giving questionable dating advice and texting her pictures of wedding dresses in class.

Anna’s less enthusiastic, but Jean figures that’s understandable. She knocked her first boyfriend into a permanent coma when her powers manifested and Donald was only interested in her because part of the sentinel programming had select individuals get close to the mutants Magnus knew about. It's the same for Bobby; Reese Gorman doesn’t even remember who he is, let alone that she was ever interested in him.

Still, if Jean ever thought that Anna could provide a balancing opinion, she was quickly proven wrong. Anna prefers to avoid talk of relationships altogether, and when it’s not possible-- such as when Ororo’s not content to meddle in only Jean’s affairs-- she gets defensive.

“They’re more trouble than they’re worth. Especially the boys in our year-- I mean, what are our options? One of the slavering masses? Bobby?”

“Well, Scott the Red-Eyed Wonder’s been snapped up already and I’m pretty sure Bobby and Hank are dating each other, but who says we have to stick to our year? Besides, it doesn’t have to be a relationship. Am I really the only one here who thinks Logan would be a crazy one-night stand?”

Jean wonders if Ororo shouldn’t just ask him out already and save them both the trouble.

“Oh my God, no! He’s a savage and he probably doesn’t shower. He’s not even good-looking! Ugh, I’d rather go out with Emma.”

“Same! I mean, I’m not so big on the whole possessing me thing and she’s the shadiest bitch I’ve ever met, she's seriously hot. It should be illegal for a white British chick's flat ass to be that attractive.”

As eye-opening as this conversation is, Jean promised to meet Scott in the library. If she doesn’t leave now she’ll be late, and she tells her friends as much.

“Oooooh, you know he’s gonna ask you to the party on Friday! Am I right?”

She freezes half bent over, bag strap in hand but not yet pulled off the floor. Ororo’s thoughts are bright with interest, and even Anna’s curious in spite of herself.

Recovering, Jean straightens up and smiles. “He’d better! I’m wearing a skirt and everything.”

She keeps the smile on her face as she leaves the room and their laughter, and tries not to think too hard about the fact that she doesn’t know what she’ll do if he does ask her.

She doesn’t expect him to ask. He’s never indicated an interest directly and she’s been content to pretend. But he does seem less put together this study session and though she worries it’s about her she pushes the feeling away in favour of being concerned for his wellbeing.

“We don’t have to do this now if you’re not feeling well, Scott. Is it your eyes again?”

“N-no, I’m fine. Really. Can we look at 22 again?”

Jean frowns. She doesn’t need to be psychic to see past the attempt to deflect. He’s sweating and fidgeting, just like he was in that first biology lesson before he lost control and blew up the boiler room.

“Scott.” She puts a hand on his arm, trying not to project too much urgency into her voice. “It’s okay to take a break. Why don’t we go outside, take a walk?”

“I...” His mind is warring with itself, nearly tearing him apart with indecision, but he finally acquiesces out of guilt for worrying her. “Alright.”

“Don’t worry about it, okay? Your health is important.”

He smiles sweetly in that way he does, his appreciation shining at the surface of his thoughts and she’s undeniably flustered.

They walk quietly until they’re outside in the breeze and the sunshine, and then they lapse into casual conversation. They stroll slowly, lingering, enjoying each other’s company as they unashamedly waste time and Jean forgets about everything for a little while.

And then Logan spots them.

Most everyone else makes the usual assumption that they’re spending time together as a couple, but if Logan shares that assumption he doesn’t let it deter him.

“Hey Red, is this guy bothering you?” He’s teasing, but Scott and Logan are such opposites in attitude that they constantly irk each other. (Scott’s admitted to Jean that he dislikes Logan’s impulsiveness and worries he’ll get someone hurt, and she can guess that Logan probably feels similarly about Scott’s adherence to rules and authority. He values his freedom.)

“We were talking, Logan.” Scott stays outwardly calm, but his mind is agitated. He doesn’t want Logan to ruin the nice time they’ve been having, but unsurprisingly the subtle dismissal is ignored.

“Did I ask you?” Eyes a darker green than hers hold a challenge, then something entirely different when he looks at her. “That a new skirt? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you not wearing slacks.”

Jean feels heat flood her cheeks and she doesn’t know what to say.

“Jean.”

She turns back to Scott immediately, struck out of her daze by the sudden resolve in his voice. “Yeah?”

He takes a deep breath, and then says, “Do you want to come to the party on Friday? With me?”

A cold sensation washes over her and leaves every inch of her skin prickling uncomfortably. Her heart is in her throat and all she can see is the ruby red of his sunglasses. It’s happening. It’s happening on the grounds in the middle of the day and everyone around seems to have gone quiet and Scott’s mind is full of anxiety that he’s going to be rejected and she can hear Ororo's excited, expectant thoughts nearby as well--

She blinks, swallows, whispers, “Like a date?”

Scott’s sweating again, but now she knows it’s not his powers. “Yeah. Like a date.”

Numbly, she puts on a big smile. She manages to respond in a way that sounds distant to her ears, “I’d love to!”

But it must sound genuine to Scott because he breaks out in his own beaming grin, utterly delighted. “Okay! Great!”

“Yeah.” Jean keeps smiling, she’s gotten good at that, and mercifully the bell rings to signal the next classes. “Oh, we should...”

“Yeah, yeah, of course! Uh...” Tentatively, Scott reaches out and holds her hand. She lets him and thinks I could learn to love him as they walk back into the school. Her skin still prickles, everything sounds like she’s underwater and not once does she stop feeling Logan’s gaze burning into the back of her head, even though he doesn’t move from where he’s standing outside.

Walking aimlessly, Jean thinks offhandedly that she’s not safe out here. Which is ridiculous, because she’s a powerful telepath and telekinetic, but also completely reasonable because she’s a fifteen year old girl and it’s dark and she thinks she might be drunk.

She doesn’t know, because she’s fifteen and generally law-abiding (although psychically masquerading as an adult teacher with a doctorate is probably not legal) so she’s never had alcohol before. She’s also not sure how she would be drunk since she was drinking lemonade.

Still, she doesn’t feel good, and the flashing lights and throbbing music had made her feel nauseous, and all the people pressing close with their loud, overlapping thoughts-- she told Scott she was going to the bathroom and she ran out of the building and down the road.

She’s not paying attention, not looking where she’s going, and when she zones back in again she’s in a park and can smell cigarette smoke.

She turns around and sees Logan leaning against a tree. He’s the source of the smoke and though she hates the smell Jean walks over to him anyway.

He stubs out the cigarette on the bin he’s next to and she appreciates it. “You okay, Red?”

“Sure. Just getting some air.”

He raises an eyebrow, then leans towards her, like he’s going to kiss her. He doesn’t, though. He just lingers a moment in her personal space, breathing, then leans back again unimpressed. “Half a mile and a mini bottle of Smirnoff Citrus says otherwise.”

“What are you talking about? I only had lemonade.”

He looks worried now. It’s an odd look on Logan’s face, but she likes it. “You've been drinking citrus vodka. I can smell it.”

“Oh.” She’s heard of alcopops, that taste like fruit soda but hit you hard. “That explains why I’m drunk.”

There’s a deep sigh, and then Logan’s wrapping his old leather jacket around her bare shoulders. It smells like cigarette smoke, mostly, but it’s real leather worn soft and it’s nice. “Come on, let’s get you back--”

Immediately, she pulls away from him, stumbling slightly in the heels Ororo had insisted she wear. “No.”

He sighs again, but doesn’t try to grab her. “Don’t you wanna get back to your date with Laser Face?”

“No!” Jean shouts, “No I don’t! I don’t wanna date Scott, I don’t wanna be at the party, it’s too loud and too bright and there’s too many people and I’m drunk I don’t wanna be drunk... !” She doesn’t smile. She cries instead, heaving ugly sobs that shake her so badly she falls to her knees.

Logan sits beside her, seemingly unbothered by the night’s chill. He’s not surprised by her declaration either-- Scott might have been fooled but Logan saw right through her. “I don’t like parties either. Same reasons. That’s why I’m out here.”

Gasping, Jean manages, “I want to be out here with you.”

A soft, bittersweet chuckle drifts into the air. “Oh, I wish you were saying that sober.”

“Scott makes me feel like I can pretend we’re normal.” She doesn’t mean to ignore him, but now she’s started she can’t seem to stop. Stupid alcohol. “You make me feel like it’s okay to be weird.”

“I’m not weird.”

Jean just looks at him. He rolls his eyes in response.

“Our old school coordinator wanted to rule the world, the rest of the student body was turned into murderous cyborgs by a racist brain in a jar and Hank does extra credit essays for fun. Not saying I’m not a freak, but 'likes being outdoors’ isn’t weird.”

She sniffles, and she knows there’s more he’s hiding but she doesn’t pick up stray thoughts from Logan unless she’s trying, and she can’t find it in herself to dig deeper. “You own being a freak. I can’t do that.”

“Um, have you met yourself? You’re the queen of playing it cool.”

Laughter bubbles up in Jean’s chest, slightly hysterical. “I don’t feel like it. I feel awkward and out of place literally all the time.”

Logan tilts his head, thoughtful. A thoughtful face shouldn’t be sexy. Stupid sexy Logan and his stupid hip-hugging jeans. And why are all his shirts sleeveless, showing off those toned arms? That’s not fair at all.

He turns that thoughtful look on her and Jean feels her mouth dry up.

“Doesn’t everyone?”

It takes her a second to remember what he’s referring to, and when she does she scoffs. “No.”

“Huh. That’s weird.”

Then Jean snorts grossly and starts giggling, flopping against Logan in the process. “You’re weird!”

“Am not.”

“Are too!”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

Logan nudges her with his elbow, but not hard enough to shove her off him. “I’m way less weird than you.”

“Nuh uh.” She says, like a child acting haughty, “You’re way weirder, weirdo.”

“We’ve said it so much even the word sounds weird.”

“It is weird. The e comes before the i and there’s no c anywhere! It breaks the law!”

Then Logan starts laughing, and Jean catches his laughter like a disease, and they both end up in a giggling heap in the grass.

Tomorrow, she’ll probably have a hangover to deal with. She’ll have to figure out an explanation for her friends as to why she disappeared, and she’ll probably have to explain herself to the Professor as well. She has no idea what to do about Scott. But right now she’s lying in the grass looking at the night sky with Logan’s jacket and her strangeness wrapped around her, and maybe they don’t fit her like they do him but she’s still warm and comfortable.

(She wakes up in her dorm bed with a water bottle and some aspirin on the bedside table. She reads the post-it next to them-- ‘REHYDRATE!!! -L’-- and thinks I could learn to love him.)

