#how does that not ring a fucking bell in your otherwise empty heads
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btw just so y'all zionists pieces of shit know, democratic countries aren't supposed to pass laws that ban news channels that contradict the state power (x)
#stop pretending you're anything else than fascists in a different font#israel#palestine#free palestine#if your intentions are really noble then you shouldn't have to censor anything that says the opposite#but we all know they aren't#they also planning on banning foreign news#how does that not ring a fucking bell in your otherwise empty heads#stop being a propaganda machine for one damn second and think for yourself ffs
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𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐒𝐄𝐘'𝐒 — 𝐈𝐅 𝐈 𝐂𝐀𝐍'𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄, 𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐏𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑 ( 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟏 ) / feel free to change pronouns as you see fit !
THE TRADITION
❛ she's easy on the eyes. ❜
❛ her soul is black and it's a fact. ❜
❛ so take what you want, take what you can, take what you please. ❜
❛ ask for forgiveness, never permission. ❜
❛ It's in the blood and this is tradition. ❜
❛ they dress her up in golden crowns, her smile hides a lie. ❜
❛ you can take it back it's good as gone. ❜
❛ this is your soul, i hope what's left will last all summer long. ❜
❛ they said that boys were boys but they were wrong. ❜
BELLS IN SANTE FE
❛ don't call me by my name, all of this is temporary. ❜
❛ watch as i step away, for your sake. ❜
❛ maybe i can hold you in the dark. ❜
❛ leaving through the door without a word. you won't even notice, little bird. ❜
❛ better off dead, so i reckon i'm heading to hell instead. ❜
❛ don't wait for me, it's not a happy ending. ❜
❛ to sort out all his bullshit, to figurе out the treason ❜
❛ jesus, you've got better lips than judas. ❜
❛ i could give you bad one, otherwise i'm useless. ❜
❛ 'cause who the fuck would choose this? ❜
EASIER THAN LYING
❛ i'm only whatever you make me. ❜
❛ you make me more and more a villain every day. ❜
❛ you don’t know you reap, you sow. ❜
❛ whatever you give to me from yourself you take. ❜
❛ well if you're a hater then hate the creator, it's in your image i’m made. ❜
❛ 'cause i'll hang myself if you'd give me rope. ❜
❛ i got so much faith and lost all hope. ❜
❛ one eye broken and one eye bruised, ‘cause I gave myself away for you. ❜
❛ you liar, you don't love me too. ❜
❛ my heart is massive but it's empty. ❜
❛ gasping for some real attention, some undivided hypertension. ❜
❛ losing you is easier than lying to myself. ❜
LILITH
❛ i'm perfection when it comes to first impressions. ❜
❛ you got me thinkin' that i was too mean. ❜
❛ everything that I say I believe. ❜
❛ tuck a knife with my heart up my sleeve. ❜
❛ i am disruptive, i've been corrupted. ❜
❛ by now I don't need a fuckin' introduction. ❜
❛ you know I get too caught up in the moment. ❜
❛ i can't call it love if i show it. ❜
❛ i just fuck things up if you notice. ❜
❛ have you noticed? tell me, have you noticed? ❜
❛ now i'm wondering if i ever wanted to hold you. ❜
❛ you'd let anybody with a body control you, and you know it too. ❜
❛ the more that you have, the more that they'll take. ❜
GIRL IS A GUN
❛ i'm not your daydream, i won't have your baby. ❜
❛ it's a shot in the dark, i'm not a walk in the park. ❜
❛ this girl is a gun, and we been havin' some fun. ❜
❛ i can show you if you turn the lights on. ❜
❛ i keep waitin' for love to come and swallow me up. ❜
❛ I feel better when the boys stop callin'. ❜
❛ this girl is a gun, before you know it, it's done. ❜
❛ god is a gun, he can have what he wants. ❜
❛ let me show you how to touch my trigger. ❜
❛ makin' me crazy from mornin' to evenin'. ❜
❛ i can't not take it, i love it, i break it. ❜
❛ it's never enough, so I'm givin' you up. ❜
YOU ASKED FOR THIS
❛ i don't know what you want from me. ❜
❛ now what the fuck does all this mean? ❜
❛ my tears are falling flawlessly now. ❜
❛ go on and be a big girl, you asked for this now. ❜
❛ who the hell is in your bed? ❜
❛ you gotta kiss goodnight and give some head. ❜
❛ i want my cake on a silver plater, i want a fistful in my hands. ❜
❛ i want a beautiful boy's despondent laughter. ❜
❛ i wanna ruin all my plans. ❜
❛ i want a fist around my throat. ❜
❛ i wanna cry so hard, i choke. ❜
❛ i want everything i ask for. ❜
DARLING
❛ really can't remember where i left my spine. ❜
❛ maybe I'll be better if I take my meds. ❜
❛ darling don't you weep, there's a place for me. ❜
❛ somewhere we can sleep, see you in your dreams. ❜
❛ ever since i was a little girl i found this sweet. ❜
❛ all the little flowers give me something to believe in. ❜
❛ never knew the feeling of a stable home, been a couple years of living on the road. ❜
❛ only you have showed me how to love me in a life. ❜
❛ until it's time to see the light, i'll make my own with you each night. ❜
❛ i'll kidnap all the stars and i will keep them in your eyes. ❜
1121
❛ i won't die for love, but i've got a body here to bury. ❜
❛ the parts of myself that i've hated... i can't tell which ones are mine and which I created. ❜
❛ you could have my heart and i would break it for you. ❜
❛ i try to be careful with the thing inside my chest. ❜
❛ so you can forget me , i'll leave if you let me. ❜
❛ please don't leave, don't leave me in the shape you left me. ❜
❛ just leave me in the place you found me safe and soundly. ❜
HONEY
❛ she's on the tip of my tongue, she's on the top of my thighs. ❜
❛ open your mouth, i got a surprise. ❜
❛ all i can taste is the blood in my mouth and the bitterness in goodbye. ❜
❛ drippin' like honеy, down the back of my throat and on the front of my mind. ❜
❛ she stings like she means it, she's mean and she's mine. ❜
❛ i love every second, it's fuckin' fantastic ❜
❛ she's hell in a basket just makin' a racket. ❜
❛ good things aren't easy to get, i know that i won't regret you. ❜
❛ between my fingers, she leaves then she lingers. ❜
WHISPERS
❛ you sabotage the things you love the most. ❜
❛ this is the voice in your head that says, "you do not want this". ❜
❛ this is the ache that says, "you do not want him". ❜
❛ bet I could fuck him. ❜
❛ why do you need love so badly? ❜
❛ i've got a monster inside me. ❜
❛ isn't it lonely? ❜
❛ think that you know me? you think that you could if you hold me? ❜
❛ think you could try to console me, but i do not know me. ❜
I AM NOT A WOMAN, I’M A GOD
❛ i am not a woman, i'm a god. ❜
❛ i am not a martyr, i'm a problem. ❜
❛ i am not a legend, i'm a fraud. ❜
❛ keep your heart, 'cause i already got one. ❜
❛ every day i've got a smile where my frown goes. ❜
❛ maybe i could be a different human in a new place. ❜
❛ i just wanna feel something, tell me where to go. ❜
❛ i stay right herе 'cause i'm better all alonе. ❜
❛ i never listen but i see you with my eyes closed. ❜
❛ it really does hurt when you love someone. ❜
THE LIGHTHOUSE
❛ from a tender age i was closed with rage. ❜
❛ i went swimming with the devil at the bottom of a lake. ❜
❛ he was tall and mean with venom eyes so green. ❜
❛ i'll allure you like a landslide and I'll show you lovely things. ❜
❛ he kissed me on the mouth and dug his fingers in my thighs. ❜
❛ a sailor ain't a savior 'cause they only tell you lies. ❜
❛ he's laying in the water, begging god to let him down. ❜
❛ i showed him all my teeth and then i laughed out loud. ❜
❛ i never wanted saving, i just wanted to be found. ❜
❛ that should teach a man to mess with me. ❜
❛ i'm glad i met the devil 'cause he showed me i was weak, and a little piece of him is a little piece of me. ❜
YA’ABURNEE
❛ i can't decide if i love you more at morning or i love you more at night. ❜
❛ the moon don't pick sides and the sun won't resign until you're by my side. ❜
❛ your beauty is a blessing. ❜
❛ i never got to tell you how i lovеd the way my eyes makе yours look green. ❜
❛ i think we could live forever in each others faces. ❜
❛ if we don't live forever maybe one day we'll trade places. ❜
❛ darling, you will bury me before i bury you. ❜
❛ i'll never know if there's danger in confession. ❜
❛ it's memory that presses like a blade against my throat. ❜
❛ or to die without revealing that you got inside my head. ❜
❛ love is just a currency so take my pockets, and take me home. ❜
❛ take my life, and take my soul, wrap me in a wedding ring. ❜
#lyric starters#sentence starters#rp starter#inbox memes#rp meme#halsey#if i can't have love i want power
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—the love bug. (m)
⟶ pairing: jungkook x reader
⟶ genre: spiderman!jungkook + fluff / smut
⟶ words: 20,649 (sorry)
⟶ rating: 18+
⟶ summary: every night, jungkook puts on the red mask and flings himself confidently into perilous danger; but that same heart of steel that fuels his will and spirit seems to fail him whenever it comes to you
⟶ warnings: coarse language, mild violence, jungkook is really shy and cute and dumb bc he’s so smitten, also jungkook’s butt in spandex is nice, needy/clingy sex, oral sex (fem!receiving), face riding, fingering, riding, missionary, unprotected sex
⟶ disclaimer: this is a repost of a fic i had on my old blog!
You see Jungkook every night without fail.
When the sun has set below the distant horizon and plunges the world into a formidable darkness, driving most ordinary civilians to seek shelter in their homes, he stumbles into the café tucked cozily on the corner of a busy street in Lower Manhattan. The concrete city is still very much alive in a harmonious mix of sirens and the hum of cars but is subdued, muffling under the night sky and is most susceptible at this time to misconduct. Usually, at this point of night, the café you work at is nearly empty, save for a few stragglers that huddle tiredly at certain round tables. Most times, these are students from the university you attend just around the bend, whose weary eyes peer over the laptop in front of them as they meticulously work on an essay due the next morning, only fueled by the cup of coffee next to them.
Though you’ve seen Jungkook plenty of times around the campus of your school, he never once enters the café for the sole purpose of late night studying or writing. Instead, as you come to find over the course of many strange nights, Jungkook stumbles in through the doors sometime after 9 p.m., always with one strap of his backpack thrown over his shoulder. He always looks dishevelled, exhausted, as if he has spent the evening running all over the city of New York; and then he plops himself down into a seat by the window, burying his head in his folded arms that lean on the top of the table. Most times he orders a coffee and though he downs it the fastest you’ve ever seen, he is still somehow able to fall asleep at the table. Sometimes, he hardly ever touches the coffee and lets it grow cold as it rests next to him but he always, without a doubt, falls asleep next to it.
You never wake him. Usually, when you work the late night shifts, you are alone for a handful of hours until your next coworker arrives for their shift. You don’t mind the company anyway, even if he sleeps for most of the night. It’s comforting to at least see he’s resting, though you find yourself snickering to yourself as you watch the snoring boy when it’s just you and him alone in the café. Though you have grown up with Jungkook as your next door neighbour as a child, have attended the same schools and been in most classes together from elementary all the way to your freshman year of college now, and have watched one another mature and change, you have never really exactly gotten to know Jungkook as well as you’d like. Typically, your conversations are short and friendly, ranging from you taking his order at the café and spotting him around campus and asking if he knew the answer to a question for the homework assigned to the class you share with him.
This night isn’t any different.
You’ve become eager, always anticipating when Jungkook will walk through the doors of the café and make himself at home as he routinely does. However, just before 9 p.m. on a Thursday night, when the small bell above the door rings to signal a new arrival, you are immediately disappointed to find that it is not Jungkook. Instead, it is a crude muscular man not much older than you with tattoos that litter his arms and a star inked into the left side of his neck. The sight of him causes you to groan inwardly, forces you to straighten your back a little more, hold your chin a little higher. Most nights the café may be occupied by university students, but other nights you are forced to deal with tasteless strangers that try to intimidate you but instead give you an agonising headache.
You have seen this man before, have remembered the star tattoo and the scar just above his right eyebrow. He has come into the café before and has been the source of trouble more often than not. As the man approaches the counter in an imperious stride this time, you notice the smirk that tugs at his lips and feel the foreboding shudder that runs down your spine.
“Evenin’,” You greet. “Can I get you anything?”
The man’s eyes flicker to the menu above the counter, as if he is pondering what to order. He looks back down at you and then leans against the counter, closing the distance between him and you causing you to take a step back.
“How are you doing tonight, sweetheart?” he asks. “Been awhile, huh? Did you miss me?”
Forcing a fixed smile on your face, you reply shortly with, “I’ve been well. Can I get you anything?”
Apparently, the way you repeat your question in a firm manner doesn’t act as well of a hint as you had hoped for the man. He’s smirking wickedly, clearly enjoying the strain he puts you through.
“I know what you can get me, sweetheart,” he drawls. “When do you get off? Maybe we can meet round back and I can show you what a real man is like.”
“No thanks.”
“Playing hard to get, hm?” he muses. “I wonder what else that pretty little mouth of yours can do.”
Though you are appalled, you swallow your nerves and narrow your eyes into a glare. It can tell you to kindly fuck off, you grimace to yourself. Instead, you turn your back to him, pretending to occupy yourself with cleaning the counter as you mumble blankly, “Not interested.”
The man chuckles. “Come on, sweetheart. It’s just a little fun━”
“She said she’s not interested.”
The familiar voice that interrupts the man causes your heart to leap blithely in your chest and makes you realize you have been so caught up with the man by the counter that you hardly noticed the way the bell rings a second time as the newcomer enters the shop. Standing just behind the man is Jungkook, whose carob hair sticks out in messy tufts and weary eyes are laced with an underlying menace. The man looks from you to Jungkook and must assume the confrontation isn’t worth a fight. The smug smile remains on his face even as he shrugs, muttering something along the lines of, “Whatever, man. I was just trying to have some fun.”
Whether or not Jungkook has scared him away, the man relents and retreats to the door of the café, disappearing outside once more. As soon as the door shuts behind him, you come to realize that you are now alone in the café with Jungkook with nothing but the sound of the flat screen t.v that hangs in a corner behind the counter, faintly playing on the news channel.
“You okay?” he asks, catching your attention. “He didn’t do anything, did he?”
“Oh, no. No, I’m fine,” You say. “Thanks for that, by the way. Though I could’ve handled it myself.”
Jungkook chuckles. “I don’t doubt that but it’s nice to get a little help sometimes.”
You smile up at the boy who towers above you and, despite the fatigue that droops his eyes, his pink lips still unfurl into a wide, radiant grin that brightens his face.
“How long are you here for tonight?” he asks.
“Till close. Then I have to head home and put together a powerpoint for psych,” You yawn as if to emphasize your boredom. “What can I get you? The usual?”
Jungkook looks at you as if you are his saving grace. The smile stretches further across his cheeks as he nods. “Please?”
“Will do. Sit tight, I’ll be right over.”
You spin around from behind the counter, almost immediately jumping to work as you rummage through the shelves. When you’re finished making his order that consists solely of a medium black coffee with two sugars and turn back around to face him, you find him seated at a table off to the side, not far from the counter. His backpack lays discarded on the ground by his feet and his elbow rests on top of the surface of the table, his chin nestled in the palm of his hand; his eyes are fixated on the television screen hanging just ahead and, for once upon entering the café past dusk, he doesn’t lack a sense of emotion. Instead, his brows knit in concern as he is engrossed by whatever is happening on the news.
As you approach his table with his coffee in your hand, you crane your neck to look up at the screen and what has seemingly caught his interest. On one side of the screen is a female news reporter in a pink blouse and gray blazer; on the second half of the screen, you see a familiar flash of striking red and blue that swings from building to building from an, albeit, shaky recording from a passerby’s phone.
“And in other news,” The woman who speaks has a strong, smooth voice as she stares ahead at the camera with a rather sour look, “the masked mystery man, otherwise known as Spider-Man, was spotted earlier this morning when he put a stop to a robbery in an apartment in Queens just before noon. Though most would argue that Spider-Man is New York’s very own masked hero, the New York City Police Department are still searching for the identity of whom they call a vigilante, saying he is causing mayhem in━”
“Some guy, huh?” You muse pensively, sliding the coffee onto the counter next to Jungkook. “This spider guy or whatever.”
The boy in front of you glances down meekly at the coffee and back up at you. His eyes flicker to the screen hanging in the corner once more. “You mean Spider-Man?”
Nodding, you say, “Yeah. He comes out of nowhere two years ago and now he’s everywhere. What do you think of him helping with all this dangerous crime stuff?”
