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idreamofplaid · 3 years

Text

Bigger Dreams

Square Filled: Photgrapher!Jensen for @spnchristmasbingo & Pregnancy for @spnfluffbingo

Characters: Jensen x Reader

Rating: Teen

Summary: Sometimes dreams can change, and sometimes they can work out even more beautifully than you imagined.

Word Count: 2174

Created for @spnchristmasbingo & @spnfluffbingo

He would be home soon, and you’d be waiting for him by the door, well near it at least, with a cup of hot coffee spiked with Irish Cream. The barometer outside had dropped, just a little more and snow for Christmas was a possibility. The warmth in the cup would drive the chill out of him and put him in a better mood.

You heard Jensen’s key in the lock right on schedule. He always hurried home as soon as he could. Your relationship was still new, and you couldn’t get enough of each other. He smiled as soon as he saw you, closed the door, and crossed your tiny living room to join you on the sofa.

As he sat down, you held out his cup of coffee. He took it from you, letting his fingertips brush over yours as he did. “How was it today?” You started to massage his shoulders, working out the stress induced kinks there while you waited for his answer.

Jensen relaxed under your touch. “Three screamers, two criers, and one runner,” he answered, rolling his neck and making a contented sound. It was working; he was feeling better and letting the tension of the day fall away.

You stopped massaging and let your hands rest on his shoulders. “I’m sorry, babe.” Jensen considered photography an art, his chosen artform; but it was hard to make a living as an artist. Until he was able to do that, he made a living in the much more lucrative world of family photography; and the holidays were the busiest time of year in that line of work. It seemed nearly every parent in the city decided it was necessary to dress their kids up in red velvet and have professional photographs made.

You could understand why they would want to do that, much better now. Absentmindedly, you ran your hand over your stomach. Jensen never said much about the kids he took pictures of, except how much he hated it. They wouldn’t sit still, wouldn’t smile, and the worst was when siblings started fighting. That could really “fuck up a schedule,” and the frequent result was an unhappy client with some expensive pictures of red faced kids.

It made what you needed to tell him that much harder. This pregnancy wasn’t planned, instead it was the result of a night of too many tequila shots that made the two of you careless, but from the first moment the doctor had verified there was a baby growing inside you; you’d loved your child. It was an instant and all consuming love. Problem was, you had no idea how Jensen felt about being a parent or how he was going to react.

The only time you’d ever talked about children was when he told you about the kids he worked with, and those conversations weren’t favorable. Maybe it’d be better to give him a chance to shower and change clothes. You could feed him and then tell him.

Several minutes later, Jensen was wearing his favorite henley and a pair of jeans. You were putting the last of the dishes on the table as he walked up behind you and circled his hands around your waist. He kissed the side of your neck, then raised his head and scanned the table. “You outdid yourself tonight, babe.”

Jensen sat down and took another look at the spread in front of him. All his favorites were there. “When did you find time to do all this? Didn’t you have two auditions today?”

You hadn’t expected the conversation to take this kind of turn. Lying to him wasn’t an option. You just weren’t going to do that, but you had been hoping for more time to lead up to what you were going to say. Your finger played with the edge of your plate. “I did, but I cancelled them.” The roles you had planned on auditioning for weren’t for pregnant women.

Jensen stopped spooning potatoes onto his plate. “What is it, baby? Are you feeling okay?” Normally, nothing would cause you to miss an audition. Your desire to be an actress had been similarly as strong as Jensen’s was to make art through his photography.

You moved your finger from your plate, opting to fiddle with the napkin on your lap instead. You smiled weakly at him. “I’m fine, Jensen. It’s just those parts aren’t right for me.”

“What changed your mind, sweetheart? You were so excited about those auditions.” He looked down at your almost empty plate; morning sickness had started to set in. “Are you sick, Y/N?”

You paused for a second. “No, Jensen. I’m not sick.” Why was it so hard to say this? So many thoughts were swirling through your head. He had plans for his career, and you’d had plans for a career as well. Finding out you were going to be a mother immediately changed that for you, and you were happy to change your way of thinking. Visions of baby booties were now dancing through your head, and you were mentally making plans of how you wanted your baby’s nursery to look.

Jensen’s eyes reflected the various colors of green like a prism, and those beautiful eyes now filled with concern. It was time to tell him the truth. “Jensen, I…” You stopped, took a breath, and tried again. “I know we haven’t talked about this, and I wasn’t trying. Jensen, I wasn’t. I promise I wasn’t.” Tears started to roll down your cheeks.

He got up, walked around the table, and kneeled beside you. “Y/N, honey, what’s wrong? What are you talking about? Talk to me.” He reached for your hand and took it into his.

You loved Jensen’s hands. They were broad and strong. Whenever he touched you, held you, it never failed to make you feel cherished and safe. This time was no different.

With his other hand, Jensen reached up and brushed your cheek with his knuckles. He wiped away your tears as he did, and the words bubbled up past the knot in your throat. “Jensen, I’m pregnant.”

It took a couple of seconds for recognition to register in his mind. “A baby?” His eyes fell to your stomach, and his hand started to move toward it before he stopped it in mid air. Jensen looked to you, a softness now filling his eyes. “Can I?”

You took his hand and led it to your belly. “Of course you can.”

His hand was warm, and even though he couldn’t feel anything at this point, Jensen’s eyes grew a little wider. “We’re having a baby?”

You didn’t let go of his hand, and Jensen made no effort to move it. You focused on his hand beneath yours and drew strength from it. “I want this baby, Jensen. I know you have so many plans, and this wasn’t one of them.”

The strength you had been feeling just a few moments earlier ebbed and faded away. You felt a fresh wave of emotions wash through you, and the tears started to flow again. “I don’t want to ruin your life and mess up everything you wanted. I’m sorry.”

Jensen wiped away more of your tears, but they were coming almost faster than he could brush them from your face. “Sweetheart, it’s okay. I want this baby too. This is incredible, Y/N.” He took you into his arms. It felt safe; he made you feel wanted, you and the baby. Or, was that just all in your mind because it was what you wanted to believe? Jensen stroked your hair for several minutes; not saying anything, just repeating the soothing motion of his hand over your hair.

Your tears turned into full blown sobs; the pregnancy hormones were already reeking havoc with your body. “You don’t like kids. You never said you wanted any.”

You were starting to sniffle and trying so hard to stop crying. You’d done this to yourself. You took the napkin Jensen handed you and tried to daintily blow your nose.

“Y/N, sweetheart, why do you think I don’t like kids?” One of his hands was resting on your knee and the other was cupping your cheek.

“B...because they stress you out so much. You come home from work tense and miserable most days” You clutched the used napkin tightly in your hand.

Your eyes were still filled with tears, blurring his handsome face, but you could hear him clearly. “I like kids, Y/N. It’s just those kids I work with are unhappy because they don’t want to be there. They don’t want to wear the fancy, itchy clothes, and they don’t want to sit still. They want to run and play and laugh. Just be kids. I don’t want to be there either. Photography is art to me, not taking glorified snapshots. I want to take pictures that will hang in galleries, maybe even a museum one day.”

His eyes focused on yours, and his voice grew gentle. “It doesn’t mean I don’t like kids. It means I’m frustrated with where my career is right now.” He smiled at you, and his eyes took on that reflective dreamy quality that had shown you the depths of this man and made you fall in love with him. “I knew I wanted to have kids with you almost immediately. I’ve never known a kinder person.You are going to be the most amazing mother. Our baby is the luckiest kid in the world. You’ll teach our baby to be a good person just like you.”

He touched his lips to yours, kissing you in a way that was clearly beyond chaste, but it didn’t seek anything more than what you gave him in that kiss. When he pulled away, the glimmer of a tear was shining in his eye too.

“I’ve got an idea,” he said excitedly as he stood. He came back with his camera in his hand. “Will you let me take your picture?”

“Jensen, I’m a mess.” You smoothed your hands over your hair, but that wasn’t going to help your tear stained face.

“I’ll focus on your stomach this time.” He leaned in to kiss you again. “I want to capture every part of how beautiful you are through this whole process.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Next December

It was the most festive and happiest of nights. One year ago, on this very day, you’d told Jensen you were pregnant. Now, you were holding your precious little daughter in your arms at her daddy’s first gallery opening. You watched him across the room, networking, making the contacts he would need to ensure he was never stuck in a job ever again that didn’t bring him happiness.

Jensen left the group he was talking with, walked over to you, and took Leigh from you. The way he smiled at her was like nothing you’d ever seen. “How’s daddy’s little angel?” He turned his attention to you, kissing your cheek. “Mommy looks gorgeous.”

You lowered your head. “Jensen.” He was making you blush like a schoolgirl, or maybe it was the pictures of you all over the room in various stages of your pregnancy. He had named the collection “The Blossoming of a Mother”. If you didn’t know you were the subject of those photographs, didn’t remember posing for him while he took them, or the way he’d made love to you after every single one of those photo sessions; you’d never believe they were pictures of you. You’d never known you could look like that.

Jensen held Leigh in the bend of his arm, took your hand, and led you to one of the photographs. You were dressed only in a blush pink silk sheet that was billowing around you, one of your hands cradling your round stomach and the other on your breast. Jensen leaned in and whispered so only you would hear, “I’m keeping that one.”

You also lowered your voice to a whisper. “How do you feel about pictures of me being on other people’s walls, being in places where anyone can see them?” It wasn’t the first time you’d talked about it, but you wanted to hear him say it again. “It doesn’t bother me because I know they’re never going to see you the way I do, never hear those beautiful sounds you make when we’re together.”

You were blushing again. “Jensen, stop.”

He smiled at you with that sexy flirtiness he possessed glinting in his eyes. “I promise that’s not what you’ll be saying later tonight.”

You watched him turn and walk back across the room to a group of potential clients. He could certainly fill out a pair of dress pants. If you weren’t careful, Leigh would have a little brother or sister soon. A smile crossed your face as you observed him showing off his daughter to the gathered crowd of people, proving to you that she was an even bigger dream for him than his art.

Everything: @gambitwinchester @princessmisery666 @onethirstyunicorn @peridottea91 @logical-princey @emilyshurley @beenlovingromansincedayoneish @fangirlxwritesx67 @waywardbaby @atc74 @shaniquacynthia @mariekoukie6661 @tumbler-tidbits @67-chevy-baby @fandom-princess-forevermore @terrarium-jpeg @emoryhemsworth @crashdevlin @heycasbutt @jules-1999 @mrsdeannafuckingwinchester @cosicas-cuquis @sammyimpala-67 @queenoftheunderdark @dean-winchesters-bacon @mrs-meghan-winchester @timelordy-fangirl2 @sweetness47 @hobby27 @awesomesusiebstuff @kickingitwithkirk @sandlee44 @supernaturalgrandma @lonewolf471 @dawnie1988 @volleyballer519 @outcastedangel @kdfrqqg @lizette50 @sorenmarie87 @winchesterxfamilybusiness

Dean/Jensen: @deansyahtzee @flamencodiva @deanwinchesterswitch @feelmyroarrrr @focusonspn @akshi8278 @ladywinchester1967 @sgarrett49 @wingedcatninja @coffee-obsessed-writer @adoptdontshoppets @ellewritesfix05 @weepingwillowphoenix

#spnchristmasbingo #spnfluffbingo #jensen fluff #pregnant!reader #jensen angst #jensen x reader #spn rpf

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eunsoyi · 4 years

Note

Could you do a Bokuto scenario of him telling/celebrating with his high school sweetheart that he made pro?

this one’s a bit long so im sorry for that

we made it

“you’ll never make it.”

those words were the first words you and your boyfriend, bokuto koutarou, heard as you accepted your diplomas. it was no secret that you were expected to take over the family business, and that koutarou would pursue volleyball, but because of those two different career choices, everyone around you thought that you’d never last long.

you just had to prove them wrong.

during high school graduation, each and every couple you knew was crying a waterfall of tears. that was probably what they called the “break up season”, since everyone’s going on their own way, it was obviously very difficult for people your age to pursue a relationship when you’re busy working on your own future. you saw koutarou holding back his tears as he looked at you. “are we.. through?”

“nope.” you smiled and squeezed his hand. “i’ll stay with you forever.”

he grinned and pecked your cheek.

one year after high school graduation, and koutarou was on the verge of breaking.

he walked in your family’s restaurant late at night while you were wiping plates and groggily dropped his sports bag on the floor.

“hey.” you smiled and handed him a cup of water. “you hungry?”

he took the cup and gulped its contents down. “yes.”