#x campus #x men #jean grey #hank mccoy #ororo munroe #rogue #scott summers #wolverine #five times jean lied

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solongdaisymayy · 6 years

Text

0 | Labyrinth [A Steve Rogers Fanfic]

Next Chapter

PRELUDE

8:33 AM August 13th, 2013 New York City, NY 66° F

Having acute perception was a highly useful skill, helpful in any and every situation − she had found that out just one moment too late. The subway came to a halt with a slight jerk, jolting her awake from her daydreams. Or nightmares, if she was being accurate. Nightmares it was. She glanced outside the window to see 47th–50th Streets–Rockefeller Center painted in thick, black letters on a sign that hung on the wall her gaze had landed upon. She rose up from her seat in the back, pulling the faded, tattered black scarf tighter around her neck as she stepped off the subway, bumping vigorously into restless travelers who hurried past her and into the compartment she had just vacated.

It took every ounce of her desperate power to stifle the groan the threatened to escape her mouth as she felt her sore body collide with one muscled frame after another amidst the overcrowded subway station; she shouldn't have worried, the hubbub filling the underground station would have drowned out her voice anyway - that shouldn't have bothered her either, for she was now accustomed to her voice being lost amidst the chaos of others. The girl slowly shook her head, trying to clear her loud thoughts. Now was not the time for such wasteful deliberations.

She waited at the foot of the stairs, leaning against the grimy brick wall, behind a tin bin that reeked of rotten bananas and liquor. Clenching and unclenching her fists, feeling the nervous energy flowing through her veins now, she thrust them into the pockets of her parka as deep as she could. The fur-lined hood of her jacket was pulled over her head, concealing her entire forehead and casting a shallow shadow on her face, blessedly. If she concentrated just enough, she could still smell the cheap yet distinct, ashy scent of Belomorkanal on it. It was very faint now, considering she'd been wearing it for months, but she assumed the man, who had originally owned this parka, must have smoked a lot for the fur to have smelt as strongly as it had back then. She isn't too sure though - she didn't know who he was; she hadn't even bothered seeing his face.

When the crowd had thinned considerably, or as much as it ever did in this city, the girl slowly, sluggishly, moved away from her spot beside the bin. She climbed the stairs carefully, clutching the railing with all her might. Her lungs burned and she began panting after moving up a mere ten steps. She persisted. She had to. A dull throb had begun snaking its way down to her right knee again, and she let loose a string of expletives to vent some of her frustration. It did little to help; her knee continued throbbing in pain and she could feel the slowly oncoming migraine again. But the pain did help put things into perspective, made her realize how necessary it was to continue if she wanted to live; it made her climb the seemingly endless staircase without taking a breather; she didn't know how much longer she could keep this up so she had to get there as soon as she could, there was no time.

She heard the thunder and felt the vibrations of the pouring storm long before she stepped outside. The sound of pelting rain filled the tunnel she had been climbing, making her desperate for some fresh air. When she emerged outside, at long long last, she noticed that the air smelled almost sickly sweet, the earthy scent of rain casting its fresh spell upon the gravel and concrete laden soil. It smelled familiar, like the sweet embrace of her mother, the soft kiss of a lover, the beaming smile of a dear friend - it was a whiff of her past, a world she could barely remember, save for the few fragments here and there, in her memories.

Her wide, green eyes took in the sight that lay before her: nearing 9 a.m. now, the city was rife with bustling energy and thundering rain. In most other cities of the world, people would prefer staying indoors during such weather, avoiding rain or, if they had to leave the confines of familial safety, dashing to get to their destination. Commonly, under such a drenched sky, people would avoid the outside world. Not in New York though. Never in New York. Even amidst the brewing storm, there were people everywhere, dressed for the day, busy and not sparing a single glance to the strange girl who stood with hunched shoulders, wearing a parka during the dwindling summertime.

When her disoriented mind finally caught up to her, the girl awkwardly walked a few steps towards her right, trying to maintain her balance as she tried to locate her destination. She hadn't been here in what seemed like forever; she couldn't remember where to go. Her feet, however, seemingly moved on their own accord as though they remembered the city even if her mind could not. She decided to trust her instincts - they'd gotten her this far, hadn't they?

Careful to remain as concealed as she could, walking close by aged buildings and keeping her head low, her skinny frame weaved its way across 47th Street. The more she walked, the more aware she became that a trickle of something warm was caressing her left thigh. She reached a hand to touch a spot just above her hipbone, pulling back to see bright crimson staining her fingers. The sight did little to faze her. That was another thing she considered herself to have become good at: not being unnerved easily; that was a lie, she knew it. Wiping her hand on a scrunched up tissue lying in her pockets, being as inconspicuous as she could be - that was something she'd really become very good at lately, being inconspicuous; it wasn't a lie.

The strange girl picked up her pace considerably. She walked faster, hugging the streets' shadows, for she knew her time was running out. She had to be there, and soon or else someone might notice the ever-growing dark spot on her dark jeans.

For a few minutes, she simply walked. The sky cried unceasingly, flooding the bust streets of New York City, its sound adding to the chaotic, mechanical hum of engines that filled the atmosphere. The billboards shone and twinkled, their lights so bright that her eyes watered if she stared at them for a moment too long - they were a stark contrast from the drab, fading, and peeling signs she'd become used to. Every now and then, her eyes would take a quick scan of the buildings around her, ensuring she hadn't missed her destination. She hadn't, not yet. And every now and then, at some crosswalk or another, someone would ask her a concerned, "You alright there?"

"Fine," she'd mumble each time, putting as much distance between herself and that person as possible - the last thing she needed was to waste time by having pointless conversations.

Her small form shivered as she struggled to keep her pace up. Her knee ached worse then ever, and her white lips quivered with exhaustion. Just when thoughts about giving up, resting, seemed far too tempting, the place she'd been looking for swarmed into sight - the skyscraper's reflective glass glinted in the barest hints of sunlight that fell upon it, and although there was no sign saying it, she knew this was it; she had known this building since she could make sense of the world around.

Walking towards the entrance, she braced herself for the forthcoming interrogation - there was no way they'd let her clear the security check easily, judging by the mismatched clothing she wore and the colorful face she'd been sporting.

She slipped past the curved sliding door, the cool air inside sharply cutting at her sweaty skin. The place was huge and airy, bright and so alive. People moved around the lobby in hurried strides, just like they always did here. There was never a dull moment at S.H.I.E.LD.. The curved eagle symbol of the agency was displayed visibly, and proudly, on an arched wall straight ahead from where she stood. Beyond that, there was a white-lit, long hallway that she knew had numerous elevators on each side.

A quick glance around informed her that she was nearly 50 feet away from the lobby's reception area. No one had noticed or stopped her yet, maybe she could slip past security after all?

"Ma'am? May I help you?" Maybe not.

She turned around to face a security guard, saw his eyes widen in surprise as he took in the bruising around her temples, her red, swollen lip, and dark shadowed eyes; his gaze moved lower and landed on her bruised knuckles and stained jeans. It was a minute gesture but she saw it: the security guard unconsciously griped the taser rod that was secured in a holster on his right thigh.

"I need to see someone. I worked here, I mean no harm." she said quietly, raising her hands up to her shoulders as a form of surrender, her voice but a hoarse whisper. The guard looked skeptical, his eyes narrowed. "Please."

"Ma'am, I'm going to need you to step to the side, please," he spoke clearly, gesturing towards the security room by the corner. "I'll get some authority to come in and make sure you can proceed ahead."

She shook her head. "You don't understand. I need help, I'm hurt and I need-"

The guard interrupted her protests. "Ma'am you look distressed. Wait by the side and I'll see what I can do. But I can't allow you entrance beyond this point."

"Look," she began urgently, praying to any God that might listen, "Let me go ahead to the reception, alright? You follow me and even hold that M1917 to my back." She was pleased to see the guard's shocked expression - she knew, very well, the kind of weapons everyone here carried. "Please, just let me through - this is a matter of national security."

The guard wasted a few precious seconds contemplating her words. Eventually he relented, agreeing to let her pass but not before she cleared the security scan. Sighing, the girl wearily agreed. She was certain that once she was at the reception, she could have them access her details and be assured that she was who she said she was.

The guard walked behind her, close enough for her to feel his presence. He clearly didn't trust her at all. She didn't mind, he was smart then - trust was nothing but a liability, a reckless emotion that they were all better off without. The short walk seemed excruciatingly long, perhaps because she was bleeding out, maybe because she had been running for months, or that she was nearly at the end of it all. The marble counter was cool to touch as she gripped it the moment she reached the reception; she couldn't stand straight without support anymore. Leaning against it, she disregarded the receptionist's appalled expression.

"9833021. I need to see the Director, Nick Fury," the girl wheezed out forcefully, struggling to maintain command over her words. "It's urgent!" She exclaimed, glaring at the shocked receptionist, ignoring the now stationary crowd around. They could clearly see the mess she was.

When the receptionist neither blinked nor breathed, said nothing at all, did nil, the bruised girl groaned exasperatedly – that was a mistake, for her ribs contracted painfully at the brutal exertion. Hazy spots had begun speckling her vision now, the receptionist's face swarming in and out of focus at rapid intervals. Any moment now, her consciousness would surrender, so she tried one last time; she banged a fist on top of the marble slab in front of her, speaking through gritted teeth in an desperate tone, fighting for help, for herself.

"I'm Agent 021 – Celeste Mia Lyton," the girl explained, fighting the overwhelming urge to just let go. "Clearance: Level 6. MIA since October 2012; I was abducted during a bioweapon confiscation mission in eastern Siberia targeting Andrei Asthokov."

She'd barely managed to finish her nearly slurred words, watching realization dawn upon the shocked lady opposite her – realization about what? – when the pounding ache in her head triumphed at long last. Her knees shook as the world blacked out. She was falling, to the floor, perhaps beyond – it felt like she kept falling down for a long time before the cool ground appeared underneath her palms.

The last thing she was aware of was the deep, accented voice of a man shouting "Call the paramedics!", sudden, hurried footsteps and a cacophony of shouting. And then there was nothing left for her in this world except pitch black silence.

__________________ • Belomorkanal — a Russian brand of cigarettes, mainly sold in the Soviet Union, but also was or still is sold in Russia, Belarus, and Ukraine. • M1917 — a kind of revolver; one of the standard firearms of the United States Army.

A/N:

Don’t forget like/reblog this fic and let me know what you thought of this chapter in the comments section! Or feel free to drop by my ask box and let me know of your thoughts, ideas, etc. I love hearing from you all!

ASK BOX

If you made it through reading this chapter, I sincerely thank you — I was super scared that this chapter would be awfully boring and confusing so I'm sorry if it didn't make sense. We'll get to know what all this was about as the story moves on :)

#Steve Rogers #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x oc #Chris Evans #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans fanfic #winter soldier #winter solider x reader #Sebastian Stan #sebastian stan fanfiction #natasha romanoff #sam wilson #Avengers #avengers fanfiction #avengers: infinity war #avengers 4 #captain america fanfic #captain america #catws

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inflagranteinnuendo · 6 years

Note

i loved your suits x svu crossover with barba!! i know christine is in med school from an ask she answered a while back, could you write a grey's anatomy style crossover with barba?? love your blog girls x

Happy holidays les amis! :)

long ass pre-scriptum before this long ass fic:

i was in a fancy ass gourmet salad place downtown a few days ago and it’s a place where the waitstaff learns your name when you order. So whoever attends the table calls you by your name and i didn’t think much of it until this Sharply Dressed Gentleman™️ one table over suddenly got up, strode over, greeted me by my first name, and asked for my number.

can i just say i was really glad that i didn’t have salad stuck between my teeth anyways long story short i remembered this ask on my way home and was suddenly inspired

A story in 5 parts, set in New York, with foreplay consisting of words, a lot of sexy and feelings, and absurd, manipulative schemes.