“Ah, well, that’s his thing,” Jungkook says, shrugging. “If he couldn’t handle it, he wouldn’t be helping solve a lot of the city’s crimes. I think he’s pretty cool, y’know, for a masked guy. I definitely don’t think he’s a vigilante or━ or a criminal.”
“You talk about him as if you know him,” You giggle.
Jungkook’s eyes widen for a split second and then he’s furiously shaking his head. “Know him? No, no, of course not! I’m just a… Just a big fan ━ and an even bigger fan of Iron Man.”
He picks up the coffee next to him and lifts it to his mouth for a quick sip, nearly burning his tongue but swallowing his curses.
“I like him,” You confess at long last. “He’s interesting. I think he’s just what we need at a time like this.”
Just then, the bell above the door rings once more and a small group of friends wander into the shop, each carrying backpacks and heavy textbooks. They sit at a table off in the corner and you sigh as you look back down at Jungkook.
“That’s my cue,” You say. “Gotta go, but have a good night, okay? And, Jungkook? You really should get some more sleep.”
Jungkook opens his mouth to respond but you are already turning away and so he sits back in his seat, defeated once more. He watches as you stride happily to the group of friends sitting at a table to take their order, your hair bouncing slightly under the fluorescent lights. He folds his arms over the top of his table and buries his head in them, though he sneaks one last glance up at you. Despite his eyes itching with sleep, he pries them open just a second longer to watch you smile as you speak with the students and it is the last thing he sees before he slips off into a light and contented sleep.
As you step out into the cool, early Autumn night and shut the door of the café behind you to lock it, the single thought most prominent in your mind is sleep.
You’re exhausted, but the homework still waiting to be completed in your home is the only thing that pushes you to stay awake. You hurry to fish the store keys out of your coat pocket and, with a euphonious chime, use them to lock the front door, ignoring the way the cold breeze nips at your cheeks. You grasp the collar of your coat tighter around your body and then hike the strap of your own bag further up your shoulder as you turn to walk away.
Jungkook had fallen asleep as per usual after your short conversation with him and then vanished an hour some time before you closed, waving a final farewell to you. The rest of your night had been rather slow, with only two more customers entering the café until each person left to venture back out into the cold and leave you alone. To finally be freed from the confinements of the café has you breathing in the crisp air in a deep breath. Exhaling placidly, you cross the street and begin making your way toward your one bedroom apartment which is only a fifteen minute walk away from both the café and your school.
You aren’t quite sure how long you have been walking for when you begin to notice the sound of footsteps behind you. In fact, if you had been listening more intently since the second you left the café, you would be able to recall the fact that these same heavy footsteps had been following along behind you since then. You don’t necessarily see the problem at hand just yet, thinking it to be just another innocent passerby who is coincidentally walking the same way as you. After all, New York City has a tremendously huge population.
You take a left, turning the corner of the street to continue along the path to your home. The only light that illuminates the way are the silvery wisps from the moon that hangs high in the night sky and the flickering street lamps that you pass occasionally. You take another left and strain your ears and hear the sound of footsteps again. Maybe you were overreacting, maybe it was just a random passerby, but most cities weren’t foreign to that of strange stalkers. Holding your breath, you slowly glance over your shoulder at the figure who has been following you and spot a man just a few paces away, the hood of his sweater drawn over his head.
You immediately turn back around, eyes wide as panic begins to settle in. You take another left, then a right, cross the street and retrace your steps back towards the café and each time you hear the heavy footsteps; each time they quicken in pace as does yours. You hadn’t even realized how briskly you were walking until you glance over your shoulder for a second time and see the man once more. Suddenly, you turn a sharp corner and race ahead before coming across an empty and darkened alleyway. You slip into its shadows, your heart hammering wildly against your chest and in your ears, and continue to walk until the brick wall at the very end of the alleyway comes into view. A dead end.
You turn back around and begin walking forward before freezing suddenly. If you go back out there, that man could still be lurking; if you stay in the alleyway, you could hide until you think it’s safe. Your eyes flicker around for something to cower behind and just before you notice the dumpster off to the side, you see a shadow in the corner of your eye. Turning around, you come face-to-face with the hooded man who is all but blocking your path to freedom. Except now, you’re able to stare into his face past the silhouette that his hood draws on his features. Now, you can see the star tattoo on his neck, the scar above his right eyebrow and an image of the man from the café only hours ago flashes across your eyes.
“You,” You gasp. “What do you want from me?”
Behind his hood, you can see him smirk slyly. “I just want to chat to you, babe. What are you doing all by yourself out here?”
Your eyes narrow into a scrutinizing glare. You step forward to walk around him but he grabs onto you, his arm snaking around your waist as he drawls, “Not so fast. I’ve been meaning to get you alone like this.”
Just as you open your mouth to shout out for help, the noise of sudden scuffling in the alley causes the man to stop. It comes with the rustling of the wind and could have easily been mistaken for the sound of a trash can falling over or paper tumbling loosely but it is also unmistakable the sound of footsteps. The man must notice something before you do as he squints further into the alleyway, muttering a small, “What the hell━”
“Come on, dude, that’s seriously no way to treat a girl!”
The foreign voice that drifts into the alleyway seems to startle not only yourself, but the man in front of you. His grip loosens on you slightly as he cranes his neck to look amongst the shadows.
“Well, anyone, for that matter.”
The stranger’s voice is youthful, most likely belonging to a boy around your age. It is oddly calm and nonchalant despite the situation that is unfolding before him, and then he clicks his tongue disapprovingly. As your eyes flicker open, you follow the source of the sound towards the blocked end of the alleyway still veiled by the darkness. Had this person always been there or had they really materialized out of thin air?
“Who’s there?” The man in front of you grunts. “Why don’t you mind your own business?”
“And why don’t you pick on somebody your own size?” The voice retaliates. He pauses as if he is waiting for an answer and then he is speaking up again. “Let me guess. You’re gonna tell me to screw off or something right? God, you guys are always so predictable and yet you never make it any easier for me.”
The man scowls, his hand drops from your throat as he turns to the looming darkness and hisses gruffly, “Mind your own business, punk━”
Before he can carry on, something flings out of the darkness and lands on the man’s face in a blink of an eye. He immediately lets go of you, grunting in confusion and flailing his arms about. As you drop to the ground, you subsequently bang your head hard against the brick wall and groan in pain, though you’re able to catch a glimpse of what the man is trying so desperately to claw off his face before your vision goes blurry. It is something thin and wispy, made of silver glistening strands that resembles, oddly enough, a spider’s web. As the man fumbles into the darkness, arms swinging clenched fists wildly about.
“Over here!” The boy taunts. “Missed me again! You know, you’re not very good at this.”
You struggle to climb to your feet, clutching your head in agony as you squint into the darkness. From where you are, you can only see the man fumbling around uselessly, the other figure still concealed by the darkness. As you attempt to get a better look, you hear the boy grunt in pain and catch sight of the man just after he had swung his fist into this person’s face, while his other hand had successfully been able to finally rip the mesh off his face.
“Okay, ow, that hurt,” The boy admits.
But before he or the man can continue on, you’re springing forward, mustering all your strength and courage into one impromptu movement. You grab your bag that had been discarded on the ground, heavy with a few school textbooks you had brought with you; you clutch it tightly, race up behind the man, and swing it hard at his head. His actions come to a sudden halt, he staggers forward, and immediately collapses to the ground, unconscious. Then finally, plunged into the darkness of the alleyway, you slowly look up to face the eye of your helper and are met, instead, with a flash of red and blue.
Standing before you, adorned head to toe in a tight suit is none other than the mysterious masked vigilante. He’s much taller in person than you expected, and much more muscular too, though with his face hidden beyond a mask, you can’t say much else about him. Instead, you gasp as you stare up at him in astonishment.
“Hey, nice hit!” he says, an apparent grin in his voice. “That was pretty awesome━”
“It’s you!” You exclaim.
“Me?” He seems confused at first but then he’s straightening up. “Oh, right, right. It’s me! Just, uh, your friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man. Rescuing damsels in distress is kinda my thing.”
Your amusement for the mysterious hero is quick to fade, however, in wake of the throbbing pain on your head. It makes you aware of the fact that your knees have since grown weak, your mind spinning. When you take a step forward, you are suddenly faint and stumble over your feet, tripping to the ground. Before you can hit the pavement, the boy swoops forward and into view, catching you swiftly in his arms and holding you up.
“Hey, hey, stay with me,” he says. “Oh man, we gotta get you home. Can you tell me where you live?”
You can feel your lips moving in response, most likely informing him foolishly of the apartment complex you live in. Though this boy has been noted on performing acts of bravery and fighting against crime, he’s still a stranger ━ and, even more warily so, a complete enigma. There was no reason to trust him, despite him helping you only minutes ago, but in that moment you are weak and exhausted. In the very next second, you find yourself slipping off into a deep and tranquil slumber.
When you awaken the next morning, you are first greeted to the bright light of the sun that licks at your cheeks and warms your face. You note the soft plush of the mattress under you, the soft breeze that ruffles your hair, and when you pry your eyes open, you find yourself laying on the bed in your room; your window opened. Just when you begin to think the night before was all just some elaborate dream, you feel the slight tinge of pain in the back of your head and, despite it all ━ despite the pain and despite the memory strange man who had followed you ━ you smile softly at the thought of the boy in red and blue.
The next time you see Jungkook is on that Thursday.
Truthfully, you’ve been eager to find him around campus if only to tell him about your encounter with New York’s masked hero. You hadn’t told many people, safe for your closest friends, though you’re keen to see Jungkook’s reaction as you’ve learned he’s a fan of this spider guy. Wednesday is the only day you have a class with him and so as soon as the boring lecture for your anthropology class is finished, you spot him striding casually out the door and catch up to him just as he’s walking down the smooth pavement of the campus sidewalk.
Word, however, seems to spread fast amongst the friends in your year and whereas you only told one of your friends on that previous Friday about your encounter in the alleyway, Jungkook has already heard the story through misconstrued words at least a dozen times, through whisperings of people that aren’t even your friends. It’s a novelty, apparently, to witness something like this strange masked man. But, naturally, Jungkook is rather surprised when he hears your familiar dulcet voice calling his name.
“Jungkook!”
He whirls around to face you and smiles as he sees your figure walking towards him, adorned in leggings and a baggy school shirt to match the evening’s warm weather. You’re smiling at him, almost as radiantly as the sun that it almost quite literally blinds him as he doesn’t seem to notice the other girl walking just in front of him. He bumps into her before he can step out of the way and hastily apologizes before turning back to you only to see you giggling.
“What can I do for you on this fine evening?” he asks as you approach.
“I’ve been meaning to find you since Friday,” You say. “You’ll never believe what happened on Thursday.”
“I’ve been hearing it all week since then.”
“You have? Who told you?”
This causes Jungkook to chuckle lightly. He hikes the usual one strap of his backpack further up his shoulder as the two of you begin to walk again, “Y/N, everyone’s been talking about it. I guess no one can keep their mouth shut anymore. So tell me: what was this Spider-Man guy like?”
A small smile stretches across your face at the name, your teeth instinctively biting down on your lower lip in an attempt to hide in. Was it just Jungkook or did he see the slightest of pink pinch at your cheeks? When you look back up at him, your eyes are shimmering.
“Honestly?” You reply sheepishly. “I think I’m crushing on him pretty hard.”
Jungkook nearly chokes. When he speaks next, his voice is slightly higher than usual, so he clamps his mouth shut, clears his throat, and tries again. “You don’t say? He must be a real charmer then. Do you, uh, even know him well enough to crush on him?”
“It’s strange,” You remark. “You’re right ━ I don’t even know him and yet I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since then. I guess chivalry isn’t dead after all, huh?”
“What even happened?” Jungkook asks.
“Remember that guy you scared away Thursday night? I got into some trouble with him━ but don’t worry!” You throw in the last few words when you see Jungkook’s brows scrunch in concern. “Spider-Man came before anything could happen. He saved me. I owe him my life at this point.”
Jungkook notes the dreamlike tone in your voice and when he glances down at you, you’re smiling blissfully down at your scuffed Converse shoes. It’s mesmerizing to see you so content and jubilant, beaming like the sun once more that hangs in the clear cerulean blue sky. He inhales a deep breath of fresh air, smells the wafting nodes of freshly ground coffee somewhere in the distance, and exhales slowly.
Nervously rubbing the back of his neck, he looks over at you once more and asks, “Hey, um, so for that anthro project we have to do ━ I was just wondering if maybe you wanted to be partners for it?”
Your eyes light up at the proposition and you nod enthusiastically. “Sure thing. I’d love that, actually. Maybe we can meet up this Sunday to plan everything out and see who’s doing what?”
“Hey, Y/N!”
Just then, you hear the familiar sound of your friend calling your name. You glance ahead where your eyes land on a group of girls sitting on a nearby bench and you wave at them. They gesture you over and you skip ahead a few paces, turning to look at Jungkook. He smiles as he nods.
“Sorry,” You apologize sheepishly. “But Sunday at the café at noon?”
“Sounds like a date.” Jungkook reddens suddenly at the way he words his thoughts and stammers to correct himself. “Not a date! Work date. Uh━”
“It’s a date,” You giggle. “See you!”
Then you’re rushing off to join your friends, leaving Jungkook alone once more. He sighs in your wake, shakes his head at himself, and grudgingly walks away.
That night you can hardly sleep.
You blame it on the stress that comes with being a student, constantly under the strain of a multitude of assignments and upcoming tests. When the clock strikes half past one in the morning just as you are finishing typing up the last sentence of a seven page essay on your laptop (seated at your desk, where you have been for the past few hours), you decide you need a break before you go absolutely insane. Shrugging on a simple cardigan, you tiptoe out of your room, down the corridor to the elevator, ignoring the way your joints that have stiffened in place stretch in a satisfying pop. You’re stumbling out and onto the roof of your apartment building in no less than five minutes, emerging out into the open night.
It isn’t terribly cold and, after inhaling a deep breath of the refreshing air, you sigh in relief and you walk to the concrete barrier at the very edge of the roof and lean against it. Gazing out at the vibrant and lively concrete and glass buildings and skyscrapers alike that build the city of New York, with each window illuminated by a warm glow of light, seems to give you a sense of peace. You can hear the hum of cars, a distant sound of sirens, the occasional honk, and the thump of bass from somewhere in the distance to your left, all amassing into the rhythmic pulse of the city; across from you, in the building complex on the other side of the street, you can see silhouetted figures of perhaps caffeinated students or late night lovers. The sky is empty, blank and dull as it stretches on over the entirety of the city, but you can see the moon, brightly shining in all its glory, bold and proud amongst the artificial light.
A slight breeze disrupts the stillness of the roof, rustles your hair, followed by the looming feeling of not being alone. You hear the sound of footsteps landing softly on the ground and turn around slowly, casting your gaze across the seemingly empty rooftop. But you see it ━ or rather, him ━ in the shadows near the door a bit further off. It’s strange how calm you are in the moment but the presence doesn’t exactly feel intimidating to you ━ especially when you notice the flash of red and blue.
“You again?” You ask humorously.
“Sorry if I scared you.” The voice that carries with the wind towards you is familiar, youthful. “Definitely not my intention.”
“I’m not scared,” You say. “If I can recall amongst your many gritty crime fighting, you saved a cat stuck in a tree a while back.”
The boy chuckles. “Ah, well, just all a part of the job.”
“What are you doing here?” You take a step toward him and hear him retreat further into the darkness.
“Well, you’re probably going to call me weird and insane,” he says, “but I just wanted to check on you. You were pretty out of it when I dropped you off at your place.”
“You’re not stalking me now, are you?”
“No way!” he says. “I was just, y’know, in the neighbourhood. I was actually about to call it a night when I passed your apartment and then I saw you up here. Must be fate, huh?”
“Fate sure is weird,” You muse pensively, pursing your lips. You pause, squinting your eyes into the darkness. “Thanks, by the way. For helping me that night and bringing me back. Is there anyway I can repay you?”
“Repay me? Oh, no, no!” he says. “That’s not what this is all about, I promise. What I do is for the city and for the people. I can sleep better at night knowing thugs like that guy are being taken care of properly.”
“That’s a pretty commendable thing to do,” You say. “You gotta be pretty brave to put yourself in danger each night.”
“It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
There’s a smirk in his voice that stretches his words into a confident and smug drawl. You, in turn, smile bashfully. You look down at your shoes and then back up at the shadows.
“Can you step out of the dark?” You ask. “I want to see you.”
“Ah, but then that’ll ruin the mystique,” he points out. “And where’s the fun in that?”
You shake your head at him, pearly white teeth gnawing down on your lower lip to hide the smile that tugs at your mouth. You pull your cardigan tighter around your torso, ignoring the distant sound of a wailing siren.