“give me five minutes.”

you were well aware that the road to being a professional volleyball player wasn’t all rainbows and unicorns. you didn’t need to do your research, the man in front of you was living proof that it was very difficult. everyday, he’d go to the restaurant, most of the times after you closed, and he’d ask for you to feed him his favorite food: meat. if he had the strength, he’d tell you about his day. if not, he’d just gulf down the food on his plate and take you home with him.

you finally handed him his food and he did not hesitate to start eating. you propped your chin on to your hand in an observing pose. “how’s your day?” you asked, as usual. he pouted and sighed. “i’m so exhausted.”

ah, he’s in the mood to talk.

“what happened?”

he sighed as he gulped down his last spoon of rice and meat and proceeded to talk about how it was borderline exhausting for him to adjust to being teammates with crazy people, how little he had the time to eat, how his injuries were on the brink of getting worse, etc.

you then leaned forward and gave his forehead a kiss. “you’re doing great, koutarou.” he blushed and covered his face in his hands in response, making you giggle. you shuffled to the kitchen, and cleaned the remaining dishes before finally closing up for the day.

“let’s go home, y/n.” koutarou said in a husky and tired voice, holding your hand as both of you exit the restaurant.

a year later, you found yourself worrying over koutarou more often than usual.

his habit of going home late at night turned into not showing up for a whole week because of training. at first, you let him do his thing for a while since you wanted to support him as much as possible, but you had to make him stop after you got the call from the hospital saying he had collapsed from fatigue.

during the drive home, he did not utter a word and just looked at the car window instead. “you had me worried there.” you attempted to break the silence, but he did not respond.

when you got home, you made him promise to rest for at least three days before going back to vigorous training and he begrudgingly agreed. he also took this as a promise to not strain his body further for it not to hinder with his training.

until he collapsed once more. but he kept that a secret from you.

then once more.

then another.

then another, but that’s when you found out that his body almost gave up on him.

this time, you were fuming. you basically dragged him back to your house and yelled at him for god knows how long. he wasn’t listening, he wasn’t in the mood to. he knew you were saying something along the lines of ‘i was worried’ or ‘i don’t want you getting hurt’, but in that moment, koutarou was near past his breaking point. he was so exhausted, so tired, he could barely even look at you in the eye. when you finally stopped yelling, he said something he regretted saying, and he wished he shouldn’t have said that at all.

“let’s break up.”

silence. he still couldn’t lift his head to look at your reaction, but he was shocked at his own words. perhaps, this was the right thing to do. he did not want to worry you any further, and it hurts for him as well when you see him in such a fragile state.

“no.” you finally managed to speak out.

“what?” he said, finally looking at you.

“i am not breaking up with you, bokuto koutarou.” you said firmly. he tried his best to suppress a sigh of relief. “um, why? i only cause you worry and you’re probably getting distracted with your business because of me-“

“i promised you, didn’t i? i’ll be with you forever.” you cut him off. that sigh he was suppressing finally came out of his mouth and he found himself hugging you and crying.

“thank you, y/n. i love you, so so much.” he sniffled while his head was buried on your shoulder.

“i love you, too, koutarou.”

you could tell he was improving as time passed by.

he invited you to his practice games, and you were shocked as to how this ace still had something up his sleeve. you smiled to yourself whenever he would make that iconic straight shoot, and his reactions were even funnier. his fangirls were wildly cheering for him and at the same time adjusting to his weird tactics.

he’s so different when he’s on the court, you thought to yourself, admiring him once more.

after the game, he ran up towards you past the screaming female teenagers and gave you a hug, eyes beaming. “so? whaddya think?”

“you’re amazing, as usual.” you replied, ignoring the looks his fans gave you.

he grinned and noisily cheered for himself, much to your dismay. you tried to shush his loud whooing but ultimately failed.

“i hope i get picked.” you heard him whisper as the two of you were walking back home. you looked at his face and realized the beam on his eyes were now faint and was replaced with worry. you sighed, thinking at how different koutarou acts when he’s with you. you were beyond thankful that he decided to share his weaknesses and worries with you, but of course, the lingering doubt of whether can you handle the pressure or not remained.

“i want you to be proud of me.” he said once more, brushing his thumb on your knuckle.

but thankfully, koutarou knew how to wipe those feelings of doubt away.

“i’m already proud of you.” you giggled.

“i want you to be prouder!”

you thought it was impossible for you to even be prouder. you were the proudest you’ve ever been for him.

or at least, that’s what you thought.

you were so busy with the restaurant that you couldn’t watch koutarou’s practice game, much to his dismay. you did promise that you’d cook him dinner once he got home, and he hesitantly accepted the offer.

customers kept flowing in and out of your family’s restaurant that it made you feel so tired for the first time in a while. you loved the rush, but you did not love the fatigue that came with it.

when night fell, you sighed in relief as you flipped the sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed’. now, the only thing you had to do was clean up and wait for koutarou to arrive.

you were basically done with everything when he finally showed up, his hands bandaged, his knees swollen, and he was holding an ice pack. you were about to ask what happened to him that made him look so beat up when he suddenly crushed you into a bear hug.

“koutarou? what’s wrong?” you frantically asked as his warm tears soaked your sleeve.

he mumbled something incoherent, so you asked him once more.

“i made pro.”

you widened your eyes and hugged him back. “wait, really?”

“yup. msby black jackals. i’m a professional volleyball player now, y/n.” he replied, pulling away but his tear-stained orbs gazed into your eyes, making you well up in tears as well.

“you made it. i’m so, so proud of you, koutarou.” you sobbed. he smiled and gave you a kiss. you knew he had a lot of struggles, and seeing him succeed was enough to make you the happiest person in the planet.

“nope, we made it.”

yea im in love with bokuto so much pls 😔

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echo-three-one · 3 years

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Whatever It Takes : RELOADED

Let's make the next chapter pink.

Table of Contents

Previous Chapter : Undying Admiration

Chapter 21 to another story made by Ray (echo-three-one) Comments and Reviews appreciated! I hope you enjoy! Love you all ❤️

back at it again with the piccrew

If I Remember Correctly

Maxine Winters

Safe House 110197, Brazil

Maxine looked at Samantha and smiled. They were finally together once again, as roommates, but this time, the room was huge and they were surrounded by strong men who were willing to risk their lives to protect them.

"How are you holding up?" Maxine asked.

"Everything's a swirl of hazy incomplete memories. It feels like I'm mostly recalling them back, but the details are a bit mixed. It doesn't feel right that I recall Alex as someone from work, right?" she chuckled. She must've been going through a lot of things right now, and it looked like Alex successfully helped her recall most of her forgotten memories. Maybe all she needed was someone to influence her.

"Hey Sam, what kinds of things have I told you about my past? France already told me some of my unforgettable memories but they still seem too unclear." She asked, Samantha looked excited as she began recalling something from the unaltered part of her memory.

"Well, for starters you told me a lot about your little sister. However since your mother died, the two of you were always together solving the problems as a team until you both decided to enlist her in the army. You told it was both the happiest and saddest moment of your life." She said with a smile on her face. Maxine never felt anything but knowing that that was their situation, it made sense how France was trying hard to win her back. She was the only one she had. And it must've hurt that the only companion she ever had didn't even remember her.

"I… I didn't know that…" she faltered. Samantha quickly reached out a hand to hold hers.

"Just take your time to remember… I'm sure France understands the situation." Samantha replied, turning to the door as it slowly pushed itself open. Alex peeked from the said door and asked.

"Am I disturbing any girl talk?"

"A little. But I'll forgive you for now." Samantha grinned as Alex entered the room, dressed in comfortable sleeping wear.

"I made a deal with France to swap sleeping positions for tonight. Make sure skipping tomorrow's pancake will be worth it." he winked as he settled behind Samantha, the spooning was awkward as his metal leg was unbendable and heavy, but Maxine noticed the smile in Samantha's eyes and how it quickly forgot the uncomfort he was giving her. Maybe that's true love.

"Aw… I was about to add extra honey to your plate, Alex. What you did to Samantha was the sweetest thing ever. I guess France is up for a treat." She joked, making the girls giggle while Alex furrowed his brows.

"Well then, this night better be worth it." He proceeded to tickle Samantha and they found themselves rolling and rolling. Maxine took a minute to admire the scenery before her eyes slowly closed itself to sleep.

Ever since being brainwashed, Maxine wasn't able to dream of something, every morning she would be greeted by the same empty feeling, her thoughts would always consist of recent events.

This night was different. She vividly recalled a rainy afternoon. She and Francine stood by their mother's grave.

"I'm going to the army next week, Mom. It might take a while since I'll be seeing you again." Francine knelt and placed a small floral pot they arranged.

"Yeah Mom, your daughter finally used her toughness somewhere other than fighting me!" She remembered herself joking and nudging her sister. These were things that they did on a weekly basis, visit their mother’s grave and talk about their week.

“And since she’s out training for the rest of her life, I decided to move to California, maybe look for restaurants to work on maybe look for someone special.” Maxine mused. She could hear France giggle.

“I, on the other hand, won’t let myself fall for any of those tough army men.” France added.

“Are you sure about that? It’s like… turning down a million dollar offer.” Maxine teased.

“It really depends on the person. But while I’m in training, I’ll focus on improving.” She amended.

Then the memory faded, it felt like tv static started to consume her whole dream until she found herself awake, gasping for air.

“You okay?” Alex groggily asked her, cuddling Samantha who was sound asleep. She nodded and got up, she felt very thirsty.

Maxine hurriedly walked down the stairs quietly passing the empty command center. Oddly enough, the kitchen light was open and she could hear soft clanking of cutlery. She took a peek at Gary Sandersom, who’s sticking his tongue out and too busy making finishing touches on a cake of sorts. She knew they didn't have the right mould for basic pastries but seeing him actually holding a cake, surprised her.

“So this is the reason I wake up to missing ingredients.” She spoke firmly and crossed her arms, walking closely to Roach who scrambled and immediately hid the cake behind him.

“I’m just trying out new stuff. Baking looked fun.” He lied, stepping further back until his butt hit the sink.

“I already saw what you’re working on Gary. How did you form the shape? We didn’t have any mold.”

“When there’s a will, there’s a way.” He smiled proudly and showed her his cake. It was cylindrical, almost like that of a

“Mugs.” he explained as Maxine crept closer to his work, her eyes probed around it like a judge from masterchef.

“Wow. This looks nice. Is this for you?” she asked, feeling Gary’s body shake differently.

“Actually, it’s for you… France told me about your birthday and since I already missed it. I wanted to share one with you. You know… for uh… formality.” he stuttered. It was obvious that Gary was nervous. She felt this ever since they started cooking together, and she noticed that he was improving around her.

“Aww… thanks. No one’s ever baked a cake for me. Samantha just buys them.” Maxine chuckled and sat on the chair as Gary pulled out a candle and lit it.

“I’m supposed to give you one before we leave tomorrow. I guess you got too excited.” he laughed nervously and gently placed his hand on her shoulder. Maxine gently reached for the hand and grazed it softly, smiling at Gary’s excited face.

“Make a wish.” Gary whispered, his minty breath tickled her nose. Maxine closed her eyes as the warm flame heated her cheeks. She would have wished for something personal, but instead she wished for something she thought needed to happen first.

“I wish… that this war will be over.” she opened her eyes and blew her candle as Roach silently clapped and cheered.

“Belated Happy Birthday Maxine.” He greeted with a warm hug, Maxine slowly gave in to his embrace and faced him. Tension sparked in the air between them as the chemicals moving between them started to react to each other, drawing their lips closer to each other. It was almost automatic, none of them held back as their lips clashed into a soft yet intense kiss. Their tongues were too shy to act but the lips were eager to meet again, soft smooches filled the quiet kitchen as their hands started to climb up to their faces.

“I.. um..” Gary shyly held back, his hands parted from her cheeks as they both stepped back from each other.

“It’s okay…" She whispered quickly, turning back to get herself a glass of water to calm herself from her nightmare and to cool off the heat of her body.

"I take it you're going back to bed?" Gary asked, leaning his arms across the table, looking at the cake.

"I think I can't sleep after that dream." She muttered. The reply signaled Roach to grab a fork and sit beside her.

"Dream? You're having dreams now?" Roach asked curiously, taking a slice off the cake and pointing the fork to her mouth.

"Yeah." Maxine continued with a vivid description of her dream, Roach momentarily spoon feeding her with cake every after thought.