A man crossed your periphery vision. Navy pinstripes, baby blue pocket square in a three-point fold, burgundy silk tie, dove grey dress shirt, clean-shaven jaw, slightly downturned lips, sharply curved nose, and preoccupied green eyes…

Your gazes cross. Distracted by your appreciation of this fine male specimen, you trip on your own two feet.

And upend the entire cup of your coffee down your front right in the middle of the cafeteria.

Your co-residents at the nearby tables unanimously clap in response, led by none other than Cristina Yang. You flush and let your head droop back in exasperation, sighing, as staff and visitors alike turn curiously toward the source of the lunchtime commotion.

“Very dignified, doctor,” Meredith Grey laughs. Fine male specimen forgotten, you frantically try to save your cellphone from a liquid death, and she thoughtfully fishes the stethoscope out of your coat pocket before you initiate the world’s first qualitative study on The Effect of Freshly Brewed Coffee on the Rate of (Overpriced) Stethoscope Tubing Degradation.

What a good friend.

“Let me get you napkins,” she says.

Slapping your cellphone on the table, you dejectedly drop down into a chair next to Cristina to await her return, grimacing at the feeling of rapidly cooling coffee against your skin.

“Still Bad Luck Week?” Cristina snickers around a mouthful of greens. “I told you. Get laid. A good dick will fuck the bad luck right outta you.”

“Turn around, Yang, bend over, I’ll show you where your advice fits in my stupid schedule,” you grumble, flinging a wet hand at her head. Laughing, she dodges the droplets that flew at her.

Meredith comes back with a fluffy Jenga tower of crappy cafeteria napkins, glowing that ungodly post-Derek-Shepherd-kiss kind of glow. You look past her, and…

Yep.

Dr. Derek Shepherd, MD, Msc, FACP –aka your off-service attending of the day– is cocking his head at you, his post-Meredith-Grey-kiss smile melting into a frown, silently marking you down on professionalism for disgracing his (and the hospital’s) good name with your attire.

You grimace at him and mouth a regretful ‘sorry’ in his direction.

He throws you an unimpressed glance when his next step lands him in the lake of coffee you left behind on the caf floor.

“Fuck. Grey, you gotta put in a good word for me with your boyfriend. Please. I just soiled his Reeboks. Bad Luck Week has gone on for twice as long as its name indicates,” you lament at Meredith and Cristina as you clumsily cover yourself with napkins that instantly bloom brown with your watered-down $2.35 coffee.

“Hang on, start from the beginning, I wanna hear this,” Meredith demands as she unashamedly dabs at your chest.

“It all started when I was given the wrong room number for the morbidity and mortality rounds. The email said sub-basement 4, room 5046. And do you know what sub-basement 4, room 5046 is?”

“Uh… no?”

“It’s a fucking unisex wheelchair-accessible bathroom.”

Cristina guffaws and Meredith sprays spits all over your face. “A-a uni-unisex wh-wheel-wheelch-” she wheezes, tears of hysteria welling up at the corners of her eyes.

Scowling, you grab yet another napkin from the depleting Jenga tower and wipe dots of her saliva off your face. Gross. She had just kissed Shepherd. “And then, I was locked between the OR door and the offices when my card magically demagnetized. And I had to spend 15 minutes trapped in that hallway, trying to convince security that I was an actual staff with an actual medical degree who has actually been paged for an actual laparoscopic cholecystectomy that has my actual name beside it on the actual procedure board –”

“Excuse me?” A voice interrupts.

Meredith and Cristina were still hiccuping, faces red, spines curved, heads between their knees, so you take the responsibility of whirling around toward the source of the voice.

What the actual fuck.

It was the fine male specimen from earlier.

He speaks again but this time, he enunciates your earned title, and puts an upward inflection at the tail of your last name as it shapes his lips.

And you acutely feel underdressed in your coffee-drenched attire and stolen cafeteria napkins when you spot the silver gleam of cufflinks, peeking through his impeccably stiff dove grey shirtsleeves, with an engraving that reads “RB” –his initials, you presume.

“Uh. Yes?” You very eloquently enquire, mouth dry.

Bless your white coat, soiled with coffee as it is. There was no way a man like RB would’ve ever mistaken you for a physician if you hadn’t been wearing it.

Cristina’s head snaps up and she eyes the man with a mix of appreciation and calculation.

“Hi,” he greets the three of you with a nod.

Meredith has finally stopped laughing and is watching your exchange like she’s watching a tennis match, head swinging back and forth between you and RB.

“I overheard your story about how bad of a week, or two, you’re having,” RB continues, now only addressing you with a singular focus and a slight smile. “My name is Rafael Barba. I work as a prosecutor for the DA’s office.”

Your eyes widen with every word that came tumbling out of his mouth. You watch, flabbergasted, as he reaches into his pinstriped suit jacket and slides a business card on the table by your damp phone. You stare down at the card, absent-mindedly slapping Cristina’s hand away when she stealthily reached for it.

“I don’t usually do this,” Rafael Barba boldly says with a small self-satisfied smirk, dispelling all notion that he was introducing himself in a professional capacity. “But I saw how you looked at me earlier –”

Your eyes snap up to his, cheeks immediately flushing red. He notices, and his smile grew. “–and you’ve really made my day with your stories, so please give me a call –”

He leans down and scrawls a number at the back of the business card, blessing you with a whiff of his woodsy cologne.

“–at this number when you have the time.”

Rafael Barba patiently waits, as if he had all the time in the world, for a sign that you understood.

You swallow and nod, still dripping with lukewarm coffee.

Then, with a last smile, and a faint ‘nice to meet you’, he turns and strolls out the cafeteria without a backward glance.

“What the fuck,” Cristina whispers softly. “And you think you’re wet?”

The huge Trump tower looms over you in all its judgemental glory and you frown up at it, judging it back, all the while feeling misplaced and underdressed once again. It was becoming a theme with this Barba guy. Maybe he was a loaded, die-hard republican, coasting on daddy dearest’s legacy. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe you can just fuck him and that’d be it, he’d be out of your system and you can move on to bigger things.

“Jean Georges?” You demand in your airiest voice, trying to pass off as about 900 000 times more French and nonchalantly rich than you actually are.

“Right this way, ma’am.”

You consciously smooth down a scowl as you were guided through to Jean Georges Vongerichten’s pretentious eatery.

When Rafael Barba had suggested on the phone that you meet him at this particular restaurant, you’d shrugged and accepted without asking questions. Sampling every crook and cranny of your bed –not world class restaurants– was what you did in your free time. So when a quick Google search spit out the location of Jean Georges (Trump International Hotel & Tower New York), you were imbued with a Strong Sense of Civil Responsibility and took it upon yourself to extend your research in order to cover ADA Rafael Barba (Manhattan prosecutor, Straight Outta South Bronx, Harvard law) and his political affiliations (unspecified).

Due diligence is normally not part of your pre-date routine, but a dignified girl has to uphold her standards.

Meredith had been completely outraged when she’d learnt where you were meeting him, but Cristina had sat you down and painted your lips the colour of fresh arterial spray, and told you that good dick is good dick, but don’t fuck this abogado if he stinks too much of that orange stench.

A maître d’hôte greets you at the entrance. “Reservation under Barba,” you announce, before taking in your lush surroundings. Swallowing your apprehension, you realize that ending up under Barba this evening is becoming less likely as the night wears on… and you haven’t even laid eyes on him yet. Everything screams money, from the embroidered napkins to the people using them to dab at their botoxed lips. Thoughts arise, unimpeded, to the forefront of your mind –of one your patients wasting away, unable to afford the standard of treatment.

Your skin crawls in revolt.

You have never been more uncomfortable in your entire life. Despite wearing a dress that cost you about two months’ worth of rent, you self consciously straighten up in an attempt to push back at the aggressive shove that the sight of the top 1% gave you.

The maître d’hôte leads you toward your date’s table –and there Barba is, sipping at his water, eyes intently on you, following your form as you weave through the tables behind the maître d’hôte.

Barba stands up courteously from his seat when you reach him and smiles that small, smug smile at you again, perfectly at ease with being in the Trump International Hotel & Tower New York and Jean fucking George. And despite him wearing another sublime bespoke suit ensemble that looks like it would cost you the equivalent of your annual revenue as a surgical resident, you are completely and utterly disenchanted.

“Good evening, Mr. Barba,” you say in a tone dryer than the tannins ever bequeathed the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon on the table. “What an interesting choice of restaurant.”

Under his hawk-like scrutiny, you sweep the back of your dress forward before settling down in the lily white seat among the richest lily white asses of NYC. His eyes do not dip down to your low neckline.

“Thank you, doctor,” he replies, nonplussed, nodding at the waiter in thanks before settling back down in his own seat. “Glad to know that you approve. You struck me as a woman with a taste for the finer things in life.”

While droning on about the differences between the prix fixe and the chef’s menus, the waiter tips the Cabernet Sauvignon over the crystal wine glasses. You tune him out to narrow your eyes at Barba over the stream of red spewing forth from the mouth of the bottle, wondering whether you could get away with breaking the stem of your glass and, in front of 30 live witnesses, stab Barba with the pointy tip –just for his comment.

Down, girl.

“We will have Chef Vongerichten’s selection, please, and a half-bottle of your 2007 Château Malartic-Lagravière, thank you,” you interrupt the waiter with a smile, then look back at your date, who doesn’t even blink at your ordering for the table. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mr. Barba. Maybe the finer things that appeal to my palate don’t include you.”

“Yet,” he amends, without missing a beat.

You unceremoniously shove Barba onto the perfectly made bed before stopping to breathe while you take in the sight of him: hair tousled, pupils blown, lips swollen, tie loosened, half-undone belt askew.

“I can’t fucking believe you,” you hiss at him, kicking your heels off angrily. “Why would you do that to me?”

“I like my women riled up,” Barba drawled, slowly easing himself up to watch you perform the quickest strip-tease in the history of forever.

“What the fuck,” you bite out breathlessly with your hands on your hips, “is your problem? Don’t you think I’ve had enough crazy on the job? Couldn’t you have brought me to this nice, low key place where the fucking chef’s menu doesn’t divest you of several hundred dollar bills?”

Barba raised his eyebrows. “You’re the one who ordered some obscure Bordeaux off the cuff,” he retorts. “How about you stop trying to out-argue an attorney and divest yourself of that pretty bra?”

It was your turn to raise your eyebrows. “Well, Mr. Attorney, since you’re so good at arguing, why don’t you argue me out of it?”