“Maybe I’ll see you again,” he says. “I have to go but it was a pleasure meeting you━ uh, what was your name again?”
“I never told you,” You say. “And if I do, it’ll ruin the mystique, won’t it? Where’s the fun in that?”
He laughs into the night, a sound so genuine and amiable. “Fair enough. Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, despite the terrible circumstances. Try to stay out of trouble, okay? And get some sleep!”
You can hear him moving, as if preparing to leave. You step forward, mouth opening to stop him, but then he is gone, the sound of feet leaping into the air the last thing you hear from him. By the time you rush to the other side of the roof and look around frantically for any sight of him, you spot the mysterious vigilante as a tiny speck soaring from building to building. You smile as you watch him disappear amongst the horizon, bleeding into the glow of lights until he is gone, becoming one with the city altogether.
The days pass in a very typical blur.
Sunday comes and goes much too fast where both you and Jungkook work diligently for a few hours at the café before the rest of the week goes by. You hardly see Jungkook except for at night, as always past 9 p.m., when he stumbles wearily into the café and plops down in his usual seat. And, with the days passing as usual, there are still the consistent reports of sightings of this mysterious Spider-Man. Though you seem to go about your routinely oblivious days, you are all Jungkook is able to think about. You are all he usually thinks about these days, anyway, and all he is thinking about that very Wednesday when he’s supposed to be hanging out with Taehyung.
It isn’t uncommon to see Jungkook with Taehyung around campus. They have, after all, been best friends since the moment they met in their small daycare they attended together. Taehyung is more than accustomed with Jungkook’s habits and knows the boy in and out, including every secret and every crush he’s ever had (which, for the most part, has been you). That Thursday afternoon they are both sitting at the park just across from campus where most students from the school spend their time. Jungkook’s perched on the edge of the large concrete water fountain in the middle of the bustling meadow, with Taehyung reclining on his back, basking in the sun with a bag of chips on his stomach. They both spot you walking by with a friend and wave at Jungkook which causes Taehyung to roll his eyes.
“Dude,” he sighs, exasperated. “Just ask her out already. She already said she’s crushing on you.”
Jungkook looks down at his friend and shakes his head. “No, she said she’s crushing on Spider-Man. Not me.”
Taehyung, who was in the middle of shoving a handful of chips in his mouth, stops suddenly. He pushes himself up, nearly dropping the bag of chips, eyes wide as he stares at Jungkook in utter disbelief.
“Are you kidding me, dude?” He asks incredulously. “You’re the same person, you idiot.”
“But she doesn’t know that,” Jungkook explains calmly. “As far as she knows, Spider-Man is this cool dude and I’m just… I’m just me. Jungkook. Boring and not charming.”
“So then tell her the truth,” Taehyung says. “Y’know, use yourself as your own wingman.”
As he shoves another handful of chips into his mouth, Jungkook shakes his head once more. He’s already thought of this idea plenty of times before but it’s not as easy as it seems. The responsibility that comes with putting on that mask each night is followed by even greater risks for the people he’s around. Telling you the truth could only end in one way, anyway.
“I can’t do that,” Jungkook says. “What if I tell her and she’s let down?”
Taehyung would shake his head disapprovingly at his friend this time and mumble something along the lines of, “You think too much.”
And while that may be true in Jungkook’s case, Taehyung just wouldn’t understand. There is a reason Taehyung is the only person who knows about Jungkook’s secret and he is already endangering the life of his friend. To tell anyone else would only result in a much more terrible outcome for not only the people around him, but Jungkook himself. Still, though, as Jungkook settles back on the edge of the fountain and looks in the direction of the path you had vanished along, there is an inkling of a voice in the back of his mind that nags him, urges him, to tell you.
Jungkook sighs. He finds it ironic that anytime he puts on the red mask and flings himself into perilous danger, he is always confident, never once wavering, and yet when he is just himself, just another mundane passerby, that same heart of steel that fuels his will and spirit suddenly pales in comparison.
If only he could be so brave without that mask.
On Friday evening well into the night when what little stars you can see in the polluted sky begins to blend with the glowing light from building windows as far as the eye can see you find yourself at an overcrowded and clamorous party. You had been more than content with spending the start of your weekend not working but, upon entering the party, you find yourself not nearly enjoying the time as well as you had hoped you would. You’ve long since lost sight of your friends and the guy standing in the corner of the living room who had been eyeing you for most of the night had most certainly not helped with your mood ━ and, if anything, turned you off from drinking.
Albeit still slightly buzzed from the few drinks you had earlier been bestowed in the quintessential red solo cup that defines every high school and college party you’ve been to, you stumble out onto the balcony of one of the rooms for a breath of fresh air and are startled to find you aren’t alone when you spot the figure of a young man leaning against the railing.
“Oh, shit, sorry. Didn’t know anyone was out here━”
As the figure turns around, you are relieved and thrilled to see it’s Jungkook. You stop yourself, clamping your mouth shut, and smile up at him with a dainty hand on your hip. A look of recognition dawns on his face at the sight of you, his own lips tugging into a friendly grin.
“That’s okay,” he says. “Feel free to join me on the balcony of escaped party attendees ━ because I assume that’s what you’re doing? Escaping?”
You push yourself forward to the railing, standing beside him as he turns back around to face the city. “I just needed a break from it all. You? I gotta say I’m pleasantly surprised to see you here.”
He flashes you a sheepish smile, resting his arms atop the railing and leaning forward. “Exactly. Parties aren’t really my scene. My friend, Taehyung, dragged me out here but this balcony seems to be my favourite place.”
“Well, if it means anything,” You tell him, “I’m glad you came.”
When you look at Jungkook, you find him already gazing at you, his lower lip tucked between his teeth. His carob eyes crinkle with the smile on his face and he finds himself still staring at you even long after you have turned away to stare up at the sky. It’s a surprisingly warm night, though you silently thank yourself for throwing on the denim jacket you’re wearing earlier in the day whenever a cool breeze breaks through the city.
“It’s kind of sad, isn’t it?” You say after a while. “That we can’t see the stars from the city. That’s why I like camping. Star-gazing and watching the sunrise are two of my favourite things. It kind of keeps me humble in a way.”
“That’s an interesting way of thinking about that,” Jungkook says. “Sometimes I get so carried away by being in the city; it’s kind of nice just to slow things down once in a while.”
“I’m glad I’m not the only one who feels that way,” You crane your neck to cast a steady gaze across the towering buildings in the near distance. “The city can be pretty beautiful, too, though.”
“You think so?”
“Of course,” Your eyes twinkle playfully at a sudden thought that seems to warm your face. “And some of the people help make it beautiful. Like that spider guy. What he’s doing for the city is incredible.”
“Ah, right. Spider-Man.” The words leave Jungkook in a small exhale. “You must really like him, huh?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“I can name a few. Like the police.”
“They’re just scared of him because he’s doing their job better than they ever could.”
Jungkook chuckles lightly. He shakes his head as he looks down at his clasped hands and the calluses on his fingers from past tribulations. It’s silent again, in which time the thump of bass from the party ensuing behind you two fills the air, followed by a burst of vigorous chanting and cheering from within.
“Hey, can I ask you something?” Jungkook asks suddenly, his voice timid.
“Go ahead.”
Jungkook pauses, thinking. He seems to struggle with forming his thoughts into words as he remains silent for a second too long. “Okay, let’s say I know this person really important to me, and let’s say I have this thing ━ this equally as important thing ━ that I really want to tell them. The thing is, I can’t just do that because if I do, I’m afraid that this person will be let down. What do you think I should do?”
You’re quiet as you ponder his words, looking pensively down at the city below.
“Well,” You hum slowly, “what’s the point in hiding behind a fake front the whole time? It’s kind of like hiding behind a mask your whole life, right? And I think life is too short for that because, before you know it, it’ll be too late. What if you don’t tell this person and you end up regretting it for the rest of your life? I don’t know. Sometimes I think that you just meet the right person in life who’s worth that risk.”
Jungkook turns to look at you and suddenly your eyes meet in a steady, thoughtful gaze. His own stare softens at whatever sort of thoughts flood his mind and you wonder if his eyes have always been that shimmering. His tousled dark brown locks flitter slightly in the breeze, his pink lips parted ever so slightly. You open your mouth to speak, uttering his name in a euphonious whisper.
“Jungkook, I━”
But your voice is cut off abruptly by the influx sound of wailing sirens down below that convey some sort of grim situation unfolding somewhere in the formidable darkness of the night. Both you and Jungkook press yourselves over the railing, squinting down at the crowded streets below just in time to see a flash of blinking red lights and a mass of both police cars, ambulances, and firetrucks. From somewhere in the background from within the party, you can hear a voice exclaiming, “Dude, there’s a fire around the corner from here! The whole street is blocked off.”
“No way. What the hell happened?” Another voice asks.
You exchange a wary glance with Jungkook before slipping back into the party. A small group has formed around the t.v. in the living room, on which is playing the local news and showcasing a burning apartment building, the vicious orange flames of which billow out of opened windows and all but consume the top floor as clouds of gray and black smoke invade the night sky. There’s a reporter talking fast into the camera, describing in detail what had happened to the building on a nearby street, but your eyes can only stay fixated on the monstrous flames. You don’t realize Taehyung has somehow found both you and his friend and is standing behind the other boy, watching the news unfold before him. Unbeknownst to you, his stare flickers nervously to Jungkook and then━
“Shit,” Jungkook curses suddenly. “I gotta go.”
You turn to look at him curiously. “Go where? It’s midnight on a Friday.”
“I completely forgot I had to pick my aunt up from the subway,” he says. “She works the late night shifts and I can’t let her walk alone in the dark like this. I’ll see you both later! Let me know what happens with the fire.”
Taehyung, who seems more than accustomed to Jungkook’s abrupt pardon of his presence, nods. “Will do.”
The boy is already a few feet away from you, rushing toward the front door of the room, but you stop him before he can slip out of your reach entirely.
“Wait, Jungkook!” You call out. He spins around to look at you almost immediately, a look of panic on his face. “Don’t forget we have to meet up at the library on Sunday to work on the project.”
“Got it,” he says, raising his two forefingers to his forehead in a mock salute. He turns back around and begins bounding towards the door, giving you two one last wave. “See you later!”
The door slams shut behind him and the party, despite the group crowded around the t.v., carries on in a cacophonous sound of drunken yelling and dumb music, completely and utterly oblivious. You let out a sigh as you turn back to the t.v., noting Taehyung’s presence still beside you. He takes a satisfying sip of whatever beverage is occupying the red cup in his hand and nods.
“That’s Jungkook for you,” he says. His voice is a tired sigh, dispirited almost, as he thinks of the boy that has been his friend since freshman year of highschool. Just before he turns away, you hear him muttering, “Always putting others before him.”
You don’t see Jungkook that Sunday.
Whether or not he had entirely blown you off or had simply forgotten, you wait and wait in complete silence in the school library for nearly three hours as every call and every text you send to his phone goes otherwise unnoticed or ignored. It is entirely unlike Jungkook to completely vanish and though you want to be mad, you are more disappointed than anything else. You spend your time at a table by yourself, books and papers sprawled out before you, as you try to work diligently on the last piece of writing you need for the assignment to be complete whilst trying to not let your eyes wander to the time on the clock hanging on the wall opposite you but to no avail.
In a corner above the front desk, you see a t.v. propped on the wall that plays the silent image of the news as they recall the events from that Friday at the burning building. Fortunately, that spider guy had arrived before any casualties could happen and you watch, for the third time since Friday, as the recording footage shows the red and blue hero swinging defiantly into the wall of fire and pulling various residents from the fire. A duo of girls sitting next to you croons dreamily over the masked man, especially as they witness him emerging from the fire with a small and unscathed Corgi dog in his hands that, you admit, is rather admirable.
On Wednesday night, you find yourself stuck in the sparkling confinements of the café bound to the six hour shift you were in the midst of completing. It’s surprisingly busy for a day in the middle of the week, though you assume that’s only because each customer is in a rush to seek refuge from the surprisingly cold evening. You hadn’t even been thinking about Jungkook when he makes himself known in the café some time after 9 p.m. You hear the bell ring above the door, feel a short gust of shocking wind, before it shuts behind him. When you look up instinctively to greet the newcomer and lay your eyes on the boy, your words fall short.
You watch as he stumbles forward, his feet practically dragging behind him in worn up Converse shoes. He looks exhausted ━ even more so than usual ━ and judging by his dishevelled hair and crumpled clothes and the way he seems to walk in a daze as if he is in another world, you assume he hasn’t slept in a while. He still hauls his backpack with one strap slung over his shoulder that he drops lazily to the ground beside a table before he plops himself down into the seat with a groan in one swift motion. What’s most strange are the blossoming bruises on his neck and the fresh cut on the highest point of his left cheekbone.
You hate that you’re so weak for that boy; that even though he completely ignored you, you still pity him. Wondering what sorts of trouble he’s been finding himself in lately, you pour him a cup of steaming black coffee and walk towards his table. He hardly even notices you as his head is buried in his folded arms atop the table, though he peeks up past his bangs when you slide the coffee beside him.
“I’d hate to see the other guy,” You hum.
His eyes brighten at the sight of you and he pushes himself up, raking a hand through his unkempt hair in a poor attempt to fix it. “Y/N━”
“Where were you, Jungkook?” You ask sternly, suddenly. “On Sunday? I waited for you for over three hours. I called you and texted you and you completely ignored me. You could have at least gotten back to me. I had to finish the rest of the assignment by myself.”
His brow creases with concern, his stare softening apologetically. He leans forward, suddenly helpless.
“I’m sorry,” he stammers. “I━I didn’t mean to━ Something came up.”
“Whatever, Jungkook,” You sigh. “It’s fine. I can’t stay and chat but I’ll have you know I already handed the assignment in online. You’re welcome. Oh, and the coffee’s on the house. You look like crap.”
You spin on your heel and march away to help another customer before Jungkook can even try to talk to you. He watches as you slip from his grasp, a frown scrunching up your face that is forced to soften as you approach another table. He collapses against his chair and groans inwardly, rubbing his hand over his aching and swollen face. He knows you’re mad at him but he can’t quite tell if you’ll stay like that for long. He doesn’t blame you anyway, but he couldn’t just tell you where he had gone or what had happened. Could he?
It’s much to his dismay that you don’t talk to him the next day, or on Tuesday, or on Wednesday, or on Thursday. He tries to find you around campus but he is always too late and, instead, finds you slipping away from him each time. He pops into the café a few nights and though you work both nights, it’s still much too busy to actually talk to you and so he, doing what he does best, falls asleep at the table as he silently broods. Whether or not it’s your anger purposely driving you further from him or simply life intervening, Jungkook wants nothing more than to apologize ━ if he can even get close enough to you to do so.
Finding yourself on the rooftop of your apartment building isn’t uncommon. Most of your free time is spent up there, either watching the night sky or gazing at the busy city under a cerulean blue sky and golden sun. That Friday night is no different. With no homework and no social gathering to devote yourself to, you sneak off to the roof and position yourself in just a spot where you can see the towering buildings of each borough in each direction you cast your gaze. You would have been content falling asleep up there, with nothing but the sound of the distant hum of cars to lull you and the view of the moon and window lights that act as the metropolis’s stars.
You all but lose track of time, unaware of whether or not you have been there for minutes or hours but you don’t entirely mind. You would be lying, too, if you denied that there was some sort of inkling of hope in you that hoped maybe you would see him again. That is why when you hear the soft plop of feet dropping to the ground moments later, you are not at all startled by the sudden presence, though you are astounded by his arrival, as if on cue. You don’t even need him to speak to know who it is and when you feel the smile ghost along your lips, there is a moment of pause where you question your own sanity for being so happy to see this masked and mysterious man. But he isn’t at all a mystery at this point when you feel as if you’ve acquainted yourself with him well enough.
“You shouldn’t be out here all alone,” The voice that drifts through the shadows of the roof is familiar, gentle. “It’s dark. Who knows who could come up here?”
“Yeah,” You snort. “Wouldn’t want any strangers sneaking up on me ━ or masked vigilantes who seem to be following me.”
You turn to look at him but are greeted with nothing except emptiness. He lingers somewhere in the darkness and you squint your eyes, desperately trying to spot him. He laughs, the sound so silvery and smooth like honey.
“Someone’s following you?” he replies tauntingly. “Do I have to deal with them again?”
“Why are you always hiding in the dark?”
The sudden question seems to cause him to hesitate. It’s silent before you hear his voice wander over to you.
“To add to the mystique?” he says.
“Now that’s suspicious. Maybe I should call the police on you.”
“They would never be able to catch me.”
“Someone’s cocky,” You take a step toward the darkness, in the direction of the sound of his voice. “Did the fame get to you already?”
You hear him take a step back from you and it, subsequently, causes you to linger. You wait before stubbornly pushing yourself forward once more.