Maxine actually stayed all morning talking to Roach, they discussed mostly about her dream and Roach was there to listen. He was what Maxine needed at the moment, a great listener who happened to be someone she's starting to fall for. She could also feel him growing close to her, that wasn't just any birthday kiss… I felt something else.

Maxine was almost jealous of Roach's colorful life. He shared so much of him that she actually felt guilty that she was only able to share one. He had lots of stories involving encounters with animals and most of it was about his dog.

"If you were to choose… Which animal would you prefer as a pet?" Gary asked curiously. The question made Maxine stop and think, admiring the slowly rising sun as she goes.

"Parrots sound fun. They talk back."

"Only if you teach them to…" Gary responded. He always does that, he's adding comments to her replies until they both agreed on a thing.

"Why do you keep doing that?" Maxine finally asked.

"Do what?"

"You know, influencing me to agree on your opinion?"

"I just want you to think I actually have something to say… Plus it keeps the conversation going… because I never really wanted it to stop." He smiled.

"Oi, Roach. Why is there no hot water yet?" Price yelled.

"Hang on Captain! The kettle isn't whistling yet!" Roach replied running to the kitchen leaving an amazed Maxine behind. A few minutes later Francine approached her.

No words were spoken as Maxine immediately wrapped her sister around her arms, she was really all she had and she was guilty that she couldn't remember her when they first met.

"I'm glad you found me… even amidst this mess." Maxine whispered to France's ears. She could feel her tears falling on her as they enjoyed the tender moment of their reunion.

"I remembered only one memory. Of us before we separated and lived independently. I think it's all I needed to truly tell who I am." Maxine said as Francine sobbed.

"I love you sis." France hugged again as they both cried.

Next Chapter : Going Dark Part 1

Notification Squad my Beloved

@smokeywhalee @samatedeansbroccoli @enderio @whimsywispsblog @beemybee @ricinbach

#horrayfic #john soap mactavish #john price #simon ghost riley #alex echo 3 1 #gary roach sanderson

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writerofshit · 4 years

Note

Jerematt for the ask meme please!

send me a ship and i’ll tell you:

who reaches out to new neighbors

Matt, surprisingly. He'll bring up some new name that Jeremy doesn't recognize, who then asks who the hell he's talking about.

"You know, Sharon? The woman next door? She moved in a few months ago?"

"Somebody moved in?"

who remembers to buy healthy food

Jeremy, because he actually gives a damn about staying in shape and all that. Matt is always shocked to find like... Apples and shit in the fridge

who remembers to buy junk food

Lmao MATT no question

who fixes the oven when it breaks

Matt tries to tinker with it before they ultimately call someone. It's always a brief argument bc Matt feels like he should be able to do it, and if he has enough time-

And Jeremy just "Matt I love you to death but we will starve by the time you figure this out."

who waters the plants/feeds their pet(s)

Matt's actually big into plants ever since Jeremy forced him to have "some form of goddamn life" down in the basement his lair his office

The cats are an equal thing, Jeremy feeding them in the mornings and Matt at night. They both accuse the other of spoiling the cats too much, but they're equally guilty.

who wakes up earlier

Jeremy, because Matt stays up so late he's basically nocturnal.

who makes the bed

Matt, because he always gets up later. Used to be he didn't care about it, but it's the least he can do.

who makes the coffee

Neither, the fridge is stocked with Red Bulls and Bangs.

who burns breakfast

Matt burns the toast every single time he makes an attempt at making breakfast. At this point Jeremy thinks it's ridiculously sweet that he keeps trying.

how do they let each other know they’re leaving the house

Jeremy tells him as he's pulling on a jacket, be it drinks with Michael or Trevor asking something of him. Regardless, Matt will tell him to be careful.

Matt on the other hand says absolutely nothing, only responding to Jeremy's "where the fuck did you go?!?!" text about fifteen minutes late. He forgets, sometimes, what it is to have someone who loves and cares for him the way Jeremy does. He's trying to get better.

how do they greet each other when one of them gets home

Matt will often greet him with "Oh my god, Jeremy, guess what?" Like something big has happened. It's always nothing, just "I got donuts!" or something like that. Jeremy just groans because he absolutely will not be able to resist them

Jeremy always greets him with a cheerful "Hi Matt!" when he gets home, throwing an arm around his shoulders and leaning down to peer at Matt's computer. "What'cha working on?"

who brings home little gifts like flowers/chocolates more often

They do it pretty equally, Matt finding anything purple and orange or animal related, knowing Jeremy will love either. Jeremy will bring home assorted snack foods that he knows Matt loves.

who picks the movie for movie night

They alternate, usually tossing the remote at each other when they get tired of scrolling through Netflix. Eventually, whoever has the remote will close their eyes, scroll a bunch, and pick something randomly. It has never resulted in a good movie.

their favorite kind of movie to watch

When they do actually choose a movie, it's Disney or some shitty movie Michael told Jeremy about. Honestly, it doesn't even matter because they're just happy to be spending time together.

who first suggests a pillow fort

Matt, because of they're gonna watch shitty movies all night they might as well have fun with it.

who builds the pillow fort

Also Matt, because according to Jeremy "I've seen you play Minecraft, man, you're the builder here." which Matt rolls his eyes at but supposes is fair. Doesn't matter much anyway, because after five minutes Jeremy joins him all "Alright, Matt, what's the plan here?"

who tries to distract the other during the move

Tries might be a strong word, but Matt does make a ton of sarcastic comments under his breath, which send Jeremy into laughing fits constantly. As far as Jeremy is concerned, Matt is the funniest person on the planet.

who falls asleep first

Well. See. The easy answer is Jeremy, because he goes to bed at a (roughly) reasonable hour. But, whenever he can drag Matt away from work before midnight, Matt is out within seconds of his head hitting the pillow.

who is big spoon/little spoon

Jeremy's absolute favorite thing in the world is to wake up to Matt's arm wrapped around his waist, chin hooked on his shoulder. It's comforting and sweet and just... the happiest place he could be.

#is this... is this the first time ive written jerematt??#i think it is...#that is a damn shame bc i love these bois #also i 100% agree that matt is the funniest dude #hes wonderful 💜💜#thank you for the req anon!#i hope you enjoy!#ragehappy #jerematt #ks talks #anon #ask meme

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fleckcmscott · 4 years

Text

Comfort & Joy

Summary: Arthur & Y/N celebrate their first Christmas together. Not everything goes as planned.

Warnings: Swearing, Angst

Words: 4,645

A/N: A request from the mind of dear, sweet @ithinkimawriter. Special thanks to @sweet-nothings04 for being the wonderful beta she is!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

If you’ve sent me a request and I haven’t responded, it’s because I am working on it and will once it’s posted!

Arthur was on his way to Y/N's apartment when the storefront's window captured his attention. Batting covered the floor, imitating fake snow. A plastic fireplace, painted yellow, orange, and red, was angled against the left wall. The artificial tree, bedecked with multi-color lights and a plethora of wrapped gifts underneath, shone prettily. To the right, a cardboard cutout of a couple wearing Santa hats and embracing stood in front of a brand new refrigerator. The large sign suspended from the ceiling, tied in a red bow, advertised low-interest store credit: "Make all your Christmas wishes reality!"

There was a sweetness to the display. A festive cheerfulness. And it induced in him an ache borne of dejection. With Penny in her parallel universe and their lack of resources, his life had never had a place for holidays. Seven or eight years ago, he'd made his last attempt at doing something special. They'd shared the turkey dinner he'd sprung for at a nearby greasy spoon. She'd been mildly cognizant of the make-up compact he'd given her, one he'd gotten off the clearance rack. Then she'd gone to bed, leaving him alone to watch the television special he'd picked out. It had been one of the rare nights he'd poured himself a drink in an attempt to sleep.

Smoke swirled in Gotham's cold, night air as he exhaled around his cigarette. The heaviness in his stomach, his hint of indignation perplexed him. Why on earth did he feel shitty when he had a chance to have the type of Christmas people wrote about? That Sinatra, Cole, and Martin sang about? The type he'd dreamed of, despite knowing he'd never have it? He frowned as he trudged down the street, hoping he wouldn't fuck it all up.

Y/N's greeting was warm as always; the refuge of her arms, the smile she reserved just for him dulled his sharpest edges. He tried to take pleasure in her simple courtesies. How she hung his tan jacket next to her coat, all the while insisting he get a hat and mittens. The hot mug she handed him, the way it thawed his slender fingers. The taste of cocoa on her silken lips as they kissed and she declared she'd missed him.

There was quiet conversation. She did most of the talking; he did his best to pay attention through the distraction of his anxiety. The cards had to be finished, she said. Just for her colleagues, a couple of family and friends, and, if he didn't mind, Penny. He didn't react to that last name, letting Y/N draw her own conclusions. She moved to sit side-saddle on the floor to work, next to her coffee table. As her hand crossed the cream cardstock, he noticed she was signing both their names. He gaped slightly in shock, delight spiking through him. But then delight twisted into unworthiness, and he averted his gaze to his hot chocolate.

He'd believed he was doing okay, though he still didn't have his medication. Especially since Penny had been transferred from Gotham General to the nursing home he'd chosen two weeks ago, and it had clicked that he'd never have to see her again. There were days he woke up (if he was fortunate enough to sleep) energized and confident. He had slipped into delusion once or twice. A call to Y/N or the feel of her hand had helped ground him and bring him back to lucidity. But his negative thoughts were bearing down on him. It was getting harder to separate what was intrusive and what was Arthur. If only he could find it within himself to be better.

Once she finished addressing the envelopes, Y/N extended a hand his way and smirked. Unsure if she wanted him to help her up or join her, he sat on the plush, cream color carpet. "I can hear you thinking. I'm surprised smoke isn't coming out of your ears," she said, laying a palm on his thigh. "You haven't told me what you want to do for Christmas."

He picked up one of the cards, traced his fingertips along the corners. He was bereft of his own traditions to draw from; all his points of reference were from popular culture. It was difficult to know what he'd actually like doing. He gave it a go, anyway. "I dunno. A tree? Listening to music? Being together?"

Chuckling, she put her head on his shoulder. "Of course we'll be together. And we can do the other stuff, too." Her voice lowered as she continued. The caress on his leg became a massage. "I get out early Thursday - Christmas Eve. How'd you feel about me being your guest for three days?"

"Hm." He loathed the possibility of exposing her to what was going on in his brain, his darker notions and malaise. He wanted to hold on for her. To be the gentle person she claimed he was, the man she claimed made her happy.

The man she was mistakenly convinced deserved her.

A kiss on the sensitive skin of his neck. "I'll bring dinner and everything."