He sits up fully to undo his tie, the motions of his wrists deliberately slow. “When did you realize–”

“–that you were fucking with me?” You scowl, crossing your arms.

“Well,” Barba pauses, letting the newly freed ends of his tie drape down his front. He leans back on his wrists to leer at the top of your tits, “that’s not entirely accurate. Technically, I haven’t fucked you yet–”

You step forward and he spreads his legs to accommodate you, pulling his trousers taunt across his crotch. “What makes you think,” you lean over him to leer at the line of his hardening cock, “that you are going to fuck me, not the other way around?”

“Tom-ay-to, tom-ah-to,” he whispers.

…un-fucking-real.

“You did all this to rile me up?” You ask, whipping his tie off his collar and pressing him backward with the weight of your own body. Down on the bed he goes, almost docilely, save for that predatory glint in his eyes. “That’s a… sizeable lump sum to invest in a one night stand.”

You suddenly find yourself on your back, dizzy and out of breath, staring up at a pair of sharp green eyes.

“Oh,” Barba says softly, reaching out to unhook the front clasp of your bra. “Is that what I am to you?”

“What else are we to each other?” You retort, gasping as he follows the line of your sternocleidomastoid with his lips and occasionally, his teeth. You reward him by undoing a button of his dress shirt each time he nips at your skin. When every button has been undone, he raises his head to kiss you.

“Even now, knowing that I’m not a complete asshole?” Barba huffs self-deprecatingly, breaking off the kiss. And he looks so vulnerable, especially with that stray curl of his hair over his furrowed brow, that you can’t help but smile.

“Who said you’re not a complete asshole? The burden of proof is on you, Mr. Barba,” you cheekily counter with a wink, though not unkindly.

An appreciative grin makes its way to Barba’s lips. He gives you another kiss, a deep, all-consuming one that has your guts twisting pleasantly. Was this a thank you kiss for not making fun of him?

“How high are your standards?” He wonders curiously, while unfastening his cufflinks and shrugging off his shirt. He chucks them carelessly to the side before leaning over you again.

“Beyond reasonable doubt,” you manage to gasp out as he gently tickles the tips of your nipples with his tongue.

You feel his chuckles vibrate through your thorax. “Of course,” he concedes, running a hand up and down the soft skin of your thighs, making you shiver. “The highest standard for the highest court in the land.”

A laugh escapes you before you could reign it in. “Did you just call me your workplace, the Supreme Court?”

He mouthes along the length of your sternum till your xyphoid process, as if performing some erotic median sternotomy, then obliquely, down the right costal margin of your ribs, simulating a Kocher’s incision. “Well… you are a piece of work.”

“Work at me then, Mr. Barba.”

“Oh, believe me, I will.” His fingers ghost linearly, above the line of your panties – Pfannenstiel, your mind supplies– and a sudden blaze of pleasure makes you arch your back.

He has barely even touched you and you’re already reacting this way.

“So, doctor,” Barba begins casually, propped up on a forearm beside the splay of your hair, as his fingers dip below the waistband of your panties. “You strike me as a woman who knows exactly what she likes in the bedroom.”

“And you strike me as a man who knows exactly how to please the highest court in the land,” you breathe against his lips, each words a kiss. And as he narrows in on your clit with astonishing precision, so does your focus. Unconsciously, you begin undulating your hips to meet the pads of his teasing fingers.

Then you realize that the possessive bastard is spelling out his own name against your pussy, but there’s nothing you can do to stop him now, because you are too busy tearing the 1000 thread count bedsheets apart with both hands and squirming up against his body, begging for more friction, for more of him, because your entire body is on fire, and he is gasoline, and only he can feed you this kind of pleasure, that possessive,

…R, possessive bastard,

…B, and his green,

…A, green eyes–

–and you come violently with a loud gasp, arching off the bed, head cradled against his forearm, thighs tensed and clenched around his.

“Fuck m-,” you pant, but the rest of your words are muffled against Barba’s curved lips as they press against your own in a bruising kiss.

He rips your panties off –this man does not waste any time. And so you don’t either. You reach down to unfasten his trousers, trying to stay single-minded on your task despite the highly distracting tricks that his tongue is playing on you. But you are drunk, much too drunk on the inoxicating liquor that is Rafael Barba.

He was right. You did have a taste for finer things in life, and he was one of them.

The third time you fail to unzip him, Barba laughs into your mouth and helps you out of pity. “What have you done to me,” you grumble at the ceiling as he kicks off his trousers and boxer briefs. “I transplanted a liver yesterday. Now look at me.”

“I’m not done with you yet,” he ominously cautions, rolling on a condom.

“By all means, counselor,” you taunt, running a hand through his chest hair. “Make your case.”

If Rafael Barba were anybody else, you would have kicked him in the nuts for being such a fucking tease.

“Beg for me.”

Eyes scrunched shut, bottom lip bitten through, you hiccuped before shaking your head defiantly at him. “Those your opening arguments when you try your cases?”

In retaliation for your remark, Barba runs the tip of his cock from your clit down to your entrance again, parting the soaked lips of your pussy to rest himself there for what seemed to be the 28th time. You were about to sob in desperation but one glance at his flushed face stopped you. Because, to your absolute delight, he looked as frustrated as you felt, if not more.

You’ve got to admire his tenacity, though.

“Beg,” he reiterates.

“Fuck you.”

“That’s the idea, doctor.”

He does it again and both of you groan at the filthy wet click of your pussy as the length of him slid around your clit. You clench on dissatisfactory emptiness, and suddenly, you’ve had enough.

It’s 2017, and you’re a strong, independent woman who knows exactly what you like.

This time, he was the one to find himself on his back, dizzy and out of breath, with you straddling him triumphantly, grinding yourself on the underside of his cock. “And what an excellent idea,” you purr, manhandling him into position.

As you sink down on him, his pupils progressively dilated, until his irises were mere rims around them. He blinks as you clench around him, and his fingers tighten on you, digging crevices into your hips as the girth of him splits you wide, and the length of him assails you crudely. You put one hand around the base of his neck for balance, the jump of his carotid quickening under your fingers as you did so.

Anchored, you begin snapping your hips forward, riding him hard and fast, never fully unsheathing him on your way back. And maybe it was the fact that an attorney always strives for control, or maybe he was too turned on to care, but his hands are restless –pushing you further down on him, squeezing your tits roughly, roaming your thighs, making you sigh, making you shiver.

Abruptly, Barba surges up, steadying you with a hand in the back of your neck when his change in position almost threw you off him. He pulls you closer to him while he rocks up into you. The intensity in his eyes makes you falter and it’s almost too much for you, too real, too sudden, too significant, so you let your eyelids flutter shut to distance yourself from that look when he rests his forehead against yours.

That was not a look you’d give a one night stand.

“Look at me,” his voice rumbles. “Don’t close your eyes.”

You bite your lip, choosing not to obey, but a sharp, deliberate twist of his hips makes you gasp, and your eyes fly open involuntarily.

“Rafael,” you stutter, floored at the exhibition of his tenderness as he traces your zygomatic arch and follows the line of it to tuck a strand of loose hair behind your ear. At the sound of his name, he shifts his hands to cradle your head as if you were precious to him, and you whimper helplessly against his lips when your heart skips several beats. Your lips can’t help but be drawn to his in a deep kiss, pouring in all the feelings you don’t have the courage to let yourself express.

You come before him, still lost in his eyes, silently, turbulently; and he, next, inhaling in your exhales, shuddering.

And for all your earlier exchanges of taunts and parries, silence.

He captures your lips in a slow, momentous kiss as the both of you wind down, and you finally yield to it, to whatever that has shifted between you in flagrante, letting your defensiveness and fear of intimacy recede with the tide of your high. Beneath your hand, Barba’s heart is still beating wildly, despite the languidness in his half-hooded green eyes and the relaxed set of his shoulders.

This is one perceptive man, your mind idly remarks, impressed, as he notices the change in you and breaks the kiss to look you in the eye.

“You ok?” Barba asks you softly, running a hand through your hair.

Dissatisfied with being away from his lips, you seek him out again and he indulges you for a moment before pulling back slightly.

“What’s wrong?” he persists, cupping the back of your head to make sure you can’t look away from him.

And that is really the problem with you, isn’t it? His intensity, his sincerity, his honesty –he makes you feel naked, like your soul has been bared to him, including all the indents that the ugliness of your cynicism and mistrust have made in it with ruthless picks and chisels.

“You’re not a complete asshole,” you whisper, rendering your verdict, feeling vulnerable and small in his embrace, “and I’m not sure I know what to do.”

Barba hums, leisurely stroking your back reassuringly. “When did you come to the conclusion that I wasn’t a complete asshole?”

In your mind’s eye, you replayed the end of that hellish dinner during which you both had tried to out-suave each other to death. “At the restaurant, when I brought up the incongruity between your stance against the principles of misogyny and your presence in the Trump Tower, and you had that look on your face, that’s when I realized…”

You trail off, distracted by the swirl of his tongue against the biphasic throbbing of your jugular.

“… that’s when I realized that you had voluntarily put yourself, and I, in the Trump Tower, not because your presence within was coherent with your political interests, but because you wanted me to make me uncomfortable.”

His hand stills between your scapulae.

“It made me so mad, when I realized that you played me. And that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To have your women all riled up?” And you were halfway to getting riled up again just remembering how offended and outraged you had felt.

“That was a joke,” Barba half-apologized, half-explained, bending his neck to catch your eye.

You narrow your eyes at him, cheeks bright. “Then why –why the hell did you do that to me, and then –and then look at me like that, and then make me look at you while I–” you pause, biting your already mangled lip, flustered.

Rafael Barba smiles haltingly, slyly, mischievously, not unlike the blades of sunlight playing hide and seek, inadvertently piercing through swirls of tumulus clouds in their carelessness –and your breath hitches at the sight of him, sporting that smile, threatening you with traumatic pneumothorax.

“I wanted to make you very uncomfortable,” Barba murmurs, affectionately extricating your poor bottom lip from the grasp of your teeth with his thumb, “because you struck me as a woman of many faces. And when people are uncomfortable, they let their guard down. They can’t hide behind a façade.”

He glides his index down the bridge of your nose, drawing back the crumbled remnants of your resistance. Your heart lurches, acknowledging that no one has ever exposed you so completely, and knowing that no one will ever do so, after him.

Forehead to forehead, you stare at each other, all your cards laid down. There are no aces left up either of your sleeves, no defensive strategy left in either of your tactical minds.

Match point.

“I’m not like most people.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “That’s why it took the Trump Tower to find you.”

Your throat squeezes shut. “You went through all this trouble for –on our first date?”

Rafael Barba’s eyes are kind, and green, and limpid. “I was not only looking for the silly woman from the hospital cafeteria, who ended up dripping in coffee because she couldn’t look away from me.”

“Not only?” Is this what angina pectoris felt like?