“What fame? People want to lock me up.”
“And most people are in love with you. I overheard a few girls gushing over you saving that dog from that burning building the other day,” You giggle. “Does it mean anything to you?”
“Ah, well,” You can hear the grin in his voice, can see the silhouette of his figure not too far from you, “I gotta admit the attention is pretty nice. But no one knows who I am without this mask so it doesn’t really matter.”
“How does that make you feel?”
One step forward, another backward. You pause; at this rate, you’ll have chased him all the way to the other side of the roof.
“I don’t mind. It keeps me humble,” he replies. “But it also stops me a lot of the time, y’know? With this mask on, I feel invincible; with it off, I feel useless. But someone pretty important to me once told me that life is too short to constantly hide behind a mask.”
A wide, genuine smile stretches across your face. You take another step forward and this time he stands still. From where you are, you can see the tall and lean figure, adorned in the signature tight red and blue suit.
“That’s pretty smart of them to say.”
“She is pretty admirable. Much braver than I could ever be without this mask.”
He turns around from you before you can reach him. You watch as he casually strides forward a few paces to the barrier behind him, which he props his hands against to lean on. He seems to be lost in thought, perhaps struggling with some sort of inner turmoil. You tiptoe in suit, cautious as you approach him. You can see the muscles that strain from beneath his suit, the heave and fall of his chest.
“Can I know your name?” Your voice is a gentle whisper that carries to him with the wind. “Your real name?”
When he turns around to face you once more, you’re standing only a few feet away from him. You take another step forward, closing the short distance between the two of you and are made aware of how much taller he really is. The way he towers over you is almost comforting, familiar, that no emotionless red mask could cause you to stray. He’s so much more different up close in that suit. He hesitates before he forces himself to speak.
“I think,” he pauses. He swallows thickly, attempting to subdue the quickening race of his heart as he clamps his fingers into his sweaty palms. “I think you already know my name.”
This seems to pique your interest. Quirking a brow and cocking your head to the side, you stare up at the masked face that gazes back down at you. You aren’t entirely sure what compels you to do so, as it could be a complete disaster and not at all what you are expecting, but you slowly, so very slowly, reach up with your hands to grasp gingerly at his face. The red fabric beneath your fingertips is soft and as your digits brush lightly over his covered cheekbones, he hardly moves. For some reason, you can feel your heart hammering against your feeble chest, can hear it in your ears in tandem with the sound of passing traffic down below. His heart is beating just as fast, though he thinks it nearly stops when he feels your fingers begin to gently pull at the neck of his mask, sliding it upward.
The first poke of tanned skin has your heart quickening, your breath hitching in your throat. You tug the mask the rest of the way off and, finally, step back to look at the mysterious masked hero known as Spider-Man.
Jungkook.
It’s Jungkook.
The familiar boy stands before you, his hair a disheveled mess from the mask, his doe eyes even wider now in timid fear as he looks down at you. Everything is him, from his luscious pink lips, to the freckle on his neck, the piercings in his ears, that tiny scar he’s had since he was a child on his cheek. The city lights and moon illuminate him from behind and he seems nervous as he anticipates a reaction but you are much too busy admiring him. Your fingers trace delicately over the fresh scar on his face that he had brandished at the café only a few nights ago. A breath of satisfaction slips past your parted lips and then you’re laughing silently to yourself.
The boy looks dumbfounded at first, and then he quirks a brow. “What’s so funny?”
“I knew it,” You shake your head at nothing in particular, or perhaps the way you continue to giggle.
Jungkook suddenly looks shocked, though he instantly seems to relax. He studies the smile that stretches across your cheeks in awe, brightening your face in all its glory. “How did you know?”
“Well, you’re not exactly that smooth, Jungkook,” You grin. “The late nights coming into the café, always scratched up and always tired as if you’ve ran all over the city; always getting jumpy when you hear police sirens ━ like the night at the party. Not to mention that one time at the café when the news was on and they were talking about a robbery at the bank and hostages being held and you ran right out of there only for Spider-Man to show up on the scene minutes later. It’s all very suspicious, don’t you think?”
He can’t help the laugh that escapes him, a joyous sound of content. He leans against the palm of your hand that is cradling the side of his face with the scar.
“Right,” he sighs. “All very suspicious.”
His stare locks with yours in a steady gaze and neither of you can turn away. His eyes sparkle like the stars in the sky, lingering with it a sense of hope and content. He is mesmerizing, with the city he devotes his time to saving in the horizon beyond him. It’s near impossible to look away, but why would you want to? It happens much like a blink of an eye, a frail beat of your heart; it comes with the passing of a car whizzing by on the streets down below and is as much startling as the sudden breeze that sends chills down your spine.
He begins to lean forward ━ or maybe that was you? Your eyes flutter shut, your anticipation held with a deep breath, until finally your lips meet with his though you hardly have time to relish in it. Almost as soon as your lips touch, he’s pulling away quickly. He doesn’t move too far and his mouth lingers just over yours. His eyes remain fixated on the curl of your lips for a moment too long before he rips them away to meet your hazy gaze.
“Wait,” he hums. “You━ You said you were crushing on Spider-Man. Does that mean you knew this whole time and━ and like me?”
The question is so like Jungkook; so innocent and silly and genuine that it causes a sweet giggle to bubble at your lips. He’s always been so oblivious to these kinds of things and so maybe that’s what pushes you to kiss him next. Your lips lock for a second time and, though it is just as fleeting, you note with joy the softness of his mouth as it folds over yours. You part from him with a breathless gasp, your nose brushing lightly against his as a smile stretches across your face.
“What do you think, bugboy?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, a playful taunt that makes Jungkook smile wide.
He kisses you this time, slow and passionate as if attempting to pour every single one of his emotions and thoughts for you into the single intimate action. His hands grasp at either side of your face, carefully pulling you closer to him to deepen the kiss and you, instinctively, melt against his broad chest. Your fingers trail up the lean muscle of his arms to twine in the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging with yearning. His hands fall to your waist, enveloping you in his body, and when he parts from you, he rests his forehead against yours.
“Can I show you something?”
You nod. His eyes light up and then he’s jumping up onto the cement barrier behind him, turning around to look at you. You gasp from the sudden movement, your stomach churning unpleasantly at the sight of him quite literally standing on the edge of a building only to remind yourself he’s Spider-Man. He’s done plenty more reckless things than this. He holds his hand out, a reassuring smile on his face.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
There’s no hesitation as you answer him with another firm nod. “Of course. Always.”
“Then take my hand,” he says. “I’ll never do anything to harm you, you know that.”
You do know that. Jungkook wouldn’t hurt a fly; he’s too good and precious for the world you live in and he says yes far too often to people who most likely don’t deserve it, but he knows when to stand up for not only himself but others as well. You are just one of the few he cares for wholeheartedly and you know that.
You reach out carefully and place your hand in his surprisingly cold and large ones. His fingers wrap around yours as he helps you up onto the barrier, holding you closely toward him.
You take a deep breath, shut your eyes, and put every ounce of your trust into this single, courageous boy ━ and you let yourself fall with him.
You’re roused awake by the sound of light tapping against your bedroom window.
It startles you at first, causing you to jolt upright into a sitting position as you look around frantically at your empty and dark room; the only light comes from the city life and the moon outside, shedding a warm glow onto the floor before it. For a moment, you think you had just dreamt the noise but then you hear it again, low and near. You crane your neck to look and first see a shadow but, as the figure shifts into view, you’re able to see the familiar young man in red and blue. Your heart leaps in your chest and suddenly you’re scrambling off your feet, throwing yourself at the window to throw it open.
The night Jungkook had admitted to being Spider-Man and jumped up onto the edge of the roof, holding his hand out to you in a silent question of trust, he leaves you with a night that you swear you will cherish forever. Wary of where he will go but entirely consenting of his spontaneity, he surprises you by carrying you throughout the city, swinging from building to building in an extraordinary feat that feels as if you’re flying; and, as if that hadn’t been a big enough thrilling shock, he brings you to the very top of the Empire State Building, just under the antenna. No one is there and no one can see you and, with Jungkook under the brightening sky with the view of New York stretching out into the horizon before you, you feel as if you have the whole world in the very palm of your hand.
You sit with Jungkook that night, talking, not talking, listening intently to him as he recounts the tale of how he had turned into the masked hero with his peculiar powers, and watching the sunrise from beyond the very tops of buildings and skyscrapers. There are no words to describe the breathtaking view from one of the highest points in the city, watching as the golden sun peaks over the horizon and sets the city ablaze in saturated warm hues of orange, pink, and purple, mingling together in one impressionistic masterpiece that could put even the greatest of painters to shame. The light reflects against the glass panes of windows in a mirage similar to flickering flames that never scathe the city, but instead seem to enhance the beauty it holds.
You never want the night to end but eventually it does and, when he returns you to your bedroom window with one parting kiss, it and Jungkook’s lips are all you can dream about.
A week has passed since then, in which time you’ve done nothing but find yourself growing closer with Jungkook. He’s all you’ve been able to think about these days. So, to hear him and see him at your window is enough to make butterflies form in the very pit of your stomach. You see him sitting on the fire escape just outside your window, leaning against the building looking even more exhausted than usual. Another fresh cut lines his cheek in a stripe of red though he doesn’t seem to mind much for it as he dozes off slightly. You push open the window, startling him awake, and poke your head outside. A weary smile tugs at his lips at the sight of you.
“Well, this is romantic,” You stifle the giggle that bubbles at your mouth. “Thank you for not throwing rocks at my window, Romeo. To what do I owe this pleasure of seeing you at two in the morning?”
“Sorry, did I wake you?” he asks sheepishly. “I just wanted to see you.”
His response earns a shy smile stretching across your face. “No, you didn’t wake me,” You say with a shake of your head (though the way you comb your fingers through your mused hair tells him otherwise). “What happened to your face, Jungkook?”
He reaches up to his face, as if momentarily forgetting the cut, winces, and then drops his hand from his face. He grins wolfishly, attempting to shrug it off. “Oh, this little thing? It’s nothing, don’t worry about it. I just got caught up in a little fight but I’m fine. I swear. You really should see the other guy.”
The smug tone in his voice as he rambles on makes you stare at him in amusement. You sigh as you take a step back, saying, “Come inside. I’ll clean that for you.”
“Well, if you insist.”
He smirks as he pulls himself through the window and into your room. His eyes wander around the four walls, noting the decor that lines it, the shelves with all your personal trinkets and belongings, the clothes littered on the floor, and the empty take-out box of Chinese food that rests atop your desk. There’s a soft aroma of something sweet that smells like you ━ possibly a perfume or a soap or shampoo? ━ and it makes Jungkook’s head spin pleasantly. He asks about your day and then sits on the bed and, as you tell him about your boring classes as you rummage around your bathroom for something to clean his wound with, he smiles.
He finds your room comforting ━ or maybe he just finds your presence comforting. Either way, over time you find that this would only be a common occurrence throughout the next month. He startles you the first few times he shows up but then you begin to stay awake a little longer, waiting eagerly by the window as you wait for him to arrive. Most times he’s bruised or has small and fresh cuts, of which you either hand him an ice packet or clean the cut; sometimes he isn’t even hurt and instead claims simply that he just wanted to see you before you went to sleep. But each time he listens to you and your day, asking about yourself rather than him and no matter how hard you try to pry information out of him about what had possibly happened to him throughout his night, he swiftly brushes it off. You don’t mind either way ━ you just want to see him as much as you can, anyway.
There is one night, however, where things seem to go entirely different.
You’re curled up in bed reading a book when you hear the light tapping on your window. You’ve come to leave the window pried open slightly as you wait for him, but even so he still takes the time to knock to signal his arrival. You instantly climb to your feet, wandering over to the window and tossing it open with a flourish. As Jungkook climbs in through the small space, you note the tight suit he’s wearing is slashed at the top of his arm and both the skin underneath it and on his face is bruised and cut; other than that, and judging by the cheeky smile on his face, he seems to be ok.
You shake your head at him, smiling gingerly as you muse, “Who’s the damsel in distress now, bugboy?”
Jungkook smirks, prodding your sides with his fingers and causing you to squirm as you walk past him. “There’s no shame in needing a little help every once and awhile, right? I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“Sit down,” You tell him, winking up at him. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
Minutes later you return to sit by his side on the bed, cleaning his cuts as per usual and, while he has a frozen packet of peas pressed to his bruised and sore shoulder, you are busying yourself by sewing the cut in his suit with blue thread you had found in your room. In the midst of your work, perhaps you press too generously down on his recent wound, as he winces slightly and shifts on top of your bed. You crane your neck to look up at him, studying him curiously. He seems to notice your stare and quirks a brow as he looks down at you.
“What’s up?”
Your fingers stop their work on his suit and, remembering where the cut had broken his skin just slightly underneath the tear, brush lightly over the tender flesh covered in gauze. “Does it hurt?”
Jungkook shakes his head, sitting up a little straighter. “Hurt? No, no, of course not. It just, uh━ It isn’t the most pleasant. But this isn’t the worst I’ve been after a night in the suit so I can handle it.”
Your eyes study his battered face in some sort of admiration, albeit mixed with timid nervousness. What sort of things had he encountered, had he been through, that he won’t tell you?
“Are you ever afraid?” You ask gently.
“No way,” he shakes his head, but not before you spot the confident grin he flashes you. “It’s honestly nothing I can’t handle by now. It’s not so bad, either. It’s kinda weird. I mean, ever since getting bitten, I’ve found the healing process is a whole lot faster.”
Maybe he notices the lingering uneasiness in your eyes, the way you seem to doubt him. He reaches out with his fingers to gingerly brush against the side of your face in a swift flourish as he tilts your head a little higher. He smiles something warm that makes your heart melt as you lean your face against the palm of his calloused hand. To avoid the prying stare he gives you, you smile lightly and shake your head, attempting to change the subject.
“Dunno, bugboy. Are there any perks to this job?”
Jungkook snorts as you finish sewing his suit. As you discard the needle and leftover thread, he says, “There are. Like, for instance, knowing the city is a little safer. Then there’s the fact that Spider-Man seems to have a lot of admirers…”
“I thought you said it doesn’t matter anyway because no one knows who you are.”
“Well, there is you,” he says. “And I gotta say you’re a pretty good perk.”
A blush tinges your cheeks as you sit across from him. Your eyes flicker down the suit that adorns him and you try to bite back the lighthearted snicker that bubbles at your chest. “I was gonna say a perk is this tight suit. At least, for me it is. Your ass has never looked more fantastic.”
Jungkook suddenly bursts out into laughter, throwing his head back. When he looks back at you, his hand finds the side of your face once more and pulls you towards him. With your lips hovering just over his, he mumbles something, anything, just for the sake of responding despite already being lost in you.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Then you’re kissing him.
You’ve come to find that Jungkook’s lips are entirely irresistible and the more you kiss him, the more you wonder why you hadn’t confessed to him earlier. He’s gentle as he lets his lips fold over yours, mouth dancing with mouth in a passionate yearning. But there’s a certain type of underlying insatiable hunger that seems to wash over both you and him and fast. Your fingers rake up the side of his face and tangle in his messy locks and soon he’s pulling you onto the bed, onto him. You instinctively straddle his lap, craning your neck so as to deepen the kiss, never once breaking apart for air. But something seems to happen, something that startles Jungkook so deeply. Perhaps it’s the way you grasp his hair a little tighter, the way he heard you gasp when he bites down gently on the side of your jaw, the way your hips fit over his; or perhaps it’s the way you tug off your shirt in an attempt to get closer to him, displaying to him the plain white bra you’re wearing that all culminate into something more. He knows where this is going, you know where this is going ━ and though Jungkook would want nothing more than to carry on, he’s reminded of a terrifying and prominent thought that has always haunted him the moment he made that mask.
You feel the way he tenses beneath you and, in the next quick second, he’s pulling apart from you and you, so dazed and lost, gasping for air, stare down at him dumbfounded.
“What’s wrong, Jungkook?” You ask. “Did I hurt you? Is your arm okay?”
“I’m fine,” he says weakly.
You grin as you press another kiss to his throat, mumbling into his neck, “Good, then let’s━”
“No.”
“What?”
You sit back on his lap suddenly, staring at him with a flushed face. Your hair is mussed messily, a red bruise blossoms on your jawline that Jungkook had graced you with, and one strap of your bra hangs daintily over your shoulder and Jungkook can’t help but notice how utterly sexy you look. He groans inwardly, tearing his gaze to look up at you. He swallows thickly, wincing at the bright and innocent twinkle in your eyes.
“We━” he pauses and then says, “We can’t do this.”
You quirk a brow. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he says slowly, carefully, “we can’t do this. I’m━ I’m sorry. I didn’t know what I was thinking but I should have stopped this sooner.”
“Stop what?” Your voice is weak, small. You know what he’s referring to but you don’t want to believe it just yet.