Fuck. She thought he didn't want her, that she had to sell him on the idea of her company. He had to put a stop to that assumption. Didn't she know she'd become a brick, a building block in his unstable foundation? He couldn't deny her - he didn't wanted to deny her. Taking a deep breath, he turned to her. The warmth in her eyes buoyed him enough to use what little confidence he could muster. He took her hand, ran his thumb over the back of it, and he forced the corner of his lips up. "I'd love that."

~~~~~

There wasn't normally a spring in Y/N's step, but Arthur had a habit of causing one. She was smiling like a fool, too, walking with her suitcase and canvas bag. The happiest woman in Gotham. It couldn't be helped, even as she struggled to climb those damned concrete stairs to finally reach his block. This would be the best Christmas in ages.

The holiday had been her childhood favorite. But it had become taxing as her father's dementia had worsened, and her sister and she had grown apart. Not being able to leave her father unattended had forced them to celebrate at his house, which Y/N shared with him. A couple of slow cooker dishes would be made, ones her niece and nephews liked. She would do her best to make the large dining table festive, using a red tablecloth and making a centerpiece out of a wreath. Once everyone had sat around it, she'd alternate between taking a bite herself and trying to feed her father, trying to convince him to eat.

The final year had been the hardest. Distress had been clear in her sister and brother-in-law's faces, in their stilted conversation. The middle child had asked why grandpa wasn't talking. Y/N had never learned to communicate on a child's level, and had waited for her sister to take the lead. That hadn't happened. So she'd tried to explain the most painful, complicated situation she'd ever been in in terms a four year old could understand. When her father had started spitting out his mashed potatoes and crying, everyone had packed up and left.

It was understandable. Handling him was exhausting and she didn't want the kids to be traumatized. But it had left her resentful and grief-stricken. She'd cleaned him up and changed him. Then she'd sipped the nice wine she'd bought for the occasion and taken down the tree, tearing up with each bauble she'd put away while her father stared at the television in his wheelchair.

After dropping off a card at Ms. McPhee's, she hurried around the corner to Arthur's building. He was waiting for her at his door, dressed in the red sweater he knew she loved on him. She pecked his sharp cheekbone as he bent to take her luggage, and watched as he made a show of putting it beside the sofa. "Did you pack your whole apartment?"

"Almost," she said, already digging out the food she'd brought and placing it on the kitchen counter. The ham and pineapple casserole had to be popped in the oven for forty-five minutes. The two pieces of pie were from the diner near her office. Lastly, there were a carton of eggnog and a small bottle of whiskey.

He didn't say a lot, but she had a pretty good notion of what he was thinking: a variation on the refrain that she'd done too much. "Arthur, this is for me, too. Besides, you got the tree." Then she pulled him in for a kiss. Though his lips were soft and returned her affections, she could sense the apprehension in his shoulders, her palms sweeping across them. He was probably excited, she figured. And a little nervous, too. This was a milestone for them, after all. She smiled up at him encouragingly. "We're going to have a great time," she said. His nod was gentle.

Dinner went by quickly, which was a blessing because it was terrible. ("I swear, I followed my mother's recipe.") The apple pie was a good substitute for her favorite, blueberry. There wasn't any nutmeg to add to the eggnog. And Arthur covered the top of his mug when she wanted to spike it. He appeared to like it, anyway, and was soon pouring himself a second serving. GCR was playing Christmas music non-stop instead of news, so she turned on the radio. She led him to the living room and admired the tree he'd gotten.

The fir was maybe four inches taller than he was, probably six feet. There were plenty of branches, but it was slim enough to fit into the rear corner of the room, by the windows. The sharp, fresh scent of pine was wonderful. "You picked a great one." As she got into her luggage and dug out the white mini-lights, Arthur searched for an extension cord. Once the bulbs were in place, she knelt before the tree and handed him one of the tins of ornaments she'd packed.

Arthur tackled the upper half while she took care of the bottom. Her gaze turned up to him and she grew fuzzy all over. Concentration was plain in his squint, his handling of the glass-blown, red bulbs cautious. His fingertips carefully closed the hooks over each bough. How long had it been since he'd last done this? She reached out, giving his leg a reassuring squeeze before going through her own box of baubles. A soft sound stuck in her throat as she discovered what was inside.

"What is it?" he asked quietly.

The shellacked, round cookie was in surprisingly good shape, its ribbon firmly attached. "My sister made this for me when we were little. I'd forgotten about it." She cradled it in her palm, a peal of laughter bubbling up. "One year I got a toy oven. Set the smoke alarms off, scared my mother half to death." Sipping her drink, she shook her head. "Mabel - who's younger than me, remember - decided to show me how it was done. She was always better at that stuff."

The memory prompted Y/N to continue. She mentioned her parents taking them to a department store a few towns over to visit Santa. How she'd been completely boring and asked for a typewriter and doll, which she'd gotten. The milkshake she'd had at the restaurant on the top floor. She felt uncharacteristically wistful. "That was a lifetime ago."

Most of the tree was adorned when she noticed he'd stopped responding. It was as though he was frozen in place, his face turned towards the floor. Y/N stood, taking in the clenching of his fists at his sides, the quiver of his frame, the twitch of his cheek. "Arthur?" She reached out to take his hand.

His arm yanked back as if she'd hit him. Then he marched around the sofa, past the television, and went straight into the bathroom. The locks slid into place as soon as he closed the door.

She was stunned. And, if she was honest, disappointed. All she'd wanted was to share more of herself with him. Gingerly, she walked to the door. No light shone from beneath it. The picture of him sitting alone in the dark on Christmas Eve pained her. She knocked.

Laughter broke up the strain in his voice. "I need a few minutes." After a pause, a hushed plea. "Please don't go."

"I won't."

Her lips pursed. The last few times she'd visited, she'd made a note to check his usual spots for prescription bottles. There hadn't been any. And there'd been no indication he'd used any of the doctor appointments she'd paid for. They'd have to discuss it. But not now. New Years was next weekend. She'd mention it then, as well as her hopes they'd be living together soon, treating it as something positive.

Beyond his laughing, he hadn't yet gone into any level of detail about his afflictions, his diagnoses. Since his appearance on Murray Franklin, she'd read almost the entire "Loving Someone With" series to learn how to handle problems when they arose. It had advised kindness, calm, and providing regularity. Discussion of normal things, plans for the future. That was what she had been trying to do. Why had Arthur reacted so poorly?

Then it dawned on her: the experiences that were normal to her, to most people, hadn't ever been so for him. Her thoughts went to the terrible details in the Arkham file he'd brought over. The unspecified categories of abuse he'd suffered. His severe head injury and its permanent effects. The radiator...

She recalled his reaction to the journal she'd given him for his birthday. He'd tried, in vain, to hide how affected he'd been by it. And it was only a few weeks ago he'd meekly asked if she'd ever stop loving him, as if it was a chore for her instead of bliss. It was tough, knowing how hard he had to work to accept her kindnesses.

Rubbing her eyes, she concluded she'd been an idiot. Well-intentioned, but an idiot regardless. She'd so looked forward to making new memories with Arthur, to being able to spend the holiday with someone who could enjoy it, she'd overwhelmed him. Set him off.

He needed space and, so far, she'd always paid the respect of giving that to him. It wouldn't be easy tonight, however. Every fiber of her wanted to rush in there, hold him, and tell him to confide in her. To allow her to support him. But she needed to listen to her brain instead of her heart (which Arthur made hard to do, being the one who'd helped her unlock it). She checked her watch. Fifteen minutes would be a good compromise. She could give him that.

The music had become deafening. After turning it down, she made her way to the kitchen and put away the rest of the food. Every scrub of the dishcloth on the beige plates they'd used, every wipe as she dried the cutlery, expressed her concern. Ornaments still littered the living room floor. A few more were hung before she put their boxes in her suitcase. She worried her lip when she came across the presents she'd gotten him, wrapped in luscious greens and golds. He'd like them, she was certain. If he was up to receiving them. She placed them under the tree, adjusting the tags so he could clearly read "Arthur," written in her looping cursive.

The clink of the bathroom door being unlocked was barely audible. Not wanting him to think she'd been hovering the entire time, she waited before approaching. Then she stepped forward and slowly opened it.

The light from the hall spilled into the room, sufficient to see Arthur sitting on the pink, tiled end of the bathtub. She took in the slump of his shoulders, his arms slack and folded in his lap. He spoke and his miserable rasp split her heart. "I'm- I'm sorry. I'm ruining everything."

"You're not." She turned on the floor lamp in the corner, then sat down on the closed toilet. "It wasn't fair of me to babble on and on like that. I didn't think abou-"

"Don't." It was clear the harshness of his tone was directed at himself. His dark brows creased in the middle as he wiped his nose, embarrassment clear in every gesture. "I just... I wanna be able to enjoy this like everyone else."

The skin of his hands was pink, likely from wringing. And his nails had been freshly chewed. Her chest tightened. "May I touch you?" she asked. At his curt nod, she smoothed his sleeve up to stroke his forearm. The grimace he wore was tight enough to show his dimples.

She'd learned it was vital to speak to his virtues in these moments. That was an easy thing to do - he had many. The compliments she paid him were true, and reflected what he valued in others. "You're so caring, Arthur." Her fingertips drifted down his laugh line to his thin lips. "And good. And funny." She blinked away the tears that threatened, the news articles from his mother's file fresh in her mind. "And strong. Stronger than anyone should have to be."

A dry, hitched sob left him and he shook his head. "You don't need to tell me lies."

"I'm not. I never will." Her kiss brushed the shallow wrinkles on his trembling chin, and she took his hand between her own. "You don't have to talk about it. But I'm here if you want to." A long silence followed, interrupted only by their soft breathing. Eventually, he trailed lines down her thigh, to her knee, caressing her as if she were gossamer.

She considered how he could have gone through such brutality, yet be the gentlest person she'd ever known.

Releasing a long sigh, he leaned his forehead to hers. "I can't," he whispered, lifting one shoulder.

"It's all right." Her grasp slid up and down his sides comfortingly. "I love you. It's okay."

It was awhile before he stood, pulling her with him and against his chest. She nestled into him and soaked up his heat, carding her fingers through his loose curls. "I- I picked out a movie. I think it starts soon." He held her hand as he walked towards the living room.

The analog TV sounded with bells and strings as Y/N got a blanket from the bed. She scurried to him and saw the names Bing Crosby and Fred Astaire flash on the screen. Of course, she thought. He'd picked a romantic musical. After turning off the lamp, she situated herself next to Arthur and draped the cover over them. The opening credits were rolling, but she could feel him watching her instead of the film. Then his touch grazed her bare ankle. She shifted towards him, a smile spreading across her face at the softness of his features. "What?"

His gaze dropped. "I wish I knew how to say how much I love you. Show you somehow."

The lights from the tree were giving his skin a warm glow, and reflected beautifully in his green eyes. She tipped his chin up and kissed him deeply, until they both had to pull away for air. Pink dusted his cheeks and he grinned bashfully, crooked tooth on display. "I know, Arthur." They snuggled closer under the cover and he entwined their hands. "I know."

~~~~~

Since she'd returned to him after Murray, they'd spent an increasing number of nights together. Arthur usually let Y/N sleep as long as she needed. Insisting she wake up with him wouldn't have been fair. She worked hard and the extra hour or two was helpful. But he couldn't hold back Christmas morning.

He made a valiant attempt to pass the time. Really. He'd already shaven, smoked a couple of cigarettes, retrieved her presents, and plugged in the tree. He noticed she'd placed gifts under it, labelled "Arthur" and elegantly wrapped in paper nicer than what he'd been able to pick-up at the drug store. He glided his fingers over them. The corner of his mouth lifted. Written in her script, his name was beautiful.

Thankfully, he was in better sorts than the night before. Enthusiasm for her gripped him. He tip-toed to the bedroom and watched her sleeping form from the doorway. It was still dark - the sun wouldn't be up for another hour - but he could picture what she looked like. Her wet breathing and slight snore meant her pillow had a spot of drool near her mouth. There was a fifty-fifty chance her nightgown had twisted up just beneath her breasts. The blanket may have slipped below her waist, leaving her hip exposed. He knelt next to the bed and palmed the side of her neck, planting kisses to her face until she groaned.

"Your hair tickles," she mumbled. Her arm went around his back and brought him closer. "What time is it?"

"Early." Before standing, he gave her one last peck on the mouth. "But I couldn't wait any longer." He padded to the kitchen to start the french toast they'd decided on.

He was in the middle of cracking eggs when she sat across from him on the other side of the breakfast bar. "It's nice to have someone to celebrate with again," she said, leaning up and forward to peek in his bowl. "I'm happy it's you." He cocked his head at that. She'd had a family before, a sister and brother-in-law. Nieces and nephews. A father. He asked her to elaborate but she shrugged it off. "Just a few rough years. That's all. Don't waste your time on it."

Learning about her was one of the things he liked about having a girlfriend. As sappy as it sounded, even to himself, it made him feel like she was a part of him, and he a part of her. Dr. Sally said open communication was important. If he was going to be a good boyfriend, Y/N should be able to talk to him without fearing he couldn't handle it. He grasped her hand and borrowed her phrase from last night. "You can talk to me." Their gazes met as he ran the pad of his thumb over her knuckles. "I'm okay today."

A wry grin appeared. "Let's just say we've both experienced difficult family situations." She took his fork and finished beating the eggs for him as he turned on the stove. "This is a big step in putting that awfulness behind me."

The way she seemed to understand him, even if she was talking about herself, prompted him to clear his throat. "Me, too." He dipped the bread in the bowl, then placed it in the frying pan.

When they were finished eating (it'd been so much better than the casserole she'd made, and he'd never had real maple syrup before), Y/N poured them both more coffee and made her way to the living room. Arthur offered to turn on the news, aware she was still waiting for coverage on the Wayne Foundation case, but she waved dismissively. "I don't want to think about that today. God knows I already think about it too much."

They took turns opening gifts, sitting on the floor by the tree, close enough for him to feel the heat she was emanating. Y/N immediately opened her chocolate Santa and broke off a piece for him. The musk oil perfume he'd picked up for her at Helm's Pharmacy had been on sale for $1.79, and he was grateful he'd remembered to remove the price tag before wrapping it. She dabbed it on her wrist. It was different on her than it was in the bottle, a bit stronger than expected. But she was wearing something he'd given her, so it was lovely nonetheless. Her favorite of the three presents seemed to be the old, tapered, white vase he'd found. She needed it, he explained. That time he'd given her a rose, she'd stuck it in a drinking glass.