“I saw you on the 6th floor, before we met in the cafeteria. You were fighting tooth and nail to get your patient on a clinical trial, but you were dismissed before you ever finished your arguments. And that flare of righteous anger. I was looking for that woman too, in the Trump Tower.”

This is exactly what angina pectoris felt like.

“Did you find her?” You ask shakily.

“I’m looking at her.”

(img credit x)

#rafael barba x reader #rafael barba #rafael barba x oc #law and order svu #grey's anatomy #crossover fic #rafael barba x you #you are a surgeon in this #and grey's is set in nyc because reasons #grey's characters appearances: yang grey and shepherd #ok this is so fucking long #it took me so fucking long #but here it is #christine writes shites #long ass shites that take a long ass time #but it's worth it i swear

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aringabrielmoved · 7 years

Text

I’m Gonna Change Your Life

(Chapter Two of: The Night We Met) Chapter one is on tumblr and ao3

(Again, under a read more as it’s about 5,000 words! Tagging @omuonrice because they were super enthusiastic and kind about the first chapter!)

“C’mon, are you not enough of a rebel, Joey?” Mary had a glint of fire in his eyes as Joseph flinched away from the needle that he personally believed was too close to his eye for comfort. How had Mary convinced him to do this? His dad was going to kill him, it didn’t matter that he was moved out. Mary was supposed to be his path to domesticity and respectable Christian life, not college rebellion and fake IDs. And certainly not getting a black eyebrow piercing and ripped up jeans. His mother would have thrown them into the fire.

“Fuck!” Joseph’s voice rang into the small shop they were in before he immediately covered his mouth and felt the tips of his ears heating up. He took a deep breath as the slight sting of the new piercing in his eyebrow hit him. He saw himself in a small mirror across the way and slowly looked over his own face, bringing his finger up to the barbell that was now in his skin, wincing when he touched it. “Oh my stars, what have you done to me, Mary.”

Mary’s friend Damien had tagged along and was laughing to himself in the corner at Joseph’s apparent surprise. He had only tagged along because Mary wanted another person to come and make sure that Joseph didn’t chicken out, but he was glad he had sacrificed his time to witness that. “Maybe now you’ll finally pull out that stick that your father has shoved so far up your posterior.” Damien feigned an old-timey sort of accent and broke out into laughter along with Mary.

Joseph sat up and looked a little dizzy, but he had a small smile curling his lips up slowly. He tried to act like he felt guilty, and maybe he did, but rebellion tasted bitter-sweet. “I think it looks good, Joseph, something other than khakis and good Christian spirit.” Mary was smiling a little too wide, like it was her life’s purpose to lead Joseph into rebellion and this was the first movement forward. “You’re getting there, Christiansen, slowly but surely.” Damien giggled as Mary went on. “Let’s get out of here, we’ve got progress to make.”

Of course, Joseph made sure to thank the guy who had pierced his eyebrow for the sake of peer pressure before following Mary and Damien out of the shop and to Mary’s car, that was just the right thing to do. He was irrationally terrified of what his parents were going to think, even if he was 19 now and two hours away from home while moving into an apartment next to the college nearby. College. Oh boy, that was a storm coming his way. What was he doing in college? He’d figure it out, right?

Mary ruffled his hair and he quickly sprung into real life and away from his intrusive thoughts, staring over at where Mary sat in the driver’s seat. “I’m assuming I can’t convince you to do anything fun with that perfect bleach-blond hair of yours?” Joseph shook his head as he looked at the faint streaks of red that were slowly fading from Mary’s dirty blonde hair. He was not going to do that, or anything of the sort to his hair.

“No, thank you, Mary. I’m perfectly fine with my boring blond hair.” Joseph reached up to touch his hair, as if to assure himself that Mary couldn’t mess with it and it was still there. He was already afraid that Mary was about to slash all of his jeans, though he had to admit he liked the feeling his new ripped jeans gave him. It was something different, it was his own decision, not his parents’ or his fear telling him to stick to what he knew.

“Suit yourself, Sailor, but I’m taking Dames to a friend’s house to dye his hair.” Joseph raised an eyebrow when Mary started giggling, Damien shaking his head in the back seat as they turned a corner on the way to their apartment. “Some asshole called him gay for having a purple streak, so now we’re gonna dye all of it fucking purple.” Joseph sighed and Mary pulled onto the side of the street in front of their building with a smile on her face.

Damien was grinning now too, obviously in on this joke. “Well, I just think that if purple hair really does mean homosexual, then I should be very clear that I am fully committing to purple hair.” Joseph laughed a little at that one, but he was nervously tapping his fingers on the door next to him and becoming acutely aware of the fact that there was no comfortable place for his tongue to rest in his mouth. Hanging out with Mary and her friends was nerve-wracking, he didn’t know what he was supposed to talk about or how much information he was allowed to reveal to second-hand friends that he wasn’t truly acquainted to- and what if he hit a touchy subject? What if he got hungry but was too polite to interrupt and ask for food? What if-

“Jo, cool your jets, I stopped at the apartment for a reason!” Mary unlocked the doors in the car with a click and looked over a Joseph with a sort of knowing smile. He had already put the poor guy through so much rebellious change in one day, he needed a break. “I get it, you can chill here while we go- there’s leftover takeout in the fridge.” Mary laughed as Joseph’s face lit up, his seat belt unbuckling as he let out a long sigh.

The car door swung open too fast for Joseph to hide his apparent relief, but he wanted Mary to know that he was thankful for her mercy. “You are a blessing, Mary.” Joseph stopped half way out of the door to lean over a press a kiss to Mary’s cheek, hoping that that somehow conveyed his gratitude. Mary just rolled her eyes and motioned for Damien to come up and take shotgun. Joseph finally stepped out into the fresh air, noticing how dark it had gotten- it must have been getting late. “Please be safe, call if you stay the night?”

Mary nodded and sent a peace sign Joseph’s way as Damien closed the passenger door, knowing that no matter what Joseph would worry about her while she was gone. He was a kind soul like that. “Deuces, nerd, don’t get into too much trouble.”

Joseph waved as the car sped away and fished through his pocket for the key to their apartment, struggling to shove his hand deep enough into the tight pocket of his jeans to retrieve it. As he scaled the steps to their door, he realized that his stomach was growling. They really had been out for a while, huh? He was tired, but not ready for sleep, even if the soft sheets of his and Mary’s bed looked appealing right now.

Food. Right. How old was that take out in the fridge? Joseph was not ready to be a victim of week old take out- his stomach churned at the thought. Instead, he opened his wallet and stared at its contents. At least 50 bucks, and that could go a long way for crappy filler food, a few old receipts, some of those punch out cards he always forgot when he actually went to a place that used them, and the newest addition, a fake ID, proclaiming him to be 22-year-old Jared Hanson. Was this convincing? It looked real, but did it look real to anyone else?

Joseph turned to look into the full length mirror across the bedroom, staring at himself for a moment. It was weird to see himself looking so different than he had a few months ago, but he thought he was rocking the ripped jeans. His shoes were kind of clunky, and he wished his glasses would go far, far away, but that eyebrow piercing was cool, right? He knew at least a few people who would have to do an open-mouthed double take if they saw him right now.

The piercing kind of hurt, and to be honest, the holes in his jeans were making his legs kind of cold, but he felt so empowered that he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was being an individual, a rebellious college student, and he didn’t have to have a reason for it did he? He just felt good! He was allowed to be whoever he wanted and wear whatever he wanted- even if he kind of wanted to throw on sweatpants and give up for the day. He was going to keep these jeans on and show the world, he was god damn determined.

He took one last glance at himself in the mirror before pocketing his wallet, fake ID enclosed, 50 dollars safe and sound. He was going to go out and he knew just the place. A bar, any bar really, so he didn’t know the place. He knew nothing about bars, actually. All he knew was that his 22-year-old fake ID alter-ego Jared could get into any bar he wanted to. So once he made sure he had his keys, he threw on an ugly salmon colored jacket over his shirt and locked the door behind him, taking his grumbling stomach out into the world and looking around. Gosh darn, it was cold outside.

There were a few signs with bright lights that had turned on since the last time he was outside, and the small street looked almost pretty with the lighting. (It wasn’t a very attractive street.) There was a café that had earlier in the day closed, one of those weird but cute antique stores that was probably only open on Wednesdays or something, the road to the college campus that wasn’t very far away, a small family diner with a small glowing ‘open’ sign, and all the way at the end of the street was a bar with obnoxious neon light radiating down onto the pavement. That was his fate, right?

No big deal, walk up, show someone his ID, get in, get a beer? One beer wouldn’t get him drunk, right? What would his parents think, their little boy going out and getting drunk underage, oh my stars, he would never hear the end of it. He could do it, though, show himself that he was capable of walking in that bar in his new clothes, with his new piercing, with his 1- 22 year-old self. Yeah, he could totally do that.

He could feel the light washing over him as he approached the building, his hands fidgeting in his pockets as he approached the door. His thumb and forefinger grabbed hold of his ID preemptively, and his heart was beating faster than normal without his permission. A few people outside of the bar were staring at him as he made his way to the door, following a crowd of people who looked young, but older than him. Act natural, right? Confidence is key.

A few people in front of him pulled their IDs out and Joseph did the same, getting nothing more than a strange glance before he walked into the bar. And he was in. He was in a bar. That was fine right? He was a year past legal adult. Two years under legal drinker, but he wasn’t not planning on getting wasted anytime soon. Was it morally wrong? Well, not if he shifted his morals. He realized that he had been standing in one place for too long, that he was probably expected to move and sit down somewhere.

A table would be sad, and maybe suspicious. He hadn’t thought about the fact that he was coming in alone, or the fact that he would have to talk to someone to order food or drinks. The end of the bar was fine, right? There was almost no one at the one end, but enough people scattered around that he wouldn’t look alone. He slid into a seat and tapped his fingers on the bar, hoping that the bartender would take a while to notice him.

Joseph heard the door open again, but he didn’t pay attention, more focused on toying with his wallet and rehearsing what to say when he had to order something. The man who walked in sure did pay attention to him, though. If Joseph had the ability to read minds he would know that the man’s exact thoughts were something along the line of ‘what is this poor boy doing here.’ It was easy to ignore groups of college kids drinking their final exams away, but it was not easy to ignore a scared looking twink of a college student sitting alone at the bar.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Joseph nearly jumped out of his seat when the man jumped into the seat next to him, but he tried to calm himself down. Someone thought he was old enough to be bought a drink, and that counted for something. Was this guy nice, though? Did he want something else? Maybe it was time to abort mission. The man adopted a concerned look onto his face, hoping that he hadn’t intruded on some internal conflict. “Are ya doing okay there, kid?”

Joseph finally looked over at the man, giving him a once over. Or a twice-over. He was a little nervous. The man was easily in his twenties, and a little older than most college students, but he gave off the vibe. He had a leather jacket on that was a little too big, and Joseph could only figure that it was his dad’s. He had messy dark hair, tight-but-not-too-tight jeans, and some nice hands that toyed with the ring on his finger. Ring on his finger. Married. Phew. “Me- I, yeah!”