Fuck, I can’t do this, Jungkook curses to himself. If he had just stayed away from you from the beginning, this wouldn’t even be happening. He wouldn’t be about to hurt you or himself.
“Us,” he whispers. “There can’t be an us, Y/N.”
Your brows knit together in confusion but your eyes are wide with fear. “What are you talking about? How can there not be an us? I thought━ I thought you wanted this.”
When he hesitates to respond, you’re quick to slide off of his lap, standing to your feet. Suddenly you’re panicking, embarrassed. He sees the way your lips are pulled tightly in a thin line, the way you rake your hands through your hair, mumbling, “Oh my god,” as you search for a shirt. Jungkook springs to his feet, grasping onto your waist but you easily slither out of his reach, clutching your shirt to your chest. To you, you think you have just made a fool of yourself, nearly striping naked for a boy who apparently doesn’t want you. Jungkook knows this is what you’re thinking and it pains him so.
“No, no, I do,” he says. “I do want this! I just can’t do it.”
“And why not?” You snap hotly. “You’re not making any sense. Either you do or you don’t want us to be a thing.”
“It’s not that simple━”
“It sure seems like it is.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Any explanation would be better than none,” You say firmly, “and simultaneously making me look like an idiot for looking so eager.”
Jungkook sighs heavily. He takes a step back from you, running both hands frustratedly through his hair, letting the muscles in his biceps flex as he does so. When he looks back at you, he’s solemn.
“There can’t be an us because I’m just gonna put you in danger this way,” he says. “People are out there looking for me! Not just the police, but hardcore criminals, gangs, thugs, murderers. If they find me, or if they find out that you’re close to me or know me, they’ll hurt you too. I can’t have that, Y/N.”
“But I can handle it,” You insist.
“I can’t,” Jungkook’s voice is stern, set in place. “I can’t have that on my conscience, knowing that if you get hurt, it’s because of me. That’s all I ever worry about, from the second that I put this mask on. No one knows about me being Spider-Man and I kept it that way for a reason. Don’t you think I could have flaunted that I was this supposed super cool new hero? I didn’t do that because of you; because of the people that I’m close to.”
“I don’t care,” Your voice is feeble, cracking. “I don’t care if I get hurt. If you can handle it, then so can I! I just want to be with you, Jungkook. I━ I love you━”
Jungkook hears the words you blurt out quickly but he doesn’t seem to necessarily register them at once. A stiff silence settles in the room between the two of you, an undeniable form of the point of no return, except you don’t regret the words you say. You mean them wholeheartedly because you have always admired and loved Jungkook, from the little boy next door to this young hero before you. You stare at him shyly, albeit unwavering. A panic washes over him, drains his face of any colour, and suddenly it feels as if he can’t breathe, his chest concaving in on his shrill heart. As the words begin to register in his mind, he can only sorrowfully gaze at you; but the lack of silence has your confidence paling and soon you’re looking away, shaking your head. A pained expression paints your features and though it hurts Jungkook more than any other wound that has been inflicted upon him in fights on the street prior to this, he knows he has to do this.
You already know his answer before he even speaks it. When he does say the final words that leave you in such an excruciating and unbearable pain, he has already fled, grabbing his mask and escaping out of the window, escaping from you, and into the heart of the city. When he’s gone and you’re alone in the thick silence do his words finally return to you and are the cause of the broken heart you are forced to nurse through muddled tears over the aimless days to come:
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
You don’t see Jungkook the next day or the day after that.
In fact, you don’t see him for three entire weeks. He stops showing up at the café late at night, stops attending the classes he has with you (or maybe he just blends well into the other somber looking faces), stops visiting your window in the early morning hours. Autumn bleeds numbly into the beginning shock of cold that is winter and, though there is no snow yet, you still feel the wrath of the frigid season. And, with the sudden loss of Jungkook, comes the abrupt and unwarranted disappearance of Spider-Man. Maybe it is your fault, maybe it is Jungkook’s fault. Either way, the masked enigma vanishes without a trace after your argument with Jungkook and the city’s crime, now freed from the vigilant watchful eyes of New York’s hero, spikes.
It feels almost as if the city has swallowed him whole or as if he has dropped off the face of the earth and the only thing to remember him by is the sudden havoc that ensues the city. The only thing you have to even know if Jungkook is still alive are the occasional updates from Taehyung who comes to befriend you if only to mention Jungkook every once and awhile just for the sake of easing your worried mind. You’re not so much mad as you are upset, but you care entirely more for his own wellbeing and to not hear from him causes you agony.
There is only one brisk moment in which you encounter Jungkook and it comes simply from a happenstance. You are not at all expecting to see him and nor is he expecting to see you. Rather, you are seated on a wooden bench in the park just beside your school on a day graced with a strange warmth for winter. Wrapped in a scarf and knit hat, you are flipping through the pages of a book for one of your classes when a figure stands before you, momentarily blocking the sun’s light from your view. As you glance up at the shadow cast over you, you are genuinely surprised to find Jungkook standing there. He looks, perhaps, even more so dishevelled than usual, his hair and attire all one negligent mess as if he couldn’t even find the strength to care for himself. Dark circles line his sunken eyes which stare down at you sorrowfully.
“Y/N… Can I talk to you?”
Your heart skips a beat. For a moment, you can’t turn away from him. For a moment, you fear that you will cave into him but then you are reminded of your broken heart. It’s what causes you to act in such haste, shaking your head up at him as you shut your book and shove it into your bag. You stand to your feet and brush past him and he, so caught up in your rejection of him and the own twinge of pain he feels in his heart, lingers by the bench. Then, he is walking after you, his footsteps swiftly catching him up to you.
“Y/N. Y/N, wait! Please, just let me━”
Jungkook breaks out into a sudden jog and only stops when he is standing in front of you. With your path blocked, you, too, come to a halt if only for the benefit of the doubt. He desperately tries to meet your eyes but you look past him, arms folded over your chest.
“Let me talk to you,” he begs. “Away from here. Just you and me. I can explain everything. I━”
“You had your chance, Jungkook,” You quip dryly. “You didn’t have to run away from me.”
“I wasn’t━ I didn’t mean to━” he tries, but is interrupted once more by your strained voice.
“You left me.” Now you are staring at him and Jungkook wishes that you hadn’t even bothered to give him the chance. Once full of shimmering admiration, your eyes are only glossed over with a pained disappointment. “I told you I loved you and you left me. You made me look so stupid and I━ No. No, I’m not doing this right now.”
You push yourself forward, walking carefully around him. He watches as you storm away, shaking your head to yourself. With one last despairing attempt, he calls out to you once more.
“I’m sorry,” he gasps. “I let you down. I know. I’m a failure.”
You stop. Your back is turned to him before you force yourself to look over at him and he foolishly thinks that maybe you’ll give him a chance to properly explain himself. Instead━
“You’re not a failure, Jungkook,” You tell him firmly. “I just━ I need to be alone right now. But don’t leave them. Don’t let them down. The city needs you.”
Jungkook flinches. He wants to call out to you again and pull you back to him, explain everything that is on his mind, but he can’t. Instead, he is forced to watch you walk away from him until you disappear amongst the crowd and even then he doesn’t move. He knows you’re disappointed with him.
He knows the whole city is disappointed with him ━ but the only person he wants to impress is you and he fears he’s ruined his only chance to.
You hardly seem to sleep at night anymore, instead too caught up in the thoughts that plague your dreams. Instead of going to the roof as you usually do when you can’t sleep, you find yourself lying helplessly in your bed, staring up at the empty night sky through your window. One night, as you’re dozing off on your bed, your eyes blinking wearily as they try to focus on the shimmering moon, you begin to hear a noise. It’s similar to a light tapping, though it drowns out in the sound of a siren from somewhere down below. At first you believe you have just dreamt it but then you hear a loud thud, slightly muffled from somewhere outside your window. It jolts you awake, has you pushing yourself up into a sitting position, and glancing around your room for any sign of something that may have fallen in there before noticing a flash of movement from the corner of your eye.
Red and blue.
Interest piques your drowsy mind at the thought of it being Jungkook but why would he be returning to you now? You would have been entirely set on begrudgingly flopping back down onto your bed and turning your back to him had you not felt that dreadful feeling that something was terribly wrong. You can’t hear his voice and when you turn to get a better look, you find him standing on the fire escape just outside your window, slumped dangerously against the wall with his back to you. It is that dreaded feeling that pushes you out of your bed, drags you to your window which you lightly throw open, only to be met with a sight that leaves you in horrific shock.
Jungkook is adorned in his usual tight red and blue suit, though his mask is off and gives you a clear view of his weary face, now muted in colour, that your eyes land on first. His eyes are shut, his head rests against the brick wall of the building, and his skin is marked with dirt and grime, bruises and dried blood. As your eyes trail lower, following the curve of his arms to his hands that cradle his side, you finally spot the large wound from beneath his fingertips on the left of his abdomen, shimmering a bright crimson red. Immediately your heart sinks to your stomach as you gasp loudly.
“Oh my god! Jungkook!”
Shimmying your way through the window to get closer to the boy hardly has him stirring. Your hands come out to grasp at his face, forcing him from his slouched position.
“Jungkook, can you hear me? What the hell happened?”
His eyes flicker open momentarily at the touch of your warm fingers and he musters a small smirk, the corners of his lips lifting up just slightly.
“It’s just a scratch,” he mumbles hoarsely. “You should definitely see the other guy now.”
“You’re an idiot,” You grumble, your eyebrows knitting into a frown. “Why are you here? You should have gone to the hospital! I’m taking you right now━”
“No, no,” he protests stubbornly. He shifts his weight and immediately flinches from the pain. “No, you can’t. I’ll be okay. I just━ I need some time to rest.”
A deep sigh exhales past your parted lips at the mention of what had happened the night he fled so suddenly. Instead, you brush off the memory and give him a small shake of your head. “Here, stop talking. Let me help you get inside and I’ll see what I can do for you. This is gonna hurt a bit but can you move?”
Jungkook nods. As you wrap your arm carefully around his waist to shift him over to the window, he sucks in a deep breath and pushes himself forward. You try to help as he stiffly climbs in through the small window, grunting in pain as he does so, and then stumbling into your room and bumping into your desk next to the window, knocking a few trinkets down. As he leans dangerously against your now skewed desk, you hurry through the window and help him to his feet, pulling him over to your bed.
Despite the way he had left you so suddenly days ago, there is no air of stiffness in the room. The only thing that surrounds the two of you is a melancholic silence as you rummage around your room for the medkit you knew you had stowed away eons ago. For the most part, Jungkook patches himself up, downing a couple of painkillers, cleaning his wound in his abdomen and stitching it closed with a steady hand that has evidently done this before. You sit across from him in your desk chair, watching him intently as he sits on your bed, having shrugged off the top part of his suit and leaving his torso exposed. Other than the blood and dirt that cakes his golden skin, you take note of the toned muscles that make his abs and the way they flex in tandem with every time he winces as he tugs at his wound.
When he’s done, the silence is still unmoving. Jungkook wants to speak but his throat is dry and any time he dares open his mouth to say something, anything, he immediately recoils. It’s only when you’re helping him into your bathroom so he can take a shower does he finally gather the courage he needed all this time without his mask on. Before you can turn to walk away on him, he catches your attention by calling your name. When he speaks next, his voice is faint, terrified.
“I’m sorry.”
He gulps when you turn to look up at him and suddenly he’s made aware of the fact that the two of you are cramped so closely together in your small bathroom. It makes the shame he feels more prominent as he looks you in the eyes.
“You were the first person I could think of when this happened,” he says. “I━ I know I have no right to be here after what I did to you but I just needed someone. I needed you.”
Your heart flutters at his words though you hide this feeble act by turning away from him. “It’s whatever, Jungkook,” He hears you mumble faintly, your back to him. “Anything I can do to help.”
He wants to say something more but he hesitates again. He watches as you take a deep breath, the heave of your shoulders under a heavy weight, before you ultimately walk out of the door and shut it behind you, leaving it slightly ajar. You linger in your bedroom, standing in front of your window as you gaze out, absentmindedly gnawing on your lower lip as you fold your arms tighter around your torso. You hear the shower switch on, let the calming sound of falling water wash over you, and shut your eyes momentarily. You can still see the light from the bathroom pouring out into the darkness of your room from the angled door, and can see the steam start to cloud the mirror.
There’s something so indistinctly intimate about having him in your shower in the next room over after days of avoiding one another. You have every right to be enraged and upset with him and yet you aren’t. You can’t bring yourself to ever hate the boy in the room over. You understand why he left so abruptly and it makes sense but now, in that moment in time, with nothing but a wall dividing you two, there is a certain type of craving you can’t subdue. A craving and a yearning to be closer to him; to tell him how you feel before, if even, he decides to flee in the morning after.
You blame it on your stubbornness that pushes you forward. Really, it seems to happen in such a haze, a rush of adrenaline. One moment, you’re standing by the window; in the next moment, you’re by the bathroom door, your fingers clutching the handle. As you push it open, you can only see a misty silhouette of Jungkook’s figure from beyond the steamed glass doors of the shower. Your heart is hammering against your chest as you walk to the shower, slowly kicking off your shorts as you go.
Jungkook must hear you as you make your way into the bathroom because as soon as you carefully slide open the glass door, he’s already staring at you with a lack of surprise, noting the baggy t-shirt you wear and the way his heart flips when he imagines you in a similar shirt of his. You only meet his curious eyes, noting the water that trickles down his toned and glistening body and flattens his usual unkempt hair into his lashes. He shakes his hair out of his eyes and suddenly he looks remorseful. It’s almost as if he can read your mind and anticipates every second you take to just step inside, his eyes beckoning you to come. It’s not like he cares; in fact, he wants you next to him. God, he just wants you so bad.
Steady hands find the hem of your baggy white t-shirt that you lift up and over your head, exposing the smooth expanse of your bare stomach and the perk of your bare breasts. You shimmy out of your baby pink underwear and, suddenly, you’re standing completely vulnerable before him and yet this is all he wants and all you want. You step inside the shower, closing the distance between you and him even more until you’re right in front of him, letting the warm water pour down onto you. It’s become stifling hot in that little space and there’s only a split moment where you fear you’ve made a mistake before you feel Jungkook’s hand come up to gently hold the side of your face. His thumb caresses your cheekbone, his eyes gazing into yours, and then he’s kissing you.
It’s a soft kiss, one where he takes his time to thoroughly enjoy it, first kissing your upper lip, then your lower lip in some sort of sensual manner that leaves chills running down your spine. He leaves a trail of warm and wet kisses from your jawline to your neck, nuzzling his nose against your throat as your breath catches. His hands fall to grasp at your hips, yanking you toward him and you so easily comply, melting completely into his broad chest and immediately feeling a sense of warmth as if you’ve always belonged there, wrapped up in his strong arms.
“You’re blushing,” he remarks gently, making you realize he’s pulled apart from you to study your face. His fingers brush away the hair that falls into your eyes and he smiles. “You’re blushing now after you walked in on me naked? God, you’re so cute.”
You whine something in protest, burying your face in his neck and he laughs. His fingers tickle at your sides, causing you to squirm in his grip, and when you look at him again, his stare is tender and fond.
“Come here,” he mumbles.
You let him pull you into another kiss that has your head spinning. His tongue grazes your lower lip, teeth slightly nibbling down on the flesh in a way that jolts your heart. As your hands snake up his chest to wind with the hair at the nape of his neck, your own mouth parts open, letting his tongue twine with yours in a heated kiss. He can feel everything against his own body, from the perk of your breasts to the slope of your hips. His hands slide down to rest upon your lower back and the way he pulls you flush against him, letting you brush against his firm cock, makes your head spin again. It’s what wills you to start grinding your hips against his in a slow pattern that has his breath hitching in his throat, his fingers digging tighter into your skin.
“You’re driving me insane,” his voice is husky as he speaks, smooth as it filters through your ears.
You can’t help but smirk against his mouth. “Likewise.”
“How about we get out of here?” he asks. “The bed seems a hell of a lot more comfortable.”
You nod eagerly, mumbling a small, “Please,” against his luscious lips, too reluctant to pull away. He seems to have trouble, too, as he remains in his spot, even long after he reaches down to turn the water off, his lips still locked with yours. Granted, it gives you time to dry off before he’s hoisting you up with ease, instinctively letting your legs wrap around him. A thought abruptly pops into your head and causes you to gasp, your lips parting from his with a significant pop.
“Jungkook!” You scold. “Be careful! Did you forget about the gaping wound in your side or?”
“I’m fine,” he assures, already swiftly carrying you out of the bathroom and into your room.
“I don’t care what your magical radioactive spider bite does for you,” You retort. “I don’t want to somehow hurt you.”