What he'd given her were simple trinkets, born out of a vague idea of what women were supposed to like. Despite her apparent delight and the kisses she'd bestowed on him after opening each one, they felt inadequate compared to what she gave him. There was a teal sweater, one she claimed would bring out (in her words) his "beautiful eyes." He pulled it on over his thermal shirt, tags and all. She'd gotten him a book on comedy writing. He wasn't sure how to take that - had she decided his jokes weren't very good? But then she told him she expected more material for his next stand-up show.

Picking up the last gift, he studied it with mock seriousness. Its shape and weight gave away it was a record, but he had no idea which one. They often enjoyed quiet evenings with his collection of older standards, but she preferred more modern songs. Maybe it was an attempt to introduce him to what she liked. He'd gladly listen to it, at least once. He peeled the pretty paper back and exhaled sharply. The LP was old, the cover worn. It was the soundtrack to Modern Times, a film he'd caught once or twice and loved the music of. Holding it to his chest, he murmured a quiet, "Thank you." Eagerly, he got up and put it on, letting the orchestra and his love for her wash over him, soothe his battered soul.

Y/N followed and splayed a hand on the small of his back. "Gotham Pops played this at the Wayne benefit last month." Giggling, she tousled his hair. "I spent the evening wishing you were next to me. It would have been nice to show you off, all dressed up and handsome." He stiffened for a second, wondering if he should tell her he had been there. If he should practice the honesty he'd been working on since Murray. Perhaps knowing he'd accompanied her, in his own way, would please her. But she interrupted his thoughts before he could speak. "The Christmas parade starts in an hour. We should go now if you still want to see it. Neither of us are very tall - we need a good spot." Her lips brushed his ear. "I brought an extra hat and mittens for you."

He spun to face her as he nodded, and she nuzzled at his nose and sighed. The wide smile she wore halted his breath. It would have been nice if this hadn't been his only real Christmas. If his first thirty-five years hadn't been a cruel joke, a tragedy. But he was glad to have this taste of happiness with her.

He hadn't longed for a paralegal from another part of the country, a woman who couldn't dance well and never guessed the punchlines of his jokes. But what he was about to say was true all the same. He cupped her face and kissed her firmly. "You're the one I always wanted," he whispered against her. "Merry Christmas, Y/N." The words felt unnatural - he was unsure when he had last said them.

The love in her look let him know he'd done all right. "You're the man I never knew I needed. And I do, Arthur." He closed his eyes at her embrace, laying his cheek against her temple as she cuddled into him. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Fleck." Her next sentence and the touch of her mouth to his jaw made him shiver. "Maybe next year we won't have to choose whose apartment will have the tree."

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve @ithinkimaperson @sweet-nothings04 @stephieraptorr @rommies @fallenstarsabyss @gruffle1 @octopus-plasma @tsukiakarinobara @arthur-flecks-lovely-smile

#arthur fleck #arthur fleck fanfic #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x ofc #arthur fleck x female reader #joker 2019 #watchwhathappens

49 notes · View notes

criminalromantic · 4 years

Text

Cornelia Street - Chapter 5 (Billy Russo x Fem!Reader)

Summary: The circumstances might be unfortunate, but your relationship with Billy is escalating.

Word Count: 1420

A/N: thank you, thank you, thank your for the love you have shown to this story, so here is my thank you

Warnings: this is fluffiest chapter so brace yourselves

********************

Your eyes fluttered open and took in your surroundings. Judging by the sun’s position in the sky it must have been early afternoon. Instinctively you tried to take a breath through your nose and at that moment you remembered why you were in bed in the middle of the day. A cold was killing you. Luckily, your headache seemed to subside, probably thanks to your nap. Slowly you started wiggling out of your bedsheet. Suddenly you heard something fall from the bed, so you turned your head to see what it was.

“Oh no, Mr. Squishy.” You whisper-yelled. You didn’t want to get out of bed just yet, so you turned around awkwardly and now your feet were on your pillow. You needed to catch your breath after the activity that felt like work out right then. You reached for your teddy bear and dusted him off. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Squishy.” You held the bear to your chest and went back to your original position. You were ready to fall back to sleep, but the smell of food in the air wouldn’t let you. Then you remembered that Billy was at your place before. Is he cooking for me? Somehow you managed to get yourself out of bed. You tucked Mr. Squishy under the covers and headed to your bathroom, that was connected to your bedroom. Opening your eyes to look at yourself in the mirror was a real challenge. You couldn’t open your eyes fully or else they would get all watery and you would cry probably. Still, you could make out that you looked horrible. Your hair looked like a bird’s nest. You were pale. Bags under your eyes showed your lack of sleep. Your lips were all cracked and sensitive, you needed to get some fluids in you. After cleaning your face and brushing your hair to make yourself look at least a little bit better, you walked out.

You headed for the kitchen but stopped before Billy could see you. It seemed like he was talking to Benjamin? You waited a moment and listened to the surely very enriching conversation.

“You know, you are a very nice cat.” You never thought that you would hear Billy Russo talk to a cat. In a high-pitched voice. The same Billy Russo that lead men to war. You carefully peeked to see because, well, you just had to see that.

“Me-Ow.” Billy was in your kitchen making something and Benjamin was sitting on one of the chairs. Unfortunately, an involuntary sneeze blew your cover. They both turned to look at you.

“Hey, Y/N. How are you feeling?” Billy rushed to your side to take a close look at you. And you took a close look at him too. He was no longer in suit and tie, instead, he was wearing sweatpants and a sweater that looked very comfortable and cuddly. You couldn’t stop yourself. Slowly you wrapped your hands around his torso and pulled yourself to him. At first, he didn’t seem to know what you were doing. When he realized, he wrapped one hand around your shoulders and used the other to put your head on his chest without saying anything. You were really happy that you were wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt that allowed you to feel more of his warmth on your skin. And the sweater was very soft. You were definitely stealing that in the future.

“Babe?” You looked up to see his face dangerously close to yours. “I went to the store and got you some medicine. Also, I bought a bunch of fruits and some other things. But right now we’re going to get some chicken soup in you, okay? You’re going to feel so much better.” As soon as he let go of you to serve the soup, you missed his warmth.

“You are a dream, Billy Russo.” He couldn’t look at you or he would risk spilling the soup and worse, burning himself. But he did smile at the comment.

“Nope, not a dream, just trying to be the best for my…” You were curious to see what he was going to say. He hesitated a moment before saying something, but you couldn’t hear what it was. “Go back to bed and I’ll bring you the soup, okay?” You nodded in response, knowing that your voice was unreliable in this state of yours. You were happy to not be standing on your feet anymore. You got into bed and sat against the headboard and cuddled your teddy bear. Soon Billy was walking through the door with a bed tray in his hands and a cat on his trail. Carefully he placed the tray in front of you and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Now let’s get some food in you, shall we?” He grabbed the spoon and mixed the soup with it a little.

“Billy, I am perfectly capable of feeding myself.” You tried to narrow your eyes at him and look threatening, but yeah, that didn’t work. He just laughed as he scooped up a little of the soup and raised the spoon to your mouth level. When he saw that you weren’t going to open your mouth, he started negotiating hardcore.

“If you don’t open your mouth right now, I’m stealing Benjamin and he’s going to live with me and I’m going to make sure that he’s very happy with me.” So you decided to give in and opened your mouth. As soon as the warm liquid hit your tastebuds, there was warmth spreading through your body and you felt a little better.

“You like it?” Billy’s voice was timid and the look he had in his eyes told you that he was hoping for a positive answer.

“You need to quit your job so that I can hire you as a personal chef. This is the best food ever.” His laugh was another reason behind the warmth and comfort you felt. His eyes crinkled, his nose scrunched up a little and his laugh just seemed to ring through his whole body. Not like you were going to tell him any of that.

He fed you the rest of the soup without either of you saying anything. Then he took the tray with dirty dishes back to the kitchen and came back with a cup of tea and a bag of what looked like your medicine. He emptied the bag and placed its contents on your bedside table. There was a syrup for cough, some pastilles for your achy throat, nose spray and some painkillers. You insisted that you didn’t need that many, but Billy stood his ground. And convinced you to take all of them eventually. That man was damn persuasive.

“Billy?” You asked as you were making yourself more comfortable in your bed and Billy was fluffing up your pillows.

“Hm?”

“Can you please stay here with me?” You saw him smile at the request and when he was done with the pillows, you watched him walk to the other side of the bed and get under the covers. You put your head on his chest and wrapped one arm around him. Billy started tracing random shapes across your back with one hand while was petting your cat, which you didn’t even notice getting in bed in the first place but didn’t question it. You were getting kind of jealous of their relationship.

You turned your head upwards to look at Billy, whose eyes were closed and his face looked relaxed. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“Anytime, Y/N.” He said so casually like he… meant it.

“I mean it, Billy.” He finally opened his eyes and looked down at you.

“I meant it too.” His voice was soft and quiet like the first time you fell asleep that day. “And maybe if you’d let me, I would like to take care of you when you’re well too?” His voice was hushed. Like he was thinking out loud and not talking to you. But it was a quiet room and you were the only ones talking, so nothing escaped your ears. “I would be the happiest man if you let me take you out on a date.”

“Let’s go on a date, then.” You saw him smile at your words.

“The sooner you get better, the sooner we can go out. Go to sleep. I’ll be here.” Before you knew it, your eyelids got heavy and you drifted off to peaceful sleep.

#billy russo #billy russo x reader #ben barnes #billy russo imagine #the punisher #billy russo flower shop #billy russo cornelia street #cornelia street

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ichigopanhpff · 4 years

Text

BNHA Fic: Blink! Ch. 25

Read Ch. 24 | Masterlist

Hello, lovelies and happy new year! Hope you’ve all been well. Here’s a new chapter.

With the investigation wrapped up, the guests were allowed back into the building to retrieve their belongings before leaving for the night. Ren exchanged goodbyes with her mom before sending her off in an embassy official car. She tightly bundled herself into her peacoat and shivered while Todoroki used his left hand to rub warming circles on her back. Seri, having a snowy owl quirk, was perfectly fine with the wintry night chill. From a distance, Aizawa could be seen talking with a detective and bowed before walking over to the three U.A. students.

“Sorry for the wait. Shall we get going?”

“Can we get some ramen?” Ren blurted out, starting to feel sleepy from the warmth and overuse of her quirk. “I’m starving.”

“Normally, I’d say no but given the circumstances, I can use some real food,” 1-A’s homeroom teacher agreed. “Know a place around here?”

“We’ll need the car,” Seri piped up.

Without another word, the four filed into their vehicle to get their actual dinner. After a short fifteen minute drive, they arrived at a random alleyway. Both Seri and Ren hurriedly got out and walked on ahead with purpose. Not wanting to get lost, Aizawa and Todoroki matched the two girls’ paces and caught up to them soon after.

“It should be after this turn here...” Ren muttered to herself and saw a small row of faintly lit red lanterns hanging outside. A small group of twilight guests hung around the alley smoking cigarettes and casually chatted among one another and laughing. Slowly walking past the crowd, they finally found their destination. Ren gently slid the door open and greeted the ramen master and scattered guests before settling into a seat of small 12-seater bar.

“Give me all the fixings with my pork belly ramen, please,” Ren ordered.

“Same,” Seri added.

“Me too,” Todoroki softly spoke.

“I’ll go with the popular consensus,” Aizawa agreed. “With a side of gyoza and beer please.”

“Ya got it,” the ramen master behind the counter acknowledged and got to it.

“So how did you girls even find a place like this?” the scruffy ebony haired man inquired.

“By chance,” Ren answered. “I was with my mom one night when she got out of work late. We decided to meet up. She said an embassy friend of hers took her here and was in love with the broth here.”

“It has a taste of nostalgia that soothes your soul,” Seri dreamily praised.

“I tried to take Seri and Tomoe here on another occasion, but this place only opens at night,” the pink-haired girl added.

“So it caters to more of the late working class then,” Todoroki summarized. “It’s not very good from a monetary standpoint.”

“If anything, this is more of a passion project for the master,” the snowy owl happily answered with admiration. “That’s rare nowadays.”

“Order up!” The master called and set down everyone’s order in front of them one by one. Seri and Ren inhaled the enticing aroma with the happiest of wide grins before picking up their chopsticks to dig in. Aizawa sipped his beer and watched the girls slurp the noodles and devour the condiments with reckless abandon.

“Don’t ya think you’re dressed a bit too fancy to come to a dump like this?” the master asked the group and chuckled.