Joseph’s jittery nervousness thankfully didn’t scare the man away, he just slumped against the bar and motioned the bartender over to where they sat. “What do you want to drink, you look like you deserve one.” Joseph attempted to ask for beer and the man laughed at his cluelessness, and the fact that he didn’t even know what kind of beer he liked. He really was new to the bar scene. “Two shots of whiskey, please.”

Joseph realized that he was being bought alcohol. And that he hadn’t eaten. He wasn’t an expert on how fast people got drunk, but if he knew anything, he knew that drinking on an empty stomach would get him drunk faster than he wanted to be. And he already would get drunk fast if he hadn’t had alcohol before, right? He was going to turn into a train wreck pretty fast. “You don’t have to-“

“Shush, you obviously don’t know what you’re doing, you need a hand.” Joseph stared at the alcohol that was pushed towards him and then back at the man who had bought it. He could have easily said no thank you and went home. And that would be his fate wouldn’t it, being a bad rebel? No, he was going to prove himself. He snapped his head back and downed the shot like he saw in movies, feeling the burn down his throat but ignoring it the best he could. He must have made a weird face, though. “Damn, maybe not as much help as I thought you did.”

“I- yeah, thank you.” The man looked Joseph up and down this time, taking in more than he should have for being a married man. He wasn’t going to make any moves, that was the farthest thing from his mind, but he could appreciate Joseph for what he was. Especially after he took that shot. It was a little sexy. He shook his head and looked back up to where Joseph sat his glass on the table. Joseph could feel the man’s eyes, but he didn’t really care. He was confident that the guy was loyal to his wife, he seemed like a good man. “What are you doing here?”

The other man’s shot was the next to go, a laugh rising into the air once he swallowed. “Ah- you first, what’s got you in here.” For some reason Joseph figured he wasn’t a man to drink beer often, definitely a shots man. Joseph was also sure that he just witnessed the man order more shots. Wow, he might have been screwed. “And I want the real shit, you look like the most scared, failed attempt of rebellion I’ve ever seen.”

Joseph’s face went a little red, and he tried to avoid talking. He had no idea how long it would take him to start feeling weird on an empty stomach. “I- well…I don’t know what I’m doing.” The man laughed and gave Joseph another shot, muttering something about ‘me too, kid,’ that make Joseph feel a little better. Maybe they were both at a lost point in life. He felt oddly ready to spill his thoughts to stranger, and he knew that wasn’t the alcohol talking yet. “I’m supposed to be going to college, that’s why I’m here, but I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Ah, I get that.” The man looked kind of tired while thinking about that, still sipping on alcohol. “I know I look kind of old for college, but I still don’t know what I’m doing.” There was a story to be told there, and Joseph was determined to uncover it and help, but he realized he was supposed to be getting the help right now. Curse him and his kind, helpful charm.

He didn’t know how to explain without sounding like he hated his parents, but they were a part of the reason that he was so conflicted. “It’s- my parents.” Whoop, there it is. “They probably want me to study religion if anything, and I-“ He sighed as he attempted not to delve too far into why he wasn’t sure what to do. That would require insight into his past, and that was a little too personal and complicated. “I just- have other interests.”

A reassuring nod kept Joseph on the right track, encouraging him to keep going on with his story. “I really like helping people,” Joseph’s eyes lit up as he thought about the possibility of becoming a counselor, maybe even still helping with church but in a different way. “I’m thinking about child psychology- or psychology in general,” The thought….excited him more than he ever thought it would. He could really be a positive force instead of a negative one, offering help and encouragement instead of hate and violent words. “But doesn’t psychology kind of…go against my religion or something?

The man took another shot after taking a deep breath, looking like he was trying to collect his thoughts. What was that, his third shot? Joseph, feeling self-conscious of his drinking ability, downed his second. He hadn’t even realized that there were two more in front of him. The man in front of him cleared his throat and Joseph grabbed his third shot, settling in for an inspirational speech. “You know what? Fuck it, man.”

Joseph grinned back at the statement, but raised an eyebrow, not sure exactly what he meant. He had half a mind to scold the man for dropping an f-bomb. Joseph sipped a small amount of whiskey and immediately regretted it, making a face before downing the rest. This was dangerous territory wasn’t it, four shots would be too much, right? Whatever, this was fun. “How so?” Was he a little tipsy? Maybe. So many questions. He did, however, refrain from yelling at the man for using the f-swear.

“Just- fuck it, it’s ’a good philosophy.” The man shrugged and looked down at his drink, possibly trying to hide a story, but Joseph was feeling adventurous and he wanted to hear it. His head was swimming a little, a weird disoriented feeling that he wasn’t used to, but he was still fine. The man did, however, snap his fingers at one point to get Joseph’s attention.

Joseph shook his head a little in an attempt to regain his concentration, a smile on his face. “C’mon, there’s more than that, give me the speech.” The man tried to look confused, but Joseph was giving a very knowing gaze, even if he almost fell off his chair when he moved too fast. “I can feel it, you want to give the inspirational speech, hit me with it.” Joseph made a hand gesture that signaled the man to go on.

“I came to college with no fucking idea what I was doing- I had just had a kid and I was trying to get my shit together, and I still am.” He had a determined grin on his face, and he downed another shot, seemingly only slightly buzzed even after Joseph had lost count of the amount of alcohol he had consumed. “But now I’ve got a beautiful 4 year old daughter and a degree in film studies because- movies are cool!” He laughs and slides a tip to the bartender as he pays for his drinks, handing a final shot over to Joseph. “So fuck it, do whatever makes you happy, kid.”

The man cheered softly as Joseph drank down his last shot, the fourth or fifth? He lost track, and he felt weird after what- a half an hour of conversation? Maybe longer? He was still kind of hungry, and he was a little nauseous…woah, a little tired, but he was fine. Totally fine. “Whatever makes me happy?” Joseph chuckled a little, but he had to stop when he felt kind of sick. Bathroom? Good idea. Standing? Nah. The moment he tried to stand he had to hold onto the bar, and he immediately started laughing at himself, quite uncontrollably.

“Yeah- are you okay?” The man stood in front of Joseph, holding out a stabilizing hand just in case he started going down. Did a few shots really hit the guy that hard? Maybe more than a few…but they had been talking, maybe he gave the poor guy too much.

Joseph vaguely registered a hand on his shoulder and he tried to calm himself down to respond, ignoring the look of concern on the face of the man in front of him. “Me? Fine- I’m fine, are you fine?” Joseph attempted to start walking again and had to stop and stabilize himself, almost losing his balance.

The man caught Joseph and made sure to keep him upright, his heart racing just a little faster than normal now that he had a drunk college kid on his hands. “Shit, man, come here.” He swung an arm around Joseph’s shoulder and let the drunken idiot lean against him, even though Joseph was a little taller. “How- is it your first time drinking whiskey?”

Joseph giggled and fell against the other man’s shoulder, not even noticing that he was being led towards the door. “It’s my first time drinking, buddy, and I think I’m doing pretty good- I’m hungry, are you hungry?” Joseph brought a hand to his stomach and thought about food, remembering vaguely that he never did order any at the bar. Man, he could have gone for a burger and some fries, something greasy and gross.

“Shit, your first time drinking?” The man sighed and pressed a hand to his face, hoping that they weren’t attracting attention from anyone else in the bar. “Did you not eat anything?” Joseph’s stomach grumbling and his nauseous-ness let the man know that he hadn’t eaten anything before coming to the bar. What an amateur. “Why did you let me give you that many shots on an empty stomach and your first time drinking?” The man quickly deduced that the kid hanging off of his arm was not used to rebelling- he got the feeling when he mentioned his religious childhood, but that solidified it.

“I wanted to seem cool- and it was free alcohol for me.” Joseph stated this bluntly, apparently losing his verbal filter as the alcohol clouded his judgement. He giggled and nearly ran into the door before the man could open it. Wow, he was having the time of his life. Poor guy wasn’t going to feel so great in the morning.

“Alright- well, I’m Robert.” The man- Robert- gave Joseph a gentle slap on the face to get his attention, and he tried to put on a friendly smile. ”And I’m gonna walk you home so you don’t accidentally kill yourself.” Robert looked out into the dark street, the realization dawning upon him that he had no idea where the kid lived. “Where are we headed to?” Robert was fully aware of how insane they looked at the moment, staring into the darkness in complete silence while waiting for Joseph to remember where his own house was.

Joseph hiccuped and covered his mouth before pointing to his apartment building, thankfully visible down the street. Ugh, he felt kind of gross. He was not going to be happy if he vomited. “Can I lay down?” He looked down at the parking lot underneath him, but it was looking more and more appealing by the second.

Robert sighed and held Joseph up to prevent him from deciding to pass out on the street. He did not put it past anyone that hungry and full of alcohol to spend a night on the pavement. At least his house was close. “Alright, you know where you live, that’s a start.” Could the drunk guy probably make it home without him? With enough effort, yes, but Robert felt like the situation was his responsibility. Hell, he could remember the first time he got drunk, and it wasn’t pretty.

Joseph turned them towards his apartment building once they walked down the street, fumbling for a key in his pocket while they made their way towards an intimidating looking set of stairs. “Yeah, well I know what I’m doing, Bobert- Robert.” Joseph let out an ugly low giggle, pulling his key out and almost dropping it. “Bobert.” Robert looked like he wanted to growl back at that name. The kid was lucky that he was drunk and stupid or Robert would have kicked his ass.

After a thankfully short walk up the stairs, Robert took the key from Joseph and unlocked the door to the apartment to save himself the key fumbling and dropping. Joseph spotted the couch as soon as they walked in and flopped onto it. God, he was going to wake up uncomfortable if he slept there. “Don’t you- you have a bed, right?” Joseph rolled over and buried himself in the couch, cuddling a pillow close to his chest.

“Too far away, time for sleep.” Robert placed the key on the coffee table in front of the couch and found a notepad to scrawl on so that the drunk kid, and anyone who stumbled upon him, would hopefully have a clue what was going on.

Robert headed for the door, not sure if he should disturb Joseph’s drunken dozing on the couch. “Good luck, kid.” A muffled groan full of tired energy was all he needed to know that the kid was alive before he vacated the apartment, laughing softly to himself as he walked down the street.

-xxxxx-

Hey- nameless drunk college kid from the bar, ( I just realized I never got your name), sorry for letting you drink yourself half to death, that was pretty shitty. I hope you’re doing alright because the second I got you here you crashed on the couch. Remember, do whatever makes you happy, kid. –Robert

-xxxxx-

“Joseph?” Mary’s voice rang through his ears as he slowly drifted into consciousness, an awful headache hitting him when he tried to sit up. He gave up and eased himself back down to the couch. Mary was holding a piece of paper in her hands and reading it over for a second time, trying to absorb the information. “Who the hell is Robert-“ Mary seemed more amazed than angry. “And did you actually go out last night, alone? I didn’t think you had it in you!”