He laughs in response, a sound that reverberates against his chest and your own torso. He’s already standing by the bed when he carefully lowers you down onto it. He crawls over you, instantly towering over your body as he leans down to chase your lips. In one quick movement, you hook your leg around his waist and, using your hands, shift him over until he’s on his back and you’re cradling his hips. He seems surprised at first, his stare flickering from the navel of your stomach to the soft buds of your breasts. Past the valley of your chest, his eyes fall once more upon yours and he smiles breathlessly, his hair sticking up in tufts.
“Really?”
Your eyes fall to the stitched wound on his side covered in gauze and your fingers brush against it delicately, following the natural curve of his abs. “I’m serious, bugboy. You may be this notorious, unstoppable force out there, but to me you’ll always be Jungkook.”
He pouts. “That doesn’t sound as cool as being Spider-Man.”
“Spider-Man is cool.”
“See? Even you think so. This is why I never told you ━ everyone thinks Spider-Man is cooler than Jungkook.”
A roll of your eyes has him smirking, though the smile is quick to falter when you begin to grind your hips against his, feeling his firm member poke at your thigh. His jaw drops open slightly at the sudden contact, his brows knitting together in slick concentration as his eyes fall to your glistening soft core.
“You didn’t let me finish,” You breathe steadily. “Spider-Man is cool, but Jungkook is cooler. You’ve always been strong and dauntless to me. You’ve always been a hero to me.”
“God,” he moans, “you’re making it really hard to focus on how cute you’re being when I can already feel how wet you are.”
The giggle that slips past your lips only further proves his point. His head rolls back against the pillows beneath him as you continue to slowly grind against him.
“Do you want me to stop?” You taunt.
“No, no,” he gasps. “Holy shit, no. We can save the mushy talk for afterwards, right? Please?”
You nod briskly, gulping for air as you feel the burning sensation between your thighs. Your fingers dance down the front of your stomach to the bundle of nerves that you rub at carefully. Jungkook watches intensely as you pleasure yourself before him, feels his own cock hardening at the sight of your fingers gracefully rubbing patterns into your clit, coating your digits with your leaking cum. He writhes beneath you, desperately aware of his own need for you, but god help him if he doesn’t finish watching or helping you get off. He swallows thickly, loosening his dry throat.
“Well, if you’re gonna make me sit here then,” he says, “can you at least let me help?”
“I’m listening.”
“Good,” he grins. “Then come sit on my face.”
He says it so confidently that it has you stuttering in your pace. Your eyes flicker down to his mischievously twinkling eyes and the way he bites on his lower lip. You hardly hesitate at his command, pushing yourself off of his crotch and shuffling yourself forward, tossing one knee over his head so that he’s seated nicely between your thighs. His hands remain on your hips to keep you steady as you wiggle around until you’re comfortable. He plants a kiss on the inside of your thigh, murmuring, “I’ll take good care of you, baby. Sit back and relax.”
You do as you're told, letting him pull you carefully down to his face and feeling as he leaves a trail of kisses along the inside of your thigh. When his mouth is hovering just over your core, you can feel his warm breath fanning against you and hum in delight, waiting eagerly for his every move. He nudges you closer and closer until you feel that one fell sweep of his tongue against your core, warm and slick as it grazes your folds, immediately sending a shock of white hot pleasure surging through your body. A shocked moan emits from your parted lips in a sound similar to, “Ooh,” that has Jungkook smirking against you.
Suddenly, all you can focus on is him and the way his tongue works so expertly against you, kitten licking at your core until you’re dripping wet in a lewd combination of saliva and your own succulence. You nearly lose your balance the moment he makes contact with you and, with each passing second of immense pleasure, it makes it more difficult to hold on. Your thighs shamelessly squeeze shut (though Jungkook grips lightly onto one of your thighs to shift you apart) and when you feel yourself wobble, breathless and dizzy from the feeling of hot fire burning at your core, your hands fly out to grasp at Jungkook’s carob locks, silky to the touch as they slide out from the seams of your fingers. Admittedly, having Jungkook’s face buried beneath your thighs is a ridiculously hot sight that only spurs your blatant spiral into a panting mess.
“Jungkook━ F━Fuck━ Oh my god━”
The moan that leaves you is throaty, guttural and Jungkook swears he’s never heard anything sexier. Watching you writhe helplessly above him is all that he needs. As his tongue licks firmly at your clit, he can’t help but reach down to his own hard dick. His fingers wrap delicately around his shaft and he pumps himself slowly, groaning into your womanhood at the thought of your delicious and hot walls wrapped around him. He shuts his eyes as he works in a smooth rhythm against both him and yourself, imagining what it would be like to just have you anyway he wants, imagining your own reactions similar to the ones you’re making now.
“Ah, shit━” You gasp suddenly. “Fuck, Jungkook, you feel so good━”
God, there you go again. His palm squeezes harder against his member at your breathy moans and he swears you’re driving him absolutely mad. To him, this feels so surreal. He’s dreamed of this; he’s dreamed and wanted nothing more innocent than to just fucking hold your hand and yet here you are in such a compromising position with him and he feels like the luckiest guy in the world. The best part about it all is that you make him feel this much bliss, this dizzy, when he’s simply just around you. Fuck, he’s so in love with you.
Your fingers clutch a little tighter at his roots and his eyes snap open. He stares up at your frazzled mess and, with his free hand, presses his fingers against your core in areas that his tongue has yet not reached. He coats his digits in your glistening arousal and coaxed with such ease he’s able to push them past your folds, earning another beautiful moan from you. He curls his finger inside you, stretching your core, flicks his tongue a little harder at your clit, squeezes his own hand tighter around his cock as he desperately jacks himself off to this, to you. He pumps his finger in and out of you in tandem with his own hand around his length, hearing your sweet whimpers and choked moans.
He must curl his finger just right inside of you or maybe it’s the way your sensitive clit begins to throb with each lick he takes or maybe it’s when he joins his tongue with his finger in a dangerous duo but then you jut your hips forward ever so slightly and jerk them back. He’s eating you out with such vigour, such hard passion that you can feel his chin and his nose brush against your core and each contact has you gasping. He pulls apart just enough when he feels you jerk your hips backward again and you’re so caught up in the pure ecstasy that has overcome you that you hardly realize until you hear him speaking, muttering faintly against your folds, “C’mon, baby. Ride my face. Cum for me.”
His only response is a weak sputtering as you try to gasp for air. You don’t need to be told twice at this point as you feel as if you’re chasing after your high. You unabashedly begin rocking your hips against his mouth and fingers. He tilts his head just right so that his nose burrows into your clit, his tongue and digit slipping further within your walls that clench around the thought of having something of girth like Jungkook’s length inside you. Jungkook’s own hand slacks at his pace around his member, his fingers reaching up to dig into your waist and thighs to hold you in place as you continuously rock against him. You’re so close, you can feel the familiar tension start to form in the very pit of your stomach.
“F━Fuck!” You cry. “Jung━kook━ I’m━”
Your voice breaks off into frail croaks, your hands flying out to grab onto the sturdy frame of your bed in front of you as you feel your high approach. Jungkook pulls you harder against his face, letting you grind against him as he burrows into you, completely ravaging you with his mouth until you feel your release take hold of you. It shakes you to the bone, causes you to writhe in pleasure above him as you come to a halt, emitting a loud moan of his name as your hot release leaks onto his chin, coating his mouth in your shimmering cum.
“Fuck, fuck━ Jungkook!” Your nails dig into the bed frame, your teeth sinking into your lower lip and muffling your dulcet moans.
He laps at your core, licking away every last drop of your succulence until your hips twitch away from the sensitivity you feel. When he finally pulls apart from you, he stares up at you from between your thighs with an amused smirk, his hair messily mused from your doing. You muster a faint smile in return as you pant heavily, attempting to calm your shrill heart and he beckons you over. You blissfully clamber back down his torso, once more straddling his hips as you curl up into his chest, tilting your head to press a soft kiss to his lips. You feel him smile against your own mouth and it’s something so gentle, so ardent, that it warms your heart.
“That was so fucking hot,” he mumbles between kisses. “Round two?”
Giggling, you part from him momentarily only to reconnect your lips to his jawline, nibbling on the soft skin there. “How about I let you have a turn?”
He quirks a brow in curiosity though he already knows your intentions as your hand flutters down his stomach. He can’t help the moan that slips past his lips as he feels your soft hands grasp firmly at his hardened cock. He feels as if he could practically melt in your hands or explode at any moment and you hadn’t even done anything. His hips instinctively buck into your fist but he shakes his head. He sits up suddenly, startling you in your spot though his hands come out to grasp at your face and hold you in place as he kisses you feverishly.
“How about,” he breathes, nipping at your lower lip, “you let me make love to you right here, right now.”
For a moment, you become carried away with the taste of his lips mingled with your wet arousal that fades away fast. You return the kiss with such zeal, too reluctant to part from him just yet, that when you muster the nerve to lean away, you’re panting heavily.
“Not so fast, bugboy,” You taunt. “I still want you to rest.”
You give him a little nudge backward and he obediently follows your wordless command, plopping back against the pillows of your bed as he looks up at you, his hands resting on your upper thighs.
“I don’t know if you can consider sex as resting,” he points out playfully, a wry grin plastered on his face.
He watches as you smile, the rapid heave and fall of your chest, as you wiggle around until you’re comfortable again on his lap and have lifted your hips off of him. Your hand wraps around his shaft once more and you pump him once, twice, in slow motions as you spread the leaking cum from his throbbing head along his shaft. His jaw drops open at the feeling, eyebrows knitting together, and his fingers dig a little too harshly into your skin accidentally but you don’t at all mind ━ not when you’re able to see such a beautiful reaction from him as he comes undone before you.
Seconds pass of bated breath as you lower yourself slowly, carefully, to his cock. You run the tip of his length along your folds and up to your clit, rubbing small patterns against it that has both of you whimpering lowly. You coat him in your leaking arousal and then lower yourself onto him, finally connecting the two of your bodies as one.
“Oh, fuck,” he grunts.
Jungkook seriously feels as if he’s about to explode ━ literally. You’ve only just sat on him and he’s afraid he won’t be able to hold himself together long enough before he feels his sweet release. You’re just so warm and wet, so deliciously wet, that he slides easily into your walls that hug him just right. His mind is spinning, and even more so when he feels you stop halfway and lift your hips again. You drop them to the same level and then back again, repeating this process until you drop your hips fully, flush with his.
“Oooh, Jungkook, hmm,” Your fingers dig into his abdomen at the feeling of being so damn full. You can practically feel him throbbing and your own walls clench and release around him as you adjust to his size.
“Move━” he chokes out. “Move, please━ holy shit━”
And you do. You grind against him, rolling your hips around his firm cock as the fire continues to burn between your legs. You raise your hips languidly and drop them back down again and again until you’ve adopted some fluid rhythm, being so easily coaxed by your own cum.
“Like this?” You gasp.
He nods absentmindedly, swallowing thickly. “Fuck yes, just like that, baby.” His head rolls back against the pillows, the vein in his neck straining, “You feel so━ so fucking good.”
“Tell me,” You breathe.
Jungkook finds it hard to concentrate when his eyes fall on you. He watches as your breasts move in tandem as you ride him, the glistening arousal on your folds that coat his length that he watches disappear into you each time. He greedily reaches out as he’s lost in his own thoughts, his hand cupping your plush breast in a firm hold, his thumb brushing against your perked nipple. Your back arches in response, leaning closer to his warm hand, as he focuses on the tightness that is your core.
“Warm,” he moans. “So, so fucking wet ━ oh my god, you’re dripping, baby. Shit, you feel so perfect around my cock.”
You cry out his name, quickening your pace as you chase your high. Your strides are relentless, desperately searching for a sweet release and Jungkook feels the same. He’s held it in this long ━ he isn’t so sure he can hold himself together for much longer. He can’t take it anymore. Just as he feels you slowing down from exhaustion, he sits up once more, his strong arms wrapping around your torso and pulling you tight against his chest. Your own arms slide around his neck and you lean forward to crash your lips against his as you roll your hips steadily against his now. The new angle has him hitting a spot in you that shakes you to the core, has stars forming in your eyes.
You bite down hard on his lower lip accidentally as you try to conceal the loud moan that bubbles at your lips. Jungkook only smirks in response, especially when you shamelessly let those strangled moans out. As you sink lower onto him, Jungkook thrusts his hips upward to meet yours halfway, earning a sharp gasp from you. He tightens his hold on you and continues to thrust up into you again and again, so hard and so fast that it makes you writhe with pleasure above him. You can feel him stretching you wide each time, can feel your sticky arousal begin to trickle down his cock and your thighs.
So much for making sure he doesn’t hurt himself again ━ his thrusts are pure animalistic, hasty and needy, though all either of you care about in that moment is feeling that sweet release. You collapse entirely against Jungkook’s arms, letting him take hold of you as his hips smack against your ass. When you finally feel your second high of the night approach, your reaction feels near explosive. He thrusts again and again and you choke out somewhere between the sound of skin against skin and heavy breathing, “J━Jungkook━ Fuck! I’m close━”
He growls in response, eager to push you to yours as he chases for his. Another thrust and, holy shit, there. He hits a spot in you once, twice, and over and over again that just feels so incredibly good that you can’t help but unravel in his arms. It takes you by surprise, washing over you an immense cloud of bliss as white-hot pleasure blinds you, starting from your core and spiralling out to every edge of your body until your toes are curling. You cry out his name in a beautiful harmonious sound as your cum leaks profusely from you and coats him just right.
Fuck this ━ he doesn’t care anymore that you want him to rest. He needs to feel his own release now. So he grabs you securely and then he’s twisting you around, shoving you onto your back as he pushes his hips into you. You’re writhing beneath him, your back arching until your warm and sweaty chest is pressed against his. Your fucked out expression that stares back up at him but with such tired and loving eyes only spurs him on further (that, and the way you’re clenching so nicely around him). It’s completely messy but he’s so close. Another hard slap of his hips and then he’s finally coming undone. He pulls out of you fast, his hand coming down to grab at his cock as he pumps himself, thickly coated with your juices.
He cums moments later with a deep, rough moan, releasing onto your stomach in ivory beads that paint you his. His hand slacks around his softening length and then he, so spent and slightly sore from his wound (only slightly, he swears), collapses against you. The room suddenly falls silent, safe for the heavy panting and the shrill beating of your hearts that you both try to tame. His face is buried in the crook of your neck and your arms wrap around him to lazily twine his hair with your fingers. It’s nice to just lay there like that, enveloped in each other's arms, basking in the heavenly glow of euphoria. He kisses your neck then, soft and simple, and litters kisses down your throat to your collarbones and then back up again to your lips.
When he parts from you, his eyes remain locked on your mouth until he forces himself to look away and up at you. You’re smiling at him and it’s the type of genuine, albeit exhausted, smile that always warms his insides and makes him feel at ease. Tracing the curve of your lips with his index finger, he hums thoughtfully to himself.
“I lied about before,” he says sheepishly. When you quirk a brow at him, he continues. “I lied about before when you asked me if I’m ever afraid when I go out at night. I’m always afraid. Part of why I wear that mask is so the people I’m up against don’t see me wimping out. But, god, when I’m with you, I feel invincible.”
He watches as a light blush pinches at your cheeks, your fingers reaching up to softly graze his cheek.
“I’m so in love with you,” he whispers. “I love you. I always have and I swear you make me stronger. I don’t know what it is. I think I just want to fight harder for you. I know I was a dick for leaving that night but I know we can make this work. I just need you to believe in me, too.”
Your eyes, littered with stardust, stare into his as if he is the entire world. “I’m strong, too, Jungkook. I don’t always need protection.”
“I know that,” he chuckles.
“Good. Then get back down here and kiss me again, bugboy.”
Jungkook laughs. He doesn’t hesitate to lean down to press his lips lovingly to yours. He melts against your chest and he is content if every night is like this, in each other’s arms. As he deepens the kiss, he hears you whisper against his lips, “I love you, too, bugboy,” and it is all he needs to feel as if he has the world in his very palm.
Jungkook has always been afraid. He is afraid of not living to see the next day, afraid of losing you or his family or friends but every shred of fear fades away when he’s with you. As the city continues to breathe from beyond the brick walls of your apartment and as the sun begins to rise from the very heart of the metropolis along the horizon, Jungkook is certain that he and you together are invincible.
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scared.
characters: sakusa x reader
warnings/genre: liberal use of italics, female reader, swearing, angst, fluff
notes: i tried to proof read as much as possible i swear
Saying Sakusa Kiyoomi was good-looking was an understatement. Everything — from his soft skin to the way his perfect black curls fell on his forehead to his deep brown eyes — looked amazing on him. From that description alone one might say Kiyoomi is feminine, but his well built body and strong jaw say otherwise. He was pretty. Perfect balance between masculine and feminine. With that said, you couldn’t understand how Sakusa Kiyoomi had eyes for you when everyone else had eyes for him.