“We just came from a party and the food was… not so good,” the black-haired man politely answered.

“Understatement of the year there,” Ren spoke up and pushed the noodles she was chewing to the side of her mouth. “You can’t even call that food; it was just oven-heated frozen garbage.”

“I have to agree with that,” the bi-coloured haired boy spoke and grimaced, remembering the lingering traces of frostbite on his tongue before sipping the broth with his spoon to warm himself up. It was milky, fatty and full of warmth; like someone was hugging you from the inside. He was never one for warm noodles, but this was definitely an exception.

“Besides, master. Your ramen’s the best around this area,” Seri beamed. “We couldn’t waste a chance to show up and eat your cooking.”

“Oh, you’re a charmer,” he barked out laughing. “I like this one.”

“Master!” another patron called and walked off to take their order.

The four happily ate in comfortable silence, feeling the steaming hot bowl of food soothe their aching muscles and frozen bones.

“Master,” Ren called. “Kaedama*, please!”

“Oh you can really put it away!” the owner praised. “Comin’ right up!”

“You’re gonna gain weight,” Seri pointed out and sipped her broth.

“I’ll burn it all off with my quirk,” she disregarded her friend’s warning with a roll of her eyes.

“Speaking of quirk...” Todoroki chimed in. “You traveled a lot further than you usually do.”

“Oh, so you noticed?” The wavy haired girl flashed a grin. “My hard work’s finally paying off.”

“So how far can you go now?” Aizawa asked before taking a bite of his gyoza.

“A little over 6 meters now.”

You sure your body can handle it?” Seri asked with a worried look.

“Why did you think I got so tired after?” Ren stated. “The traveling part is fine now, but I have to find ways to conserve my stamina without heavily relying on support items.”

“So how did you manage to strengthen your quirk like that?” Todoroki asked with seriousness, hoping to find something he could use for himself.

“It was a gradual thing,” she revealed. “I had to focus on further points for me to move to.”

“Points?”

“I can’t use Flicker unless I know where I’m going,” Ren reminded. “So I had to broaden my visual scope in order to increase the distance I can teleport to.”

“So that’s why you had me flying around during the practical feeding you information,” Seri put together.

“Exactly. You have the strongest sight out of everyone in class. That helped me build extra awareness of the terrain around me. It’s like knowing where the emergency exits are in a building.”

“Using someone else’s quirk to help strengthen your own. Smart, Takahiro,” Aizawa acknowledged.

“Gotta make up for what I lack to be efficient.”

With their stomachs full of soup and starchy goodness, the party of four said their good nights and headed back to the car. Ren barely had any more energy and fell asleep. As the automobile entered the freeway entrance, it hit a light speed bump, lulling the pink hair girl’s head onto Todoroki’s left shoulder. His eyes opened and saw his upperclassman’s head nuzzled into the crook of his neck and let out a sigh. His heartbeat mildly elevated seeing her face so peaceful. The steadiness of the car gradually drifted him into a light slumber and rested his head on top of hers.

Seri, observing the two with wary eyes, huffed a breath through her nose.

She knows she can’t do much about whatever they are with each other; the only thing she can hope is her best friend was happy in the end.

Arriving back at the gates of U.A., the stillness of the car woke Todoroki up in his seat. He looked down to see Ren still asleep on his shoulder.

“Senpai,” he softly called and shook her arm. “We’re back at the dorms.”

Letting out a light moan from her lips, her eyes slowly fluttered open and squinted at the car light being on from the front car door being open. Ren took a big inhale to wake herself up and lazily blinked a few times before lifting her head off of his warm shoulder. The three filed out into the cold evening, with the bite of the wind fully waking them up.

“You guys can get back on your own, right?” Aizawa asked with the students tiredly nodded in confirmation. “Good work tonight. Get some rest.”

The slouching teacher casually strolled off in the opposite direction while the students headed back to Heights Alliance. Seri said her good nights to the two before splitting off to the second year dorms. The two slowly made their way back to their building, the sounds of their dress shoes hitting the concrete quietly.

“Senpai,” Todoroki broke the silence. “If you’re too tired, we don’t have to talk tonight.”

Ren shook her head. “I’m fine. The cold’s waking me up,” she reassured with a small smile. “We can meet in your room.”

“Why my room?”

“Less suspicious,” she explained. “Also, I can just teleport back to mine and no one would know.”

“Is your body even in any condition to?” he asked with a tone of concern.

“I’ve recovered enough.”

A rush of warmth greeted their faces the moment the door opened, seeing a few scattered students in the common room hanging out.

“Oh welcome back, guys!” Kaminari happily greeted. “How was the party?”

“Exhausting,” both groaned out and kicked off their shoes immediately. Ren drew out the long sigh of relief the moment the balls of her feet hit flat ground, cracking her toes.

“Whoever invented these torture devices need a swift kick in the ass,” she groaned out and glared at her damaged and scuffed heels from the fight.

Exchanging good nights with the stragglers, Ren and Todoroki entered the elevators and pressed their respective floors. The doors dinged on the 4th floor.

“Meet in 30 minutes good for you?” she asked before exiting the lift; the boy nodded to confirm. Ren gathered her belongings before teleporting down to the bathroom to shower. After setting the water temperature to her liking in the shower, she quickly disrobed and hopped right in, letting the warm beads of liquid soothe her cold, aching muscles. Lathering up her shampoo into her wet locks, she let her mind drift.

Not wanting to waste any more water, she quickly lathered up the soap all over her body and rinsed everything off before turning off the faucet. The cold hallway air greeted her damp skin the moment she opened the shower curtains, sending goosebumps up her arms and legs. Ren quickly toweled off and practically threw her body lotion all over her skin before hastily putting her pajamas on to retrieve some lost warmth.

Walking to the sink area, she flossed and brushed up, not knowing how long their talk would go on. Grabbing her personal effects, the refreshed pink-haired girl hastily blow dried her hair before zipping back up to her room to put everything back and grabbed a hoodie. Taking another breath, she zipped up a floor to the front of his door and gently rapped on it with her knuckles. Todoroki opened it quietly to let her in; he’d changed into a long sleeve white v-neck shirt with loose black sweats. He smelled of linen and lightly scented soap.

“I thought you’d pop right into my room,” he said.

“I would if I knew how your place looked like,” she replied and was amazed at the dimly lit Japanese styled room. She looked down to see him sit on the floor. Her foot gently tapped on it like she was testing the waters.

“Holy crap. Real tatami...” she blurted out in amazement.

“Why is everyone so surprised by it?”

“I just never pictured you to be so… traditional?”

“The house I grew up in is one of the traditional styled ones. I can’t relax otherwise.”

Ren sat down across from him and looked around, still astonished at all the little details on the interior.

“How’s your body feeling?”

“Relax and rested,” she replied with a small grin. “What did you want to talk about?”

Todoroki adjusted his sitting position and stretched his legs out, not knowing where to start.

“I guess… Since you told us about your past, it’s only fair for me to talk about mine with you.”

“I have been curious,” Ren admitted. “But I didn’t wanna overstep any boundaries,” she clarified and fidgeted with the hem of her hoodie sleeve. “You seem like the type to by annoyed by nosy people.”

Todoroki let out a soft chuckle. “You’re not wrong on that.”

He then looked up to meet her hazel-green eyes with a soft expression.

“But I trust you. And I want you to know about my past from my own words. Would you listen to what I have to say?”

“Of course.”

The bi-coloured haired boy took a light breath before telling his story to Ren. She listened intently like he did with her, starting with his parents’ arranged quirk marriage.

The story of fire and ice.

He then went on to the abusive training regimen his father did with him in his youth. The scar on his left eye stemmed from his mother’s ice quirk after pouring boiling hot water on him during her mental breakdown, leading to her long-term hospitalization. He briefly mentioned his three siblings, one there wasn’t much to talk about since he didn’t know much about. And because he grew up the way he did, friends wasn’t a thing he had in his life; his father thought they were a distraction to his training.

Even though his body was free to be in and out of his home, his mind and heart were shackled and caged in by an obsessive paternal devotion for his son to be his second chance life in where he failed in his own youth.

As he told his story, all she could see was the glimmer of dismal emptiness and emotional void in his eyes and voice.

Todoroki was like her from when she moved to Japan.

He then proceeded to see his views slowly change after being accepted to U.A., especially during the Sports Festival. It was his gradual interactions with his classmates and with Midoriya changed his outlook about his powers and what it meant to be a hero. For someone who’s hated his flames for the longest, found himself slowly gravitating toward it to make sense of something inside him; to find the equilibrium in harnessing these quirks to make it his own.

“I recently asked my old man to teach me more about Flashfire,” he revealed. Ren’s eyes immediately widened.

“Are you… okay with that?” she asked with a tone of concern.

“I’m still conflicted, honestly. But after seeing him fight against that Nomu, I...”

He trailed off and tightly balled his left hand into a fist, tugging at the fabric of his pants. His hetero-chromatic eyes trailed downward, reflecting frustration and anxiety.

“If he died...” He swallowed hard before continuing. “Everything he knows about his quirk goes with him. I’d be left with nothing to go off in honing these flames. If I want to be a proper hero, I have to move past this to grow stronger… Like you did, senpai.”

“You have a choice; Mine was pushed at me,” Ren half-jokingly pointed out with a soft chuckle. “But I guess you’re right.”

Todoroki gave her a soft smile and said, “Thank you… for listening all the way through.”

“You listened to mine as I blubbered on like a snot-faced baby,” she bashfully replied and rubbed the back of her neck.

“You went through an ordeal. And you’re only human.”

“So are you, yet you remained calm and collected,” she stated.

“Not all the time… My heart’s thumping like crazy right now.”

He reached over and grabbed Ren’s hand to put over his chest, feeling his heart violently hammering. Her eyes slowly scanned up to see Todoroki looking away, his cheeks tinted a light shade of pink, his hair hiding his gaze.

“I was afraid… you’d leave halfway,” he softly whispered.

His hand gave hers a light squeeze as his heart continued to pound against his breast bone and slowly looked back up. The usual glint of melancholy mirrored in his hetero-chromatic eyes, wanting an answer to an unasked question. Ren gave Todoroki a softened expression and moved her hand up to the scar on the left side of his face. The tips of her slender fingers traced the edge of the rough tissue below his eye socket. He instinctively flinched at her touch.

“S-Sorry… I just–”

“It’s not unsightly, Todo-kun.”

Ren gently pulled down the collar of her PJ shirt to show the one on her shoulder.

“Scars tell our story, about who we are,” she affirmed softly.

His large, calloused hands reached up and caressed the rough tissue on her left shoulder. Ren used every nerve in her body to not flinch at his touch, despite her own complexes.

“How long did it take for yours to stop hurting after it healed?” he asked with his eyes not leaving her mark. Todoroki unconsciously traced the edge of her scar like she did with his, seeing a small patch of skin form goosebumps from his feathery touch.

“Close to a year. My mom got me professional help to deal with the phantom pains. You?”

“About the same.”

Todoroki’s hands slid down her left arm and wrapped around her digits, bringing the back of her hand to nuzzle on his cheek. Scooting closer, Ren intertwined her right hand with his dual colored locks. Her left arm drew him into a tight hug; he looked like he needed one after telling his story. The scent of mint and green apples filled his space as he accepted her embrace fully with his arms wrapped around her frame.

Having gone through such neglect in his childhood after his mom’s removal from his life, how many nights did he spend alone, hugging himself to sleep through tear-stained, puffy eyes? How many years had he yearned for someone to comfort him in his isolation?

“Thank you...” she whispered in his ear. “For trusting me with your story.”

She released from the hug and plopped down on the tatami beside him, their shoulders touching.

“Can you… stay a while tonight?” Todoroki softly asked. “I’d like to talk with you a bit more.”

“We’ve got nothing but time,” she turned to him and smiled softly. “And we can talk about anything you want.”

“Anything?”

Ren nodded. Seeming to hesitate for a moment, the boy sat up straight and adjusted himself before opening his mouth to speak.

“About what happened after the party…” he began. “The… kiss, that is.”

The pink-haired girl sucked in a quick inhale through her nose. Her shoulders stiffed up and swallowed hard.

“What… of it?” she slowly asked and avoided eye contact.

“I really don’t know how to say this without explaining...” He rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably and softly groaned, feeling the sense of panic rising from the depths of his stomach.

Ren sighed and finally turned to him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder for reassurance. It was then she realized he was just as nervous as her; one of them had to calm down or else the conversation won’t push along.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she reminded him with a small grin.