Joseph groaned and held his head in his hands, kicking his uncomfortable jeans off after a night of sleeping in them. He could feel Mary’s eyes on his as she laughed. He looked like a mess, hair ruffled, shirt hiked up above his stomach, jeans now around his ankles. “Robert…?” Joseph had to search his mind for memories of the past night. Handsome, nice guy from the bar. “Oh! He bought me drinks last night and gave me life advice, nice guy.” Joseph buried his head in the pillow in front of him, hoping that Mary was done interrogating him.

Mary handed the note to Joseph and waited for him to turn his face away from the pillow. “Huh…was he cute?” Joseph groaned again and reached out to grab the paper, looking over it quickly with a pained smile on his face. He couldn’t seem to make the smile go away either for some reason.

“He was attractive by conventional standards.” Mary scoffed at the prim and proper way that Joseph had to put it. Joseph caught himself admitting that the man had been attractive. He needed to go back to sleep. “He was also married- why are you asking?”

“Nothing, Jo, get some sleep.” Mary giggled as she walked out of the room, heading towards the kitchen. God bless her soul, she was making breakfast. Joseph stared back at the note before setting it on the table again.

Do whatever makes you happy, kid.

Those words of wisdom would stick with him. Whatever made him happy. He had a few ideas.

#joseph christiansen #joseph #dream daddy #ddadds #mary christiansen #mary #robert small #robert #endgame roseph #arin writes #fanfic #ddadds fanfic #dream daddy fanfic

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kpopfanfictrash · 7 years

Text

Binary Star

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: You / Jaebum / Mark

Rating: PG

Word Count: 3,790

Summary: “In some cases, these close binary systems can exchange mass, which may bring their evolution to stages that single stars cannot attain.”

You and Jaebum have been dating forever when Mark Tuan shows up in your classroom. You’ve always been against change - a bit debilitating, being a writer - but for some reason this new kid has you thinking there might be an upside to chaos.

“What word rhymes with Jerusalem?”

Without looking up from your book, you shake your head. “No.”

“That’s not an answer.”

You sigh, setting book down and looking at your boyfriend. “Why do you need to rhyme Jerusalem at all?”

Jaebum shrugs. “I’m trying for a religious theme … in a worship kind of way. Not in an I-actually-attend-church-and-sit-in-a-pew kind of way.”

“Still.” You hide your smile. “Maybe take that bit out. Also, Hozier already wrote that song.” As you resume reading, a guitar pick hits you in the forehead. “Hey!”

Jaebum jumps on the bed, arms wrapping around your middle as he nuzzles into your neck. “You’re disturbing my creative writing process.” He growls, nipping your ear.

You swat him with both hands. “I was in the middle of a battle! Thanks to you, they probably lost the war.”

“My bad.” Jaebum kisses your forehead. “Apologize for me, will you?” He pushes himself upwards, grabbing his guitar before scooting back to drape your legs over his.

You snuggle into him. “Yeah, yeah. Gillian is an unforgiving heroine though.”

Jaebum smiles and resumes strumming. His brow creases, fingers faltering as he strikes the wrong chord. The pick goes back in his mouth as he bends to scribble something. Without quite realizing it, your book lowers to the bed.

It’s still shocking that you’re dating.

Have been for three years now. Jaebum could have chosen anyone, so why he chose you is still a mystery. He has this way about him. You don’t know if you’d call it charm, exactly. It’s more an aura he has, a way of presenting himself that makes people want to know him.

People, including you. In freshmen year Jaebum was the guy every girl had a crush on. He was cool, talented and lead singer of his band. Oh, and he was hot as hell. When Jaebum made eye contact, girls practically melted into puddles.

On Saturday nights he played at your local coffee shop. Which meant that every Saturday night, you attended the same local coffee shop. You brought your homework in the guise of being studious but really you just liked looking at him. Listening to his voice for two hours a week. It didn’t matter much that he wasn’t yours, just having him nearby was enough.

Until he noticed you.

You’d been going to Jaebum’s shows for a while at that point, two months at least. The band was taking a break – you heard Jaebum mutter something into the mic about getting water before he hopped offstage. The shop’s soundtrack resumed, as did the chatter of customers.

You continued to work on your geometry homework.

“Acute.” Jaebum said as he flopped into the seat across from you.

You froze.

“It’s an acute angle,” Jaebum repeated, pulling your paper to face him.

You lifted your head to look at him. “I know that.”

“Well you hadn’t answered the question.”

“I was getting there.” You frowned, glancing at your paper, then back to him. “Don’t you have a show to do?”

“Why?” Jaebum grinned. “Missing my music?”

The blush on your face was unavoidable. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, you didn’t. But you’ve been here every night.” At your noise of protest, Jaebum laughed. “What, you think I haven’t noticed?”

“I – well.” You huffed, sunk lower in your chair. “No, I didn’t.”

“And why not?”

“Forgive me for pointing out the obvious… but between the two of us, I’m not the one people are looking at.”

Jaebum just smiled. “I’m looking at you. Doesn’t that count?”

The starkness of his statement left you speechless. “Well.” You cleared your throat. “You’d be the only one, then.”

Jaebum opened his mouth to say more but a voice came on over the loudspeakers. “Jaebum to the stage, please. Jaebum to the stage.” His bass player, Brian replaced the microphone, turning to laugh at something their drummer said.

“That’s my cue.” Jaebum pushed himself to stand. Before leaving he hovered, looking almost hesitant for a moment. “Can I call you?”

You answered so quickly, you thought he’d missed it. “Yes.”

“Great.” Jaebum turned to hide his smile. “See you after the show, then.”

You saw him after that show. And after the next. Pretty soon the two of you were inseparable, rarely one name mentioned without the other. His hand fit in yours, his thoughts fit with yours. For the next three years, everything you did was by his side.

“Stop staring,” Jaebum grumbles from beneath his hair.

You scoot closer. “As your girlfriend, it’s my right to stare.”

“Oh yeah? Where’s that written?”

“The official relationship handbook. Written by God, penned by me.”

Jaebum snorts. “Sounds like a best seller.”

“That’s the plan.” Your thoughts wander as you glance through your book. “Did you know she wrote this when she was twenty four?” Your fingers trace the cover. “Crazy.”

“Mm?” Jaebum looks up. “Really?”

“Yeah. Twenty four and already published.” You sigh. “That’s the dream,”

“Lucky. That’s all.” Jaebum strikes a new chord. “There are plenty of talented people, Y/N. Its luck who makes it and who doesn’t.”

“Well fuck.” You flop onto the comforter. “Guess I should kiss all my dreams goodbye then – when have I ever been lucky?” You’re half hoping Jaebum doesn’t hear you but he does. Of course he does. You listen to Jaebum setting his guitar down.

“Hey.” His hand slips beneath your shirt to trace circles on your back “You’re forgetting one very crucial, third element.”

“Oh really?” You know he’s just bullshitting now, but still you smile. “What’s that?”

“Hard work.” Jaebum gently kisses the top of your head. “You’re dedicated and persistent, Y/N. With that, there’s nothing you can’t do.”

You flip over to face him. “But…?”

Jaebum’s eyes flicker. “But… maybe you should think about if you really want this.”

You push yourself to sit, letting his hand fall from your back. “What?” Being a writer is all you’ve ever wanted. Ever since you discovered the stories you dreamt of could be placed on paper. “Of course I want this.”

Jaebum’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I just worry,” he sighs. “You care so much Y/N – which is amazing, but it means you get hurt. When you’re a writer you’ll have to deal with a lot of rejection. I don’t know if you’ve thought that through.”

“I’ve thought about it.”

“I know.” Jaebum frowns. “But have you ever stopped to think why you’re doing this? What if... the thing you’ve been dreaming of, the thing you’ve wanted your whole life, turns out to be nothing more than a pipe dream?”

Somewhere in his sentences, Jaebum has stopped looking at you. He’s staring down at his legs – staring at himself. Some of your anger dissipates when you wonder if he’s still talking about you.

You scoot closer. “I don’t think luck is as important as you think it is.”

“No?”

You slowly shake your head. “I think some people are born to succeed.”

As this he looks at you and, for just a second you see the Jaebum the rest of the world doesn’t. The Jaebum that even you only glimpse occasionally. The Jaebum not in control, the one seeking approval as much as you do.

Maybe even more so.

Your hands find his hair, twining strands between your fingertips. “I will be a writer,” you say. “Just like you will be a musician.”

A smile crosses his lips. “Stop reading my mind. It’s scary.”

“This is what happens when you’re old and married.” Flopping down across his lap, you draw your book into your arms. “Now let me finish in peace.”

Jaebum laughs. “But you were the one staring at me!”

“Shh, you’re delusional.”

“Crazy woman.”

“Madman.”

“Your madman.”

You slide down farther, allowing your book to grab you one more. “If you say so.”

Later that night Jaebum’s words revisit you. Despite your assurances otherwise, you do worry about the things he said. You worry you’re not good enough. You worry you’ll fail. You worry you won’t be able to pick yourself up when you do.

It’s Jaebum that keeps you awake, though. His voice repeating that one insecurity over and over.

What if this is all just a pipe dream?

School has only been in session for about a week, a short enough period where students are still excited about going and girls still care what they wear. You picked out your clothing last night: black skinny jeans, white tank and grey cardigan. You swing your messenger bag higher in the mirror, straightening your hair in an attempt at decency.

“Yuck.” Your younger brother, Robbie watches from your doorway.

Robbie is a junior and going through that phase where anything involving his older sister is of limited interest to him. Knowing this, you grin. “Robbie! You want a hug?”

Robbie vehemently shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Just one? C’mon, your face says you want a hug.”

When you hold out your arms, Robbie yelps. “BACK, WENCH!” His backpack bangs against his sides as he runs away.

You follow, laughing as your own feet thud down the staircase. At the bottom you grab the car keys, tugging on your jacket. “Mom, Robbie and I are leaving!”

“Okay!” Your mom pops her head from her office to wave. “Drive safe.”

“As always. C’mon Squirtle.”

Robbie groans, brushing past you to the car. “Don’t call me that.”

“Squirtle.”

“Rollie.”

“Hey!” You punch him in the arm. “Squirtle is because you looked like an adorable cartoon as a child. Mine is because I had seriously chubby cheeks.”

Robbie sticks out his tongue and you continue to bicker all the way to school, teasing in the way that only siblings can. In the parking lot you fall silent, stepping from your car to slam its door. “Another year,” you sigh at the brick stone before you.

“At least it’s your last.” Robbie yanks his backpack higher.

“Yeah. I guess.”

Rather than excitement, the thought fills you with panic. You know high school. You understand high school. You get good grades, are well-liked and things come fairly easily. College is a whole different ball game – one where you’ll be on the losing end. At least at first.

You hate losing.

Of course, this all assumes you actually get into college. Which is what this fall is about.

“Robbie!”

One of his friends calls and Robbie nods, punching you on the shoulder. “See ya.”

You wave goodbye, watching him disappear before heading to your own locker. Five minutes until first bell; just enough time to put your things away and head to science.