In fact, Kiyoomi not only had the looks, but he had the smarts too. He had perfect grades, had won so many awards, so many certificates. He had been at the top of his class ever since primary school. You weren’t sure whether there was something he has not achieved. He is the golden boy every family wanted, so when your family found out you were dating him you could say they were more than pleased.
Having known him for more than 3 years and having dated him for 2 years, you knew that being Sakusa Kiyoomi’s partner wasn’t easy. To others, you weren’t Y/N, you were Sakusa’s girlfriend. The perfect girlfriend for the perfect boy, always by his side, always supporting him. This was not necessarily a bad thing, but at times you thought whether you’d ever be more than just someone’s girlfriend. Not to mention, were you just an accessory to him too? When with him, you had this terrible desire to be loved, and still there was a horrible fear of being left behind.
Once again, you decide to put all these thoughts and insecurities aside. Letting out a soft sigh, you open the door of the café you were supposed to be meeting your boyfriend. The edge of the door shakes a little bell, causing it to ring, alerting the people in the café that someone has entered. You look around the place, eyes searching for your boyfriend.
The café was decorated beautifully, with big lilac plants planted in vases placed at the corners of the room. Each table had a little vase with a small flower on it, you never were sure whether all of them were real or not. The metal chairs were each coloured differently and looked quite vintage, each of them had a cushion placed on top of it, to make it more comfortable. The pastry and desserts the café offered also smelled wonderful. This place calmed your nerves the moment you stepped in which is why it was your favourite place to spend time in.
Looking around the café, you see Kiyoomi sitting at your usual place, at the corner. You make your way to the table he’s sitting at and sit in front of him.
“Hello, love,” he says the moment you take a seat, “how was your day?”
You take your bag off and put it on the empty chair beside you. “My day was good. I'm quite tired, though.”
“Not getting proper sleep again?” he raised an eyebrow, “you do know that's not healthy, right?”
Another thing Sakusa Kiyoomi likes to do is make sure you’re living as much of a healthy and perfect life as he is. You knew he did this out of love but sometimes you couldn't help but feel as if you couldn't keep up with him and his perfect lifestyle.
“Yes, I know. Don’t worry, I did get sleep, I just didn't get my daily coffee today.” That was a lie. You were up all night studying for your exams. The exams you have not studied nearly enough for because of the responsibilities that came with being the cheerleader’s captain.
“That’s good then.” A waitress walked to the table you were sitting in, placing two coffees and two slices of cake on it, one for each of you. “I ordered for us, I hope you don't mind.” He says and he removes his mask getting ready to sip his coffee.
“Thank you, you always know what I like.” you smile at him before looking down at your slice of cake, grabbing a fork and begging to eat it.
You see Kiyoomi grab his phone and swipe a few times all before opening his mouth and saying. “The exam results are out.”
With that, you feel your stomach turn and you get hit by a sudden wave of anxiety. You are not sure whether or not you want to check your results right now. You know you did not do well, but you can't just stand there staring at your cake either. You slowly pick up your phone, hands slightly shaking. Kiyoomi doesn't notice this, actually, he does not know this side of you at all.
He sees you swipe a couple of times, all before freezing and gulping. You’re praying he doesn't ask about your grade, so you try to ask him questions instead. “So, what did you get?” you put your phone down and put both your hands on your lap, playing with your fingers under the table.
“Maximum points, as usual,” he answers, making your stomach feel even sicker.
“That’s amazing! Congratulation—”
“What about you?” he interrupts you, his dark brown eyes staring into yours.
“I did, um, I did alright!” you stutter, forcing a smile at him. You were proud of your grade, but you knew he would not feel the same. It wasn't even his opinion on his grade that mattered to you, it was the fact he did better than you. You used all the free time you had for studying, you truly gave it your all, and yet here you are, second, again.
“Let me check.” before you could protest, he grabs your phone.
“No, Kiyoomi, ” by the time the words left your mouth he’s already swiped a couple times.
He opens his mouth and lets out a soft sigh, a soft sigh that almost went unnoticed by you. “You know, I’m gonna need to tutor you more often.”
Here he goes, once again, making your heart ache. Making you feel so small, so useless, so ashamed. He does not know that you were expecting way worse. He does not know that if you didn't have him, you would be way happier with your results. To him, your efforts are small, so, so small. This feeling has been going on for years now, you can’t remember whether there was ever a time where you didn't feel like the second-best beside him. He made you feel so pathetic, it made you angry and unbearably sad.
“Actually, no, I don't think I need your tutoring. I did quite well.”
“I know you did, but you could’ve done better.”
“Oh? Well, I didn’t and I’m proud of my results.” You raised your voice slightly. Your tone made it seem like you were trying to prove something wrong even though there was nothing to prove him wrong.
He could sense you were mad at him and he didn’t even know why, which made him angry too. “What’s with the attitude? It’s not my fault you didn’t study. You literally had weeks to do it.”
That did it. You were at the edge of breaking. “You know what? You’re right, it’s not your fault. I was the one wasting time coming to all your games and getting your cheerleading squad ready. I was the one wasting time supporting you and your dumb fucking team.” At the end of the sentence, your voice broke and your vision was getting blurry by your tears. By now, everyone else in the café was staring at the argument go down. “Next time, I won’t even fucking bother.” You grabbed your bag and rushed out the door, trying to sob as quietly as possible.
His eyes had widened at your response. He put his head on his hands and whispered, “Fuck, I messed up.”
It had been two weeks since you last talked to Kiyoomi and there was not a day that passed in which you had not thought of your fight with him. Whenever you thought about what went down you felt sick. Yet here you are, sitting on your desk, homework waiting to be finished in front of you while you think about it again. All Kiyoomi was trying to do was help you, how could you be so selfish? How could you let your jealousy take over? Your failures are not his fault. You should’ve just studied, but you’re so fucking useless you can't even do that properly. Regret and anxiety had consumed you. Seeing him in the hallways of the school didn't help. You weren't sure what was going on with your relationship anymore, is he breaking up with you? Once again you were dragged away from these thoughts by the sound of knocking on your bedroom door. You shake your head, trying to make yourself sound as normal as possible before talking, “Come in!” you say, looking back at the homework in front of you.
“Hey, ” You’re shocked to hear a voice that didn't belong to any of your family members. You turn around to see Kiyoomi. “Your mom told me to come up, sorry if I'm interrupting.”
“No, it's alright.” you stay quiet, not sure whether you're gonna continue this conversation normally or not. Should you apologise? Should he be the one to apologise?
“I’m sorry,” Kiyoomi speaks up and continues before you can reply. “Can I sit down?” You nod and get up from your desk as he sits down on your bed. You sit down next to him and speak.
“ 'm sorry as well.”
“No, you don't have anything to apologise for. I shouldn't have said what I said.”
“No, you don't understand, it's my fault. I, ” you start tearing up, “I was so selfish and I was jealous and, and–”
“Jealous? Of what?”
“Of everything! I mean, you’re so perfect and you achieve everything you want to and I’m just so terrified of being left behind. I'm so terrified of always being second.”
“Love,” he pulled you into his arms, making you start sobbing.
“And I’m sorry I’ve been so selfish. I’m sorry I couldn’t be a better girlfriend, I’m so sorry.” You manage to get out through the sobs. “It’s just that these thoughts have been hurting me so, so much. I don’t think I can take it.”
He kept hugging you as he answered. “Love, I couldn’t have asked for a better girlfriend. You’re always so supportive and I know you always try your best.” He placed a kiss on your forehead, “I’m sorry for making you feel this way. Please know that to me, you’ll always be the first. I love you.” You hadn't expected Kiyoomi to say anything, he had always been the type to just let his presence comfort you. The fact he’s trying to reach out to you with his words made you realise how much you meant to him.
“I love you too.” you wipe your tears. “Thank you, Omi.”
Instead of replying, he kisses you. You missed his soft lips on yours, you missed the feeling of having him so close to you. You missed feeling so loved, feeling so important to someone and at the same time having someone who’s just as important to you. You missed him.
reblogs are greatly appreciated <3
#haikyuu#haikyuu!!#haikyuu x self insert#haikyuu x yn#haikyuu imagines#haikyuu fanfiction#sakusa x self insert#sakusa oneshot#haikyuu sakusa kiyoomi#sakusa kyoomi x reader#sakusa x reader#sakusa x y/n#hq sakusa#sakusa scenarios#sakusa fic#sakusa x you#haikyuu x imagines#haikyuu x y/n#s.rb🎈
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“You’re really gonna go in there?” Y/N queries gently, and Harry only nods his head in response, reaching for the door handle. An urgent, delicate touch of Y/N’s hand startles him, looping around his wrist and dragging his attention toward her, “Shouldn’t we have a game plan if something is behind the door?” She asks, her hold on him tightening just a little, and Harry notes how soft her palm feels against his skin, “Like, let’s say we open the door and a behemoth is standing there, what do we do?”
“The only behemoth that could fit in this tiny room is the band from Poland, Babe, and I reckon they have better things to do on a Thursday night,” he retorts, clenching around the knob and tilting it down, “Now unless you want to hold hands in there. . .”
She lets go before he can finish, and he doesn’t have to look back at her face to know she’s irate. A small smile quirks at his mouth as he pushes his shoulder against the heavy door to aid him opening it, bracing himself to see something potentially horrid. . .
And there’s nothing.
or
Harry and Y/N are witches, they hate each other, and something’s coming
19K+ words
(A/N: Hiii!! So, I’ll be honest I know absolutely nothing about real witches at all, so what is in this story is not fact! it’s just an AU and doesn’t speak toward any of my real witches out there unless i accidentally got some things right. Happy reading, I really liked writing these guys I hope you like them just as much!!)
i.
It was dark.
Both in the state of the sky and the feeling that slithered through Y/N’s body while she tended to the Brugmansia finally flowering in her garden. The shift in the air could have easily been inculpated by the cool breeze that blew past her face, shepherding clouds thick and heavy with autumn rain, but Y/N knew better than that. Those feelings typically bring her peace; the rattle of thunder soothes her aching bones while fat drops paint the pavement, wet the dirt to mud, and feed the drying grass.
This feeling made her bones rattle. It crawled beneath her skin like billions of tiny beetles unearthed within her vessels; her stomach churned, her shoulders were weighed down, there was a gnawing pain at her temples, so fierce she held her hand to them. The cold brass of her ring cools her heated skin. This feeling was vile, it was awful, for fuck sake what was causing it?
She stood from her crouched position and slid back into her store. Technically, she’d closed about three hours prior so she should have been home well by now, but when she’d finally gathered her things in her duffle at 12, she looked out the back window and noticed some of her moonflowers had begun to bloom. There was a small part of her that had been reluctant to step outside at all, but she needed to greet them and water them, no matter the odd, unfamiliar troubling sense that had initially confused her. She ignored it -- she thought maybe she was just nervous to say hi to them, sometimes she was.
(Flowers and plants hold a special connection with their caretaker, from a tiny seed to a flourishing garden, they place their lives in the care of the earth or a human. If not properly nursed, their wilted petals appear so quickly, a silent plea for water, or sun, or even a little attention -- Y/N found that plants liked a little attention. That’s why she spoke to them, she cooed and gave them well-wishes when she left them alone. They felt just a part of her family as any blood relative had, from the moment she had sliced the tip of her finger in a torn brush and the petal she’d touched afterward fused together her tiny wound. Her nan had always told her that maybe she was a bit closer to plants than others were, so she probably shouldn’t share this with kids in her class because they might be jealous of her (Y/N knows now her nan just didn’t want her getting picked on.)
It was clear to her now that this feeling was a bit more than that when her goose pimples sunk back into her skin after stepping into the warmth of her store. Though it was not just because she had been keeping her shop pleasantly warm as the nights grow colder and longer; she kept herself protected in here. In between these walls lied a sanctitude that kept all evil out, in all manners, of all species, besides two.
One of which is her bunny, Thumper, who in all ways but emotionally was her familiar. He was a ghostly white Holland lop, with big dopey ears that she slid her fingers beneath and flipped up and down in spare moments. She accuses him of being evil because he’s always nipping at her fingertips, demanding food with a stomp of his foot, and gives the silent threat that he’ll nibble on her plants if she really pisses him off (he stands by them, twitches his little nose and shows his two front teeth until she gives him what he wants -- it’s usually more hay). He’s nothing but a little, greedy nuisance that showed up on her step one day and hadn’t left since.
The other. . .well, the other was Harry Styles.
Y/N liked most witches, no matter their point of interest. She knew that there could be a certain level of distrust amongst the syndicate -- hexes, and curses placed upon one another, but she tried to stay out of that -- she held no disfavor toward most of the others either. Everyone connected with things very differently, what she may connect with might not be that of what her neighbor connected with and that was okay. Her nan’s emotions had been in accord with the sea, and even though Y/N spent most of her life fearing water, she bore no judgment.
What she does is done in the mind of good favor, of bettering oneself with the world around them in a way that would beneficial to not only them but the people in their lives. Open up otherwise closed eyes to the beauty of the spirit and soul they possess, and the beauty and soul that the world around them held. The town she had moved to at 20 was so rich in natural beauty, ponderosa pine and hemlock trees grew tall in an extensive, juniper green forest almost always clouded with thick fog, the soil was soft and fertile, the air was crisp and clean. She felt happy here and wanted the others around her to recognize how lucky they were to be in an area so free of sordidity.
There was an empty shop up the brick road of the older part of town, that had been crowded in cobwebs, leaves that had blown in from the broken window, and animal droppings. Her nan came to help her clean it up (her mum had too, but she was dog tired after her workweek so spent most of the visit asleep on Y/N’s couch), and did something short of absolving the land so that she could grow a garden behind the store, in the clearing of 200 or so meters before it meets the mouth of the forest. She sold herbs, people came to her for intricate, meaningful bouquets with flowers that could not be found in just any store (and she was good to her plants, so if she asked very kindly, and sent them with a packet that produced a very special brew when dumped in the water, they would live very, very, suspiciously long), plants that would liberate people of their aches and pains so long as they tended to them, journals of reused paper, scrubs, oils. . .there were many things. She offered classes too, to help people learn how to better cater to their flowers.
That had been a year ago, so she was still finding her footing, but not six months into this happy reality she had created for herself, Harry Styles had come to town. It took nothing but a few minutes of coming to contact with him that he was a bad apple, and when the once sweet-tempered town had begun mottling with dark splotches, she knew for sure. Harry was like her, but his book of shadows had pages filled with wicked words of revenge, conjuring demons and letting them wreak havoc. His business was more under the cuff -- he posed as a writer who needed a scenery change for his work, but Y/N knew it had to be more than that -- but he did his bidding in the night, seeding through clubs, in alleyways, in the forest. . .if someone knew about Harry, it was because they knew a guy who knows a guy.
And for some reason, unbeknownst to her, he refused to leave her be.
This is why it almost makes sense that the bell of her store would jingle brightly no matter the fact she’d locked the doors hours ago, and her attention would be brought to the pest himself. He wore a sweater that threatened to swallow him whole, and baggy, holey jeans he rolled at the cuff showing off his bat printed socks, stuffed into grandpa-Esque loafers. The necklace he always wears around his neck (a small pendant that she had never gotten close enough to make out) is sat atop of his sweater today rather than hidden beneath it as it usually is. His hair is getting longer, more unruly with his warm brown curls than it had been when she first met him -- she really hadn’t known he’d had curly hair until the more recent months when it had started growing out.
His eyes were always the same soft, crystal green that matched his character none, and a pawky smirk on his mouth as he dragged his fingers along the lavender jars placed on her shelves, “Shouldn’t you be home by now? I figure it’s past your bedtime.” He leans down like he is about to pick something up, and when Y/N peers over the counter, she sees him slide his hand beneath Thumper’s soft white belly and pull him up to his chest. That was another indicator that Harry was just no good -- he was the only human that he liked, and the little creatine didn’t even like her.
“Shouldn’t you?” She flips it, continuing to gather her things so she could head home for the night.
“You know these are my typical hours, Babe -- everyone wants to curse someone at 1 AM, there was a study done in the east end.” He pets between Thumper’s ears as he sets him down on the counter beside the cash register, before he reaches out for the wooden crafted incense burners, “Have these cheap little things been selling any?”
“Piss off,” she stuffs her phone into her purse, then flips through her things to make sure her wallet was tucked in there as well, “What do you want, Harry? I’m about to go home, if you wanted to come around to bother me you should have hours ago.”
Harry feigns a gasp like he does any time she curses, “Thought good little witches didn’t have such foul tongues?” He flicks the candle jar on her counter, an apple scent had been melting around the wick for the better half of the day, “I don’t want anything in particular, just passing through. You know you’re right in the way of the forest, don’t you? S’kinda of obnoxious when you’re trying to summon imps at the cave -- they hate the bloody “stench” of the flowers.”