Todoroki finally relaxed his shoulders by slumping them back down to neutral and closed his eyes.

“I think… I’m starting to have feelings… for you,” he finally said and fidgeted with his fingers. “In a more than friends way.”

“Oh.” Her eyes enlarged slightly at his confession. “I… guess… now’s a good time to say me too.”

Their eyes finally met and all Ren could do was let out a small, innocent chuckle; he couldn’t help but crack a small smile himself.

“This is something Mina-chan and Kiri-kun would say is “normal high school stuff” right?”

A comfortable silence sat between them until Todoroki decided to speak up again.

“I want to give you a proper answer; I just need some time…”

“Something we’ll lack soon with the internships,” she pointed out and sighed. “But I hear you.”

He quietly thanked her with a matching smile.

“But...” She playfully drawled out and turned to face Todoroki with a devilish glint in her eye. “When you do figure it out...”

With a coy smile, Ren leaned in and pecked him on the cheek as a small form of revenge for making her flustered.

“Give me a proper kiss…” she whispered in his ear. “On the lips. Like you mean it.”

*Extra order of ramen noodles.

#bnha fanfiction #bnha fic #mha fanfiction #todoroki shōto #aizawa shouta #bnha oc #mha oc

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mittensmorgul · 6 years

Note

do you think it's open to interpretation whether dean and cas are in love with each other? Like is it just as valid an interpretation to say they're not? Whenever anyone calls destiel "one interpretation" or whatever, my hackles rise. And I know I'm overly sensitive about this stuff, being a gay and whatnot, but I mean, is it? Am I just insecure because my otp isn't canon, or is destiel really more valid than other readings or what? What do you think?

Hi there. :)

I’m gonna give you the diplomatic, academic answer, and then I’m gonna give you the grumpy-ass queer lady answer. Hold on to your horses. :)

Polite answer:

All media is open to interpretation. Of course, this doesn’t mean that all interpretations are equally valid, or equally supported by canon, especially when taken in context of the entire body of the work in question.

For example, I replied to a post the other day about 13.17, and that scene where Dean and Sam are-- on first glance-- rather disrespectful of the extremely rare and valuable books in the bunker... but in context of the rest of the episode and the rest of the season, that montage wasn’t about disrespecting those books at all. It had less than nothing to do with the books themselves as objects or as sources of knowledge that should be properly cared for and respected. But out of context it kinda looks that way. So, based on that one short gif set, it might seem like a perfectly legitimate interpretation to suggest that Sam and Dean were careless with the immense knowledge and invaluable books they’ve found themselves in possession of. But in the larger context of their entire history, of all their interactions with the bunker and the untold store of knowledge it holds, and with the context of the specific reasons for their frustration in that particular scene, it seems obvious that there’s a lot more to the story, you know?

You could technically argue just about any weird headcanon can be supported by canon. I wrote this weird little post right after 12.11 aired, and it sat in my drafts for a good long time before I finally posted it. But there’s nothing in canon that legit quashes the possibility that endgame fish!Cas is where the story’s been headed all along. He’s positively swimming in fish metaphors. (sorry, I couldn’t resist) Does that abundance of fish, fishing imagery, and water imagery that have surrounded Cas for years lend itself to a literal interpretation? I mean, it’s definitely AN interpretation that is there if you want to see it, and if in your heart of hearts you believe it’s legitimately what the storytelling is attempting to convey here. But does that make it a valid interpretation that deserves serious consideration? Does it truly make sense when taking the larger story around Cas as a whole? Or is it obviously a literary theme that we’re supposed to consider through the themes traditionally associated with fish and fishing as used in countless other fictional works of the past? I suppose that sort of interpretation has been left open for us to take or leave as we see fit. It invites us to examine those references more closely, to help us understand Cas as a character and the journey his personal character arc is taking him through. It gives his experiences and growth a depth of context that is there to explore if we so choose.

(for more on Cas vs Fish, please see my tags regarding “The Fisher King.” I like to think there’s a more well-reasoned and logical line of thinking for pinning so much fish to Cas than my cracky example of fish!Cas would suggest.)

Now, looking at destiel specifically, if you take any single moment out of context, it’s absolutely possible to make an interpretation that their relationship is clearly more “brotherly,” or clearly more “familial,” or clearly one of “very close friends.” But it requires the same removal from the larger context to explain away what taken with the entirety of their history begins to look entirely undeniable.

I suppose, since Supernatural is an open canon and the story hasn’t been fully told yet, that it’s possible the writers could change course with the storytelling. It��s possible that something might prevent them from taking Dean and Cas and their story to the conclusion they’ve been building to for the last ten years. They could decide to leave this particular “interpretation” open-ended and unresolved.

Since that is always a possibility, and because I’m not psychic, nor do I have any top secret inside information from the writers and showrunners, I can’t say that my particular interpretation is more valid or correct or likely than anyone else’s. But I have yet to come up against a credible, coherent explanation for the entire body of extant canon that invalidates my particular interpretation, either.

The vast majority of arguments against boil down to logical fallacies-- cherry-picking scenes out of context as “proof,” straw man arguments, and ad hominem attacks. Because of this, I’m content to wait for canon to play out. I’ll happily watch the rest of the story unfold, and happily continue to interpret what I’m witnessing as a whole instead of attempting to dissect it out and explain away what I see as an entirely logical progression of storytelling.

As an aside here, I find it entirely fascinating that one of the most common complaints I read from people who deny Dean and Cas are in love is that the writing has become progressively more terrible, that the story of Supernatural as a whole makes less and less sense, and that the characters are behaving in increasingly “out of character” ways. And as someone in possession of rational capabilities, I wonder if their disconnect from the storytelling is simply their refusal to see and accept that perhaps their “interpretation” of the story is just... not correct.

When we attempt to deny or rationalize away certain interpretations of characterization, or certain progressions of events and how they relate to one another, the larger narrative just falls apart, you know? Of course it doesn’t make sense if you exclude large portions of it because you don’t want to see it or believe it’s happening, or important to the story.

Meanwhile, I’m over here loving every minute of it (okay... most minutes of it). So even if my interpretation isn’t absolutely 100% “correct” (and really, with any media, there’s always different ways to interpret everything, from what the color of the curtains might imply to who’s gonna get to fire Chekhov’s Gun in the third act), I’m content to continue to interpret it in a way that not only makes me personally happiest, but in a way that makes the story itself seem both logical and entertaining, as well.

Okay, that’s the end of the rational portion of this essay. Now on to the angry queer lady portion:

There’s more canon evidence for Dean and Cas being in love, or at the very least caring for one another to ridiculous, rather mind-numbing degrees, than there is for practically every canon heterosexual couple on television in the last fifty years. Think of any slow burn, will they-won’t they hetero couple, and do the point-by-point checklist of all the tropes they burned through before they got to the love declarations and the kissing and the happily ever afters (or worse, the dramatic breaking up and getting back together, or even worse, the tragically breaking up forever). I challenge anyone to name one hetero-presenting couple who required as many love tropes for audiences to recognize and acknowledge they were in love. Yeah, I’m thinking of that whole “they shared a pencil” post.

So yeah, there is likely a measure of heteronormativity to it, and a lot of the arguments against also devolve into rather gross denouncements that there’s no way Dean’s not straight, because he said so that one time... Mr. “I lie professionally” who also never actually said he was straight... gah... I’m not gonna dig up every ancient meta post on the subject. If anyone is legitimately interested in understanding why making those same tired arguments just doesn’t have any legitimacy in a reasoned discussion, they can damn well do their own digging. It’s not like any of the evidence is difficult to uncover, and it’s not my job to spoon feed it to every naysayer myself.

I feel like I’m standing on a Mt. Everest size pile of rational, reasonable, well-argued analysis supporting the claim that Dean and Cas are in love. *stands back and points at my whole entire blog again* If anyone would like to come back at me with something even remotely worth my time and attention to persuade me to alter my interpretation, I suggest they get busy. I’ll just be up here on top of my mountain enjoying the clean, destiel-scented air up here.

And finally, who says it’s not canon? Ah, right. Moving goalposts. At this point, I think it’s ridiculous to suggest that Dean and Cas don’t love one another. And profoundly, at that. I mean, you don’t give up an army for one guy if you don’t at least like him a lil bit. You don’t shout down God begging him to bring back that dude you’re kinda buddies with, or sink into a suicidal funk that reverses completely within minutes of finding out said buddy’s alive again. You don’t offer to march to your death with your chum because he’s such a nice guy and all. I mean... honestly. How far in denial does someone have to be to suggest they don’t love each other? At this point, when comparing Sam and Dean’s reactions far into s13 to Cas’s death in 12.23, either you accept that Dean has much stronger and far different feelings about the loss of someone that Sam does love and considers a brother, or else you kinda have to assume that Sam’s just kind of a dick for not being as broken up about Cas’s death as Dean is. So... which interpretation do you think is the one they’re trying to convey?

Bleh, whatever. I await the inevitable inbox full of nastiness that I will cheerfully delete while judging every anon who sends it as someone who really should find a better hobby than antagonizing strangers on the internet over a work of fiction.

Anon, basically, don’t let the bastards grind you down, okay?

Now for some reason I feel like listening to Achtung Baby. Imma go do that and feel the love.

#destiel #the scheherazade of supernatural #btw for anyone who still feels the need to antagonize destiel shippers #that tag would be the one for you to find a lot of that content you'll need to actually address in order for anyone to take you seriously #Anonymous

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chinatea · 6 years

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Personas AU. Ian/Baby G. Colds and resolutions.

(Some major sap.)

After receiving a phone call from home, Ian clears off his desk, cancels all of his meetings for the next few days and turns off his company phone.

He simply can’t focus on work when Jimin is sick. And Jimin knows that well. He’d sniffle and sneeze Ian’s ear off over the phone, saying how it’s fine and Ian doesn’t have to bother - he’s just calling to say that he’s a little bit sick, that’s all.

Jimin is a sly one. But after many years together, Ian knows all of his tricks like the back of his hand. It doesn’t mean they don’t work anymore. They do.

Back at their house, in their bedroom, he’s greeted by a mountain of blankets, a tuft of silver blond hair peeking out meekly from underneath it. The mountain wobbles like a jelly cake, a kittenish sneeze coming muffled from below.

Ian shrugs off his jacket, rolling up his sleeves, before approaching the bed and getting to work on unswaddling the big drama queen.

“You’ll get too hot, staying there all day,” Ian says, picking Jimin up and settling him on top of the blankets. “I’ll draw you a bath. You’ll feel better after.”

Jimin rolls onto his side, nose scrunched in a silent protest. He mumbles something incoherently, his cheeks flushed red, so Ian leans over to check for fever. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to be running any.

“I’m sorry you had to ditch work for me,” Jimin says sheepishly, face half-sunken in the pillow. There is nothing sheepish about the look he gives Ian, eyes glinting in merry content.

Nothing pleases Jimin more than when Ian abandons everything for him, but Ian can’t find it in himself to be annoyed about it. He doesn’t spend as much time with Jimin as he himself would like to. Work gobbles down much of his time so they can live in a big house with a garden and a swimming pool and a staff to tend to all of it. But even more so that Jimin can pursue his passion in art and painting, because as nice as it sounds it’s barely enough to put food on their table. Not at the moment, at least.

“No, you’re not,” Ian teases, slapping his thigh before walking off into the bathroom to start the bath.

Earlier he’s dismissed their housemaid for the rest of the day, because on occasions like this he likes to be the one taking care of Jimin. It’s a way for him to make peace with himself for all the times he’d stayed away, working late or forgetting about their special dates: there was one time when he was too busy to attend the opening of Jimin’s personal exhibition. He’d visited on other days, more than once, but it wasn’t the same - he wasn’t there for him on Jimin’s happiest day. And even if Jimin long forgave him, Ian didn’t. He owes him more than an apology.

He owes Jimin a chicken soup with ginsaeng root, at least. The way his mom would make it for him when Ian was a kid.

Unlike Jimin who was born into a family of well-off intelligentsia, Ian comes from an average family, averagely poor. Before he could afford a house chef, he had to cook his soups himself, with chicken wings - more skin than meat - and no ginsaeng.

Those day were shitty because being poor was shitty, but not all things have to be about money. Some things are about care and thoughtfulness. At least on the days when Jimin is unwell, Ian wants to smother him with attention he deserves.

Jimin does look better after soaking in bath with herbs and salts, a healthy blush glowing on his cheeks. Draped in nothing but one of Ian’s shirts, he looks good enough to eat up, Ian thinks and presses a quick kiss on his cheek. Jimin whines, pushing him away, but it’s half-hearted. Next moment, he’s the one to cling to Ian, nuzzling his nose into his clavicle.