You wave at Maddie as you enter, plopping down in the seat beside her. When you yawn she laughs, holding out a thermos of coffee. “Still not a morning person?”

You accept the gesture, sliding lower in your seat. “I’ll be awake around ten, thanks.”

Maddie grins. “Nothing exciting ever happens before then, anyways. You’re not missing out.”

As though on cue, the classroom door opens. Someone you don’t recognize steps inside and slowly, you lower your mug.

The guy is of medium height, with ashy blonde hair and delicate features. You realize you’re staring when Maddie pokes you, hard in the ribs.

“Hey,” she hisses. “I don’t know him. Do you know him?”

You shake your head. “No. Maybe he’s new.”

“A new kid?” Maddie’s eyebrows shoot up. “Excellent. It’s been boring around here.”

You laugh as you look away. “Clearly, you’re too relaxed about college if you’re bored. Want me to read some of your essays?”

“Yikes, no.” She grimaces. “Maybe you’re too worried, Y/N. You have a perfect grade point average, a crazy score on the ACT and can basically get into any college you want. What’s the problem?”

From the corner of your eye you watch the new kid take a seat. “I don’t know. What if it’s still not enough?”

“Well. Is college really what you want, then?”

Her words echo Jaebum’s and for some reason your stomach clenches. Before you can open your mouth to respond, the bell rings.

“Good morning, students!” Mr. Davis takes his place at the front of the classroom.

You shrug and face forward. Saved by the bell. Maybe it’s silly, but you don’t want to talk about the future Saying it out loud makes it’s real. Means you’ll have to think about the words which have been buzzing in your brain all morning.

You twirl your pencil, lost in your own world as a new voice speaks. Blinking, you realize the teacher has asked the new kid to introduce himself.

“Hi, I’m Mark.”

He’s even better looking than you thought. Mark has those delicate, elfin sort of features which could easily look silly but on him, look like a model. Mark seems like he doesn’t belong in a classroom, that’s for sure. He should be on billboards or magazines, somewhere for the world to appropriately ogle his bone structure.

Mr. Davis flips over a piece of paper on his desk. “Where are you from, Mark?”

“Los Angeles.”

Mr. Davis doesn’t ask for elaboration, merely nodding for Mark to sit down. You aren’t surprised by this – Mr. David is blunt, as far as teachers go.

What is surprising is that you find yourself wondering. Where Mark is from, how he got here. Odd - you push these thoughts away.

The rest of the period goes by surprisingly fast. As you gather your things to leave, Maddie resumes talking. It appears she’s forgotten about her earlier question, which makes you grateful. She talks all the way to your next class, which is history - one of your favorites.

Mr. Heughan is one of those rare teachers who somehow never lost their passion for inspiring others. It’s why he’s your favorite – and why history is somehow enjoyable with him at the helm. Mr. Heughan is sitting at his desk when you enter, feet propped on the filing cabinet.

He waves happily. “Welcome!”

“Good morning, Mr. Heughan.”

You take a seat at the front of the classroom, organizing your pencils in a row on your desk. Black, blue, grey. There are still a few minutes until the next bell so you pull out your notebook, continuing the next chapter sketch you’re working on.

About a minute later, something hits your foot – a pen. As you bend to pick it up, your fingers brush someone else’s and you jerk backwards. Deep brown eyes meet yours, a sheepish expression crossing the face of Mark Tuan. He takes the pen from your grasp. “Thanks.”

Setting the utensil on his desk, he faces the chalkboard. The whole encounter takes less than a minute.

When the bell rings, Mr. Heughan stands. “Good morning! As many of you know, we have a new student in class. Please give a warm welcome to Mark Tuan.” Mark flushes as Mr. Heughan sits on the edge of his desk. “Why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself?”

Mark nods. “I’m Mark. I’m from L.A.”

Mr. Heughan smiles patiently. “And that’s all that you are?”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s all that you are,” Mr. Heughan repeats, hopping off his desk. “Mark Tuan, from L.A. If I were to write this in a history book – would you be satisfied?”

“Well… no.”

“Good!” Your teacher smiles. “Now Mark. What is it that makes you tick – what makes you, you?”

Mark pauses. “Well, my dad is in the military, so we’ve moved around a lot. I was at my last school for three years – the longest I’ve ever been in one place.”

“Good.” Mr. Heughan nods. “All facts, though.”

“I’m an adrenaline junkie.” Mark shakes his head, embarrassed by his sudden declaration. “I, uh do a lot of high intensity sports, activities. Anything that makes me feel alive.” His jaw snaps shut, as though he’s said too much.

“Interesting.” Mr. Heughan nods. “Welcome, Mark! Now if you could just refrain from trying any of those high risk activities in my class, I would be eternally grateful.”

Mark smiles awkwardly. “Right.”

At your giggle he looks over, eyes connecting with yours. “Sorry,” you mouth. Suddenly compelled, you bend to scribble something on your sheet of paper. Mark watches, gaze warm on the back of your neck.

And then you’re sliding him the note, slipping it onto his desk and facing forward. Thankfully Mr. Heughan doesn’t see – he’s notoriously strict about students paying attention. You’re not sure what possessed you to do it, actually. Writing notes in class is very unlike you.

The paper lands on your desk.

Your own words are first: Don’t be too embarrassed – he makes everyone do that on the first day!

Beneath that, Mark has scribbled. Hm. Well, what did you say?

When you look up he’s not looking at you. Eyes studiously copying notes from the blackboard, though you spot a small smile at the edge of his mouth. Your pencil finds the paper.

I told him I’m a writer. Though apparently I lacked gusto, so he made me shout it five times from his window.

When Mark reads this, he snorts.

Mr. Heughan turns around. “Correct, Mr. Tuan!” He wipes a hand on the leg of his pants. “Napoleon was a very amusing figure. Now tell us three other facts about Napoleon Bonaparte to ruminate on.”

To your surprise, Mark answers. Mr. Heughan seems surprised as well, happily writing them down on the board. Mark look at you with a slightly smug smile and you roll your eyes, embarrassed to have been caught staring.

He doesn’t return your note.

At the end of class, Mr. Heughan faces the class. “Don’t forget next Wednesday is our field trip to the History museum. You must bring your signed permission slip or you won’t be allowed to board the bus. That’s all! Read chapters 10 and 11 by Monday.”

Mark Tuan is the first to leave but before he does, he drops a folded piece of paper on your desk. When you look up he’s already gone, absorbed into the crowd of people. You unwrinkle his note and stand, smoothing it over your pencil case as you exit.

Silly of him. Not all passion is loud.

You’re re-reading this when you reach your locker. Distracted enough for Jaebum to slip behind you and wrap his arms around your waist. “Hey.”

“Hey!” You whirl, heart pounding – which is crazy, since you haven’t done anything wrong. You shove Mark’s note into your pocket, smiling brightly. “What’s up?”

Jaebum’s brows quirk. “Not much. You?”

“There’s a new kid in school,” you say, opening your locker. “Not much else.”

“Ah, yeah. Brian mentioned. A military brat, right?”

“Something like that.” Pulling your books out, you shut your locker door. “So are you and the band ready for next week’s gig?”

“If by ready, you mean nauseatingly nervous then yeah – super ready.”

You laugh and slide a finger through the loop of his jeans. “You’ll be wonderful. You always are.”

Jaebum pushes a hand through his hair, clearly still worried. You press a kiss to his lips, meaning to reassure him until he kisses back. Your pulse thuds as what started off as gentle turns to something else. Jaebum leans forward, hand reaching for the wall –

And the locker door next to you slams shut.

Jaebum jerks back, your face hot as your head turns to the side. You really shouldn’t be surprised when you find Mark staring back at you. His eyes connect with yours before moving to Jaebum.

“Mark!” Quickly you disentangle yourself. “This is my boyfriend, Jaebum.”

Mark’s face remains expressionless. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Jaebum stares back.

“Right.” There’s a pause, one made even longer by the fact that you can’t think of a single thing to say. You open your mouth, unsure what’s going to come out when the bell rings. Your next class isn’t even close to here. Giving Jaebum a kiss on the cheek, you wave. “Catch you both later!”

You can’t help but look over your shoulder as you round the corner. Neither Jaebum nor Mark is there anymore though, so you shake your head to face forward. It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself – Jaebum doesn’t have to like your friends. Your friends don’t have to like Jaebum.

Still.

The rest of the day slips by uneventfully, until your last class. Creative writing, also known as the reason why you never skip out early. Of course Mark Tuan is in this class, too. He’s already seated when you enter, slumped in a corner to stare out the window.

You slide into the spot beside him. “What did your note mean?”

Mark turns. If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. “Huh?”

“’Not all passion is loud,’” you quote. “What did you mean by it?”

“What I said.” Mark shrugs. “Some people show love through actions. Just because you don’t yell about being a writer doesn’t mean you’re not one.”

You think about this, turning his words over in your mind. Then you laugh. “In one sentence, you made about sixty percent of my anxieties disappear.”

“Only sixty?” Mark relaxes, a smile spreading across his face.

“Well, the other forty percent are pretty well seated. It would take more than a sentence to get rid of them.”

When Mark laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Adversity breeds creativity. Let that forty percent simmer Y/N, it’s good for your soul.”

“Huh.” You tilt your head. “I don’t think I told you my name.”

Mark’s eyes move to the corner of the room, the desk – anywhere but you. “Uh, no. I asked someone.”

“Did you, now?”

He turns to face you, eyes rolling at your smile. “Don’t be too flattered. I needed to know whose life I changed with my stellar advice, that’s all.”

“Oh, sure.” You’re unable to keep from laughing. “I’ll be sure to dedicate a page in my first novel to you in thanks.”

“Just one page? My advice was worth at least a foreword.”

“Life is pain, Mark.”

Before you can say more the bell rings and you reluctantly face forward. Today’s prompt is already written on the board and you grab your pencil, tapping its lead point against your chin.

In 1,000 words or less, write about a time you experienced doubt or anxiety.

You snort, glancing over at Mark. If only there wasn’t a word limit.

[Master List]

Playlist: Young Blood, The Naked and Famous; Aquaman, Walk the Moon; Sweet Disposition, The Temper Trap; Hold Back the River, James Bay; Reckless Love, Bleachers

388 notes · View notes

itmighthavebeenintentional · 4 years

Text

Walk Me Home - Ch 4

Word Count: 2702

Author’s Note: Mega thanks to @mskathywriteswords , @fangirlxwritesx67, and @cracksinthewalls for editing, revision, flailing, and generally knocking sense into me when I’m being stubborn. You all made this story way better than it started it, and I love you. Thanks to everyone who read/reblogged/liked the first chapter. I hope you enjoy the story as much as I do.

@thoughtslikeaminefield , I hope you still love this as much as the first time you read it. I know I do.

Keep in Mind: There are a lot of flashbacks. I tried to write current events in present tense and flashbacks in past tense. Here’s hoping I got everything right!

Please read/heed the warnings. 18+ ONLY.

In Case You Missed It: Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 ItMightHaveBeenIntentional’s Masterlist