“Good,” she retorts, “You shouldn’t be summoning around here anyway, this area’s off-limits.”
It was barely an agreement but still an agreement nonetheless -- if Harry left her be, she would leave him be because Y/N wasn’t an idiot. If he wanted a fight, Harry could start one and he would fight dirty. All she asks him is to stay away from her store and her flat, and to keep away from certain areas of the forest where the soil was always soft -- in return, he would do his activities, sometimes he would need her flowers for different spells and she would turn a blind eye to what he was doing. She does a few gentle protection spells here and there but otherwise, he’s a free man to do as he pleases, just so long as he respects her request. He’d seemed perturbed by the conditions none -- had even chuckled and said as long as he let her keep her “pretty little flowers” he could get away with murder.
A heavy, weary sigh leaves him, “Yes, I’m well aware,” he rolled his eyes before crossing his arms on top of the counter and tucking his face in his elbow, “Gimme a moment though, it’s warm in here and I was freezing outside.” He muffles into his sweater.
Y/N had almost forgotten what she had felt prior to coming back inside, but his words bring it clearly to the forefront of her mind once more. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, hearing the floorboards creak beneath her as she wondered if he’d felt it too. It couldn’t have been him -- no, he was powerful but by no means powerful enough to conjure up something like that. And she’d like to ask him, but Harry has never been someone who took her seriously -- he would just make a joke of it, probably, or tease her. It wouldn’t be worth asking.
But the feeling that she’d gotten is chewing on her memory, so she asks anyway, “Hey,” she began and the only indication that he was listening to her is the fact his fingers stopped tapping against the wood beneath them, “Did you. . .when you were outside, did you feel that?”
He picks his head up from the crevice of his arm, “You’re gonna have to be a bit more descriptive than ‘that’,” his brows are raised as he continues, “Are you talking about the new pleasant but cold breeze we’ve gained for autumn, or the gut-twisting odious one?”
Y/N looks at him impassively, “The latter, idiot.”
“Yeah, I felt it,” he ignores her insult, “What about it?”
The skin between her brows pinches, “Are you not concerned? It felt. . .bad,” she couldn’t think of a better word to describe it, “I didn’t like it at all.”
“Are you scared?” There is delight swimming in Harry’s gaze as he stands up straighter, “Don’t tell me Glinda the Good Witch herself is scared of a little frightening feeling? I thought you were tough as nails and all that, hm?”
“Never mind, forget I even brought it up,” she tried to dismiss it, as she slings her purse over her shoulder and plucks Thumper up to sit him in the cradle of her arms -- she knew better than to ask him like she might get any comfort at all from his words.
He steps up and in front of her before she could start toward the door, “Oi, listen scaredy-cat, I don’t know if you’re aware but I deal with shite like this all the time, which means I’ve got a few banishments spells up my sleeve. If it’s really something that awful, I’ll cast it back to hell, easy as that.” Harry follows close behind her as she exits the door, feeling the same shiver of fear slither through her body, “I do want to see what it wants first though.”
“Of course you do,” she utters in disappointment, “Just keep it away from my garden, please.”
“I’ll try,” he tells her just as she reaches her car before he dips into his pocket and reveals that he’d stolen a baggy of chamomile, “If I didn’t keep your precious garden safe, then I wouldn’t have anywhere to get enchanted chamomile, and it works lovely in a sleepy time tea, I’ll tell you that -- your lavender is shit though. Never puts me to sleep like it ought to.”
She pops open her car door, “Stop taking stuff from the store, or I’ll start lacing it with laxatives.”
“While you’re doing that, won’t you plant them Clathrus mushrooms? I reckon the imps would prefer them way more than the mums.” He looks serious -- not a trace of a joke laced in his features and somehow that leaves Y/N more irritated than if he were laughing at her as he spoke.
Her response is blunt, “No.”
“Listen --”
“Harry, I’m not going to plant mushrooms for the damn imps!”
. . .
When Y/N had met Harry, she was angry.
She had never been a very angry person. Seldom has someone or something truly has gotten so deeply beneath her skin that she felt the need to yell or grump about it -- mild irritation was never off the table, but true, unadulterated wrath and resentment? It was rare she ever felt the need to even make a snide comment. And that wasn’t to say she was better than anyone else, she was just mild-tempered and forbearing. . .it took a little more than a remark or two to make her angry.
But when she was angry, she was an amalgamation of vexation and fire, and there was no surer way to disrupt her peaceful demeanor than to compromise her flowers.
The day had been uneventful up to that point. It’d been a week since Harry had moved into town and Y/N was surely feeling the negativity that followed in his wake, but she was focusing on maintaining the tranquil, idyllic environment that she had around her previous. As much as she would have loved to seek him out, ready to squabble, tell him off for bringing any dark energy into such a calm place -- she had to come at it pragmatically. She and her friend Niall (who wasn’t a witch but knew about her) had both agreed that while it was aggravating, they didn’t know him. They did not understand the depth of his power, or what he was here for, nor had they understood wholly what he was capable of. Y/N had felt his presence, but Niall had confirmed it after hearing the underground chatter of a dark witch who made promises to turn glitter to gold.
She was on her way to her store. Though she was closed on weekends, she always went by to check on the flowers, water them, tell them about her day, and with her was Thumper who would be hopping around the grassy field and gnawing on the blades. It was very peaceful -- the time she spent with her plants -- so she always looked forward to it, but that day she was filled with trepidation as she parked her car. Something was off. . .not in the air, but with her flowers -- she could feel it deep in her marrow that they were in pain.
So she huffed it to the back of the store, and there she found Harry, two of her purple vervains nestled against his palm. He noticed her before she could even think to say anything, and something short of relief had flushed through him, “Oh thank fuck, you’re here,” he sighs, referencing her garden with a wave of his hands, “I cannot for the life of me remember what hazel looks like.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Y/N demanded, stomping toward him, but instead of shoving him to the ground like she wanted to, she dropped to her knees and caressed the remaining vervain, “Why would you pluck them like that? They aren’t ready!”
“Ready? They’ve flowered haven’t they?” His brows had been tilted while his mouth dipped in a frown, “I need them for an incantation, figured you wouldn’t mind if I borrowed these two. Aren’t we meant to help each other out?”
“You should have asked, you prick,” she pointed up at him, “And even if you had, I would have said no. I don’t know what you’re doing here, but you’re really disturbing an otherwise pleasant place. I wish you would leave.’
Harry feigned hurt, placing a hand to his chest, “You wound me,” he mocks her, “Listen Glinda Good Witch, we all gotta get by somehow, yeah? Not all of us talk to plants or whatever it is you do. So do you want me to pay or --”
“Those won’t work for whatever it is you’re trying to do,” she cut him off, “If it’s something with cruel intent, it won’t happen -- they were grown to do good.”
“Which is exactly why I needed them from you,” he wiggles them in her direction, “Well, I need to get going. You’re awful in particular about a garden that is subpar at best. Wish you well, see you later.”
Then he left. No guilt, no apology -- he just up and left, and Y/N was livid.
(Later that night when she had explained the situation to Niall, he was nothing short of outraged, so they had tried to find out more about Harry. Anything about him, really, but he leaves a very little paper trail in his endeavors -- from public records they find that he’s 25 and from Holmes Chapel, and from a google search they find he has two books out, published online, and doing decently well. There was nothing else apart from that, he kept his socials pretty dry, and what he did post was nonsensical drivel.)
Y/N thinks about this, as she sinks into her tub, the burning water scalding against her skin. Harry had always driven her mad but he has never seemed half as angry as she was -- hell if anything he always seemed like he enjoyed it.
He was just absolutely rotten.
. . .
Harry thinks Y/N is just absolutely rotten.
There were many reasons that he had classified her as such, but namely what he was concerned about now was how she kept her shop closed on the weekends.
Who kept their store closed the entire bloody weekend?
It wasn’t so much that he wanted to see her -- Harry actually found the girl quite plaguy. Her opinions on his practice were priggish, not unlike the others like them he had met in the past. There has always been an unfaltering stigma that was carried with what he did, one that was quite hard to shake within the factions of other witches that are sprinkled across the world. He’s seen as careless, cruel, greedy, and selfish -- he doesn’t practice magic for the love of the world around him, to feel a deeper, spiritual connection with the fecund soil that covered the earth, or with the water gently slipping past rocks along a stream bank. They look at him and see someone who shakes hands with the devil and ruins lives for a cookie.
Harry lets them think as they wish, he has no patience to attempt correcting them. If they’d bothered to learn an inch about him at all before passing their judgment then they would have a clue about his true character, but the jury had already made the decision before Harry even realized he was on trial. They never really wanted to give Harry a chance, so he knew he would be hated no matter where he decided to reside. The pack mentality that they carry is the reason he has to move around so often though (more than any 25 years old was typically doing) he gets run out of a lot of areas because a group of soft witches decides he’s no good.
That’s what drew him to this place -- there was practically nobody. He could sense when there were more like him loitering around an area, and made an effort to keep a decently low profile so that he could stay around longer (but they always managed to find him), but here, he only sensed one. That had been good enough for him to know this was the right move -- the beautiful scenery surrounding them; the soft bed of dirt that Harry’s feet would sink into easily; the dense, damp fog that covered the forest floor in the early mornings; the lush, green trees and how life seemed to remain there when it was meant to be waning in the colder months -- all of that, had only been a plus.
When he’d met Y/N, he knew that she disliked him, but Harry had expected as much so it disturbed him none. If anything, he was delighted to have a purer witch than himself around, all things considered. There were no others that she could develop a hive mind with to drive him out of town, but she was no competition to the businesses that he provided, and when a decoction called for an obscure plant or an unsullied petal -- well, a Garden witch was not the worst kind to have nearby. She may be devout in her notions that Harry was a disagreeable, repugnant being, but she was good at what she did. Anything done with her plants was twice as effective as any other person’s flowers he’d used in the past, so it was necessary he bothered her often.
She refused to sell to him -- something about her doing business with a demon, or whatever she’d said -- but so long as he doesn’t go and cut them from the stem himself, she helps him out. Will give him the plants he needs, and in return, he doesn’t taint certain areas of the town and the forest that she declared were off-limits. It was a spoken commercial agreement that both of them went by and because of it, their lives near to one another were comparatively peaceful to any other situation Harry has found him in prior.
That didn’t come without its faults. They butt heads often, their bickering is nonstop, and Harry could think of many things he would rather do than have to stay in a room with her for longer than the ten minutes it takes him to get what he needs. It was fun to fluster her -- getting beneath her skin was an easy feat that he found a lot of joy in, and sometimes she gave him a run for his money. He always kind of liked making a normally mild-tempered person grump at him a little, if not for his impish ways, then so he could get to know them as their full self.
So he wasn’t mad that she was closed because he particularly wanted to see her, no, he was mad because he was exhausted. Absolutely drained. The business was incredible when you’re the only dark witch willing to do some questionable, immoral things, but that also meant long nights and incredible emotional toil -- it wasn’t a walk in the park to conjure up a bloody demon!
Ever since Harry had started this path, he’d had immense trouble sleeping at appropriate times, if he could fall asleep at all. He guesses this was what he gets in return for what he practices, and it could be worse so he doesn’t mind it too much, but it was still a hassle. It had been a good four years since Harry just had a good, peaceful night of sleep.
Up until he had moved here, of course, because the same little garden witch that thought he was the devil incarnate, made a tea he could brew that set him right to sleep. Kept him asleep the entire night too, which had always been an impossible endeavor spanning back to when he was a child, but there was something about her chamomile -- hell, it really knocked him out.
He tested his theory -- part of him thought that maybe chamomile was suddenly working for him, but no matter the brand that he tried, or the amount of tea he drank, none of it could compare to what Y/N’s did. When he visited her store, he took what he could to hold him off to the next time he came by. He hadn’t realized how low he was though when he had seen her last and she threatened to lace it with laxatives -- he should have taken two because he used his last bit the night prior to the one he’s suffering through right now.
And he could have gotten more this morning if she didn’t close her stupid shop on weekends!
If Harry were not positive that he needed to rest, he wouldn’t bother to be trying. There was nothing worse to him than the laying in his bed and waiting for sleep that refused to come...it felt like he was being stood up by a date. It hasn’t happened often, but enough that Harry could match the feeling low in his stomach, indicative of discontent and sadness while he waited. . . . .and waited. . . .and waited. . . .and waited.
It was useless -- the universe’s retribution for summoning spirits to the living world left him with what a doctor might diagnose as chronic insomnia, but none of the treatments did him any good. No mortal medicinal could soothe him of this ailment. So one would think he would be smarter about keeping a hearty stock of it at his disposal rather than one at a time, but Harry never claimed to be the best at planning ahead.
And now here he was, staring at his ceiling fan whirl, his cat at his side while he contemplated if breaking and entering her shop was against his morals (he had a few left, surprisingly).
God, she was so rotten!
. . .
“Have you felt weird lately?”
“Hm?” Niall’s face scrunches up in confusion, his mouth stuffed full of noodles he just slurpped into his mouth, “Wha’ d’ya mean?” He muffles out, reaching over to her side of the table for a napkin to dab at the corners of his mouth.
The record store that Niall worked at wasn’t too far from Y/N’s shop so if her day wasn’t too busy, she would step away from the store for her lunch break and seek him out. It was never a planned ordeal; Y/N would stop off somewhere to get them something to eat and appear at his storefront, the sharp ding of the bell knotted on the door alerted him of her presence. He was always one of two places: in the back, tuning the old guitars the owner would bid on different websites, or he was in the front thumbing through the record baskets, organizing and reorganizing them by name. Sometimes he would be sat behind the counter, with his feet kicked up just beside the register but Y/N scolds him for that (he’s always wearing a dingy, scuffed pair of shoes that have no business seeing the light of day, let alone be shown off to others).
His head would perk up, he would look toward the door, and his face would bloom into one of sheer delight as he would call over to her, “Oh, thank fuck! Thought I would go crazy if I had to listen to myself think for one more second.”
Today was no different. She brought him ramen from the place three buildings down from his own, where she bends down a street that feels more like an alleyway and the door is hidden beneath a brassy fire escape. The owners were always very kind to her, and since she came often and tipped well, they would give her free bowls if they were in the mood. Y/N never liked the idea of a one-sided relationship with a business, so she always brought them herbs, and gardenias to plant at home (they were the husband’s favorite). She takes their fliers and posts them up in high traffic areas too, and when they have their business cards made and an extra hundred or so, she slips them in the paper baggies that she gathers her customer’s things in before sending them on their way.
Niall was grateful. He did a little cheer, left his spot from behind the counter, and urged her to follow him to the back where the break room was located (if a customer came around he would hear the bell and duck his head out to greet them, but for the most part their Tuesdays were pretty uneventful). He told her he had sensed her coming so he already had two stools set out for them to sit on, and napkins placed in the middle of the table, but she’s almost a hundred percent sure they had been left like that last time she was here.
Try as she might to let her mind flee from the dark, hazed feeling that had overcome her last week, she couldn’t. Even as she listened to Niall prattle about some Gibson Les Paul custom that the owner purchased a while back, she struggled not to wonder what it was that was worming itself into her brain; slick tendrils of dismay overcame her. The true, unadulterated, execrable feeling only truly hits her in the night if she is outside the safety of her home or her shop, but otherwise, it was memories of this haunting aura that struck her throughout the day.
She couldn’t place her finger on it though, what it could be. There are feelings she garners when Harry summons certain spirits, but she can typically tell when he’s doing that, and they’ve never felt so. . .evil, before. What Harry deals with is evil, sure, but this was so smothered in turpitude that she couldn’t make it out. Like spilling black ink over a letter written in blue.
That’s why she asks Niall -- it feels too strong for it to be something only felt by her and Harry. It would also soothe her mind if someone had felt it as horribly and heavily as she did, considering it wasn’t affecting Harry enough that he would try to banish the damn thing before things went sour.
“Like, do things just not feel. . .off, to you?” She didn’t want to feed him any impressions of what she might be speaking about -- she would like to know if it were true to him. Niall is sweet as he could be, but not always when it was appropriate; he would tell her he did just to spare her from feeling foolish. It’s why she thought berets were her thing for about a month when really she looked like a washed-up indie artist trying too hard (Niall had agreed they weren’t her best fashion venture, but he certainly didn’t think they were that bad).
His face contorts in a pout as he mulls it over in his head, stabbing his fork into the noodles and catching a bit of pork on two of the pronks, “Hm, let’s see. . .” he looks like he’s spinning through a Rolodex, “I have not for the life of me mustered enough energy to have a wank in about a week, that’s some cause for concern,” when she responds with a blank stare, he holds his hands up, “Okay, fine -- Butternut was biting at the air when I took him on his walk the other night -- like. . .chomping at it, I was actually gonna ask you what that might be about.”
Now, don’t get Y/