“You’ll get sick too if you are too close.”

Contrary to his words, Jimin holds on to him only tighter. He gets all too honest, with his body language if nothing else, when he’s under the weather, his true colors sipping onto the surface - the want and need for closeness.

“I won’t get sick, love.” Ian cards his fingers through the soft wavy locks. “I get ice-cold showers every morning.”

“Yep,” Jimin says with a cute sneeze. “That’s why we never take showers together. Now, where is my soup?”

Jimin nestles in his lap, opening his mouth nice and wide, as Ian spoon feeds him like a baby chick. (If only his subordinates saw him now. Most people he works with think he has no heart. He does. And it beats only for his lover. No one else.)

Done with the soup, Jimin yawns, hands looping around Ian’s neck. He doesn’t say anything, but the message is clear enough. Ian carries him to bed, settling him down like he’s the most fragile thing in his life. Truly, he is. The most precious one, too. Ian is lucky to have Jimin’s love. Maybe he needs to remind himself of that more often.

“Read me something,” Jimin asks softly, pulling Ian down and curling next to him. His head is tucked over Ian’s shoulder and he’s not letting Ian go until he’s milked Ian for all the attention he can give him.

Ian chooses a random book from a stack on the bedside table. Today’s lucky pick is ‘Essays in Idleness’. He thought he’d lost it, but it has always been here - right under his nose.

He opens it on a random page and starts reading until Jimin nods off, soothed by his silky timbre. Somewhere in the middle of an anecdote about the eternal foolishness of humans, Ian puts the book down, submitting to the moment of quiet where nothing exists but a steady rise and fall of Jimin’s chest; also, the warmth radiating from his body, here and now.

Suddenly, he finds himself struck by an epiphany.

What is he doing?

For the last couple of years, he only gets to be like this with Jimin, cozy and domestic, when he is sick. Because Ian never gets sick. He can’t afford to. So many things to do - things that keep him away from Jimin. He’s wasting his youth crunching numbers in hopes that one day they’ll have time; that they’ll catch up. But it’s a false hope. One doesn’t ‘catch up’ with life. The time that is lost is lost forever.

The thought is powerful enough for Ian to gently shake Jimin awake. Some things just can’t wait. He needs to say it now.

“I think I should quit,” he says as Jimin is blinking up at him, drowsy and a touch miffed at his nap times being cut short.

“What?”

“I should quit,” Ian elaborates, the cogs in his brain already working on conjuring up a business plan. “We’ll sell the company, the house, too. Move someplace else, somewhere nice, near the sea. I’ll open up a coffee shop, on the first floor, and we’ll set up your studio upstairs, where you’ll work on your paintings...”

“Wait, are you serious?” Jimin yawns, rubbing his heavy eyelids, too sleepy to take him seriously. “You want to be a barista now? You don’t even drink coffee.”

“I’m not going to be a barista,” Ian says with a huff. “I’m going to be the boss. A lousy kind of boss who spends most of his time sipping glühwein and gazing into his lovely husband’s eyes. Your eyes, Min-ah.”

“Sounds too good to be true, baby,” Jimin sighs wistfully. “I know you. You won’t just stop at one cafe. You’ll never stop until you’re stealing game from Starbucks.”

“I promise to stop at five cafes, okay? Maybe an art gallery on the side to exhibit your works. Once you’re famous and all.”

“Wow,” Jimin wonders. “Can I go back to sleep now? If you don’t change your mind by the time I wake up, we can talk about it. Don’t go selling our house before that, okay?”

“No promises.”

Ian can’t hold back a small smile, kissing the crown of his head, a few appreciative murmurs escaping Jimin’s lips. If Ian didn’t promise himself to spend a couple of days with Jimin, he’d already be ringing up his secretary to pull him a list of potential brokers.

But priorities, right. He’s not good at it yet, but he’ll get better - at putting his time with Jimin above all else.

(Inspired by real events - as in me suffering from a real-ass cold now. What fun.)

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jencamiccia-blog · 7 years

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Short story: MY ONLY SUNSHINE by Jen Camiccia

My daddy dropped like a stone. They said later he was dead before he hit the ground. I suppose they said it to give me comfort, as if his loss is somehow made easier with the knowledge he didn’t suffer.

If I were a little less selfish this might be true, but the reality is - I want him back, suffering or not. Instead, I’m left with Bo and a baby who sucks the life out of me on an hourly basis.

Bo looks at me now like he doesn’t recognize me, like he doesn’t know me and wouldn’t care to. Everyone tells him to be patient because I’m still grieving.

‘You know how Sunshine is’ they say. High strung gets thrown around like it explains everything about me.The truth is, no one will ever love me again. Not like my daddy. Not my stupid, slack-jawed husband and not my big-headed baby with his endless supply of green eye-boogers.

He stares at me, my baby does, and I can see he knows it too. That I’m unlovable.

“Take him,” Bo says, thrusting him at me. “He’s hungry.”

“Can’t you feed him?”

“A mother is supposed to feed her baby.” He turns and stomps off, not waiting for my reply. Not caring really, if he’s honest about it.

“Okay, little booger,” I say, plopping him in his high chair and smashing some bananas.

I’ve forgotten to buy baby food again, but this is healthier, anyway. Fresher.

“Open your mouth,” I say, but he twists his lips, thwarting every pass of the spoon, more bananas in his ear and hair than his mouth.

“Fine. Starve see if I care” Tears burn my throat for the millionth time that day. I slam the bathroom door, sinking to the ground, the shaggy carpet tickling the bottom of my feet.

I shouldn’t leave him alone. Can he choke on banana mush?

I’m drowning in the mundane. How does anyone expect me to keep on cooking and cleaning and having sex and gardening and eating and giving a crap about any of it?

“Sunshine! Where are you?”

I peek my head out. “In here.”

My sister walks around the corner, holding the baby. “He was slipping under the tray. You forgot to buckle him.”

“He’s okay.”

The baby clings to Raina as if he knows he’s not safe with me. He’s right to prefer her.

“He was my daddy too,” she says, blowing on her bangs as they swoop over one eye. “Just because you were his favorite doesn’t mean you’re the only one suffering here. I miss him, but I don’t mope around the house with my old, ratty bathrobe.”

“I know.” I bow my head, but don’t let her see my face. She’s jealous of how much Daddy loved me, always has been.

“Don’t make this about you. Bo says you aren’t eating or taking much of an interest in anything.”

“He just wants me under him every night and acting like… like…”

“Like you love him?” One eyebrow arches.

“He makes it hard to love him.” The words burn my mouth, blistering my lips. “I think I might hate him.”

“You’re not thinking straight. After a while, this will all get better. He’s your husband. You promised to love him in good times and bad. You can’t just check out without trying” She pauses and says, “What would Daddy say?”

My hand itches to slap her face, wipe the fake smile right off of it. “Daddy never liked Bo. He would be happy if I left him.”

“And then what? What about T.J.?” She jostles the baby up and down, kissing his bald head. “You going to leave him, too?”

“He would be better off without me.”

She can see I mean it. Her mouth makes a perfect circle as she thinks about what this means. My sister is a fixer. She’s happiest when she takes over and bosses everyone around. “I think you need a little vacation. How does that sound?” She takes her phone out and looks something up. “I know of just the place. You can sleep without the baby waking you, the ocean right outside your door. I’ll stay here and take care of everything. How does that sound?”

It doesn’t sound terrible. Sleeping all day without guilt, without everyone wanting something I can’t give. I tell her she’s right and she smiles. She loves this. The feeling of superiority she has when I’m failing.

I can’t drum up the energy to care. I pack and she drives me the three hours to the hotel. The car drives away before I can even kiss the baby goodbye.

I open the window in my tiny, perfect room, and seagull’s calls blend with the rhythmic crashing of waves against the hotel’s foundation. Salt and seaweed perfume the soft air and the combination lulls me into a stupor. A hint of sun peeks through the fog, promising something it can’t deliver.

I sleep for three days straight. Room service drops off a meal here and there and I stumble over and eat before I fall back in bed. I ignore my phone, not caring about anyone else. The only person I need is dead.

When I wake up I wish I can fall back asleep and recapture the perfect bubble of happiness of my dreams.

The door shakes, the knocking goes on and on, before my name if finally bellowed. “Sunshine!” “What?”

Bo stands there. “You haven’t answered your phone for three days. You were supposed to be home this morning.” He muscles past me, taking in the unmade bed and piles of dishes. “Don’t they have maid service here?”

“I put the do-not-disturb sign out.” I wipe my eyes, my hand almost too heavy to lift.

He grabs clothes from my suitcase, throwing them in my face as if he wishes they were heavier. “Get dressed, you’re coming home. I should never have agreed to you coming here in the first place. You need to be taking care of your baby, not wallowing.”

The clothes drop to the ground and I make no attempt to catch them. “I’m not going home with you.”

The words give me the first sense of peace I’ve had in weeks.

He sputters, staring at me with his square jaw and soft brown eyes. Those eyes were what first made me love him, made me think I knew a thing about him.

“Then...what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you better figure it out because I’m not waiting around forever for you to snap out of this.”

“I’m not asking you to.” I sit down on the bed and wish he would leave.

“It’s been three months, Sunshine,” he says, as if grief has a time limit. “You need to keep going. If I stopped every time something bad happened we would starve and have no place to live. Sometimes you just have to suck it up and move on.”

Slippery tears burn my neck and chest. My grief is a fiery lye to everything it touches.

“I don’t want to move on. I never want to stop crying. If I stop then he’s really gone.” I fling the words at him until I’m screaming, shaking, holding my hands up as a shield.

He backs up a few steps. “You’re as crazy as your mother.”

He knows this will hurt more than anything else he can say. “I should have listened to my brother. He said you would go psycho one day.”

I fold over at the waist, trying to keep my heart from falling out. “Leave,” I say, crawling back in bed.

“You can’t have the baby,” he shouts. “He’s mine. I don’t want you anywhere near him.”

I don’t answer. I don’t need to because he’s finally gone.

My mother is the one who picks me up. I hunch down in the car, saying a silent goodbye to the ocean and the place where sunshine hides.

“Raina says you left Bo and T.J.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Is this about your father?”

I sigh, not knowing why I expect her to listen, to understand.

“Because you were blind when it came to him. He wasn’t perfect.”

“I don’t want to do this.”

Her jealousy fills the car and chokes me. This isn't about her, everything doesn't always have to be about her. My dad worshipped her. He told her everyday how much he loved her, how beautiful she was. Even when she was in one of her dark periods, he never had a bad thing to say about her. He kept all of us away from the darkened bedroom where she would hole up for weeks, sometimes months.

He cooked for us, drove us to school, and made sure my mom didn’t slit her wrists or take a whole bottle of pills like the time when I was seven and came home from first grade to firemen and sirens.

“You were a selfish little girl and now you’re a selfish woman,” she says, each word clipped and bitter. “Your father is gone but you still have a husband and my grandchild. Don’t let it all go because you can’t let go of a dead man.”

“He’s only been dead three months,” I mumble, wishing I could scream at her, wishing she didn’t still terrify me. She shouldn’t have this power to make me feel like nothing. Like less than nothing.

She drops me off at home, not even bothering to come in and see the grandchild she throws in my face.

Raina is there whispering in Bo’s ear, bouncing T.J. in her arms. Bo walks upstairs without looking at me and Raina bites her lip, staring after him. It’s the same look she’s had ever since I first brought Bo home two years ago.

“He wants you out,” she says, her mouth drooping as if she feels bad for me. “You can go stay at my apartment. I’ll stay and take care of the baby.”

I nod, wishing I were numb again. “Can you pack me a change of clothes?” I hold out my arms to T.J. “I’ll hold him.”

She hugs the baby close, kissing his cheek before slowly handing him to me. “I’ll be right back,” she says more to him than me.

I place his sturdy body on my hip, the familiarity of his weight squeezing my heart. His arms wrap around my neck, fat hands patting my cheek.

“Ma ma ma ma,” he says, his new tooth peeking white and shiny against his swollen red gums.

“Hi there boogie.” I kiss his soft, sticky cheek and gently wipe the green crust from the corner of his left eye.

He stares at me, his eyes shining and full of trust. He offers me all the love in his heart without expecting anything n return.

He keeps up a steady stream of noise from his car seat as I drive away. I sing softly at first, the words heavy in my mouth. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine...”

#shortstory fiction amwriting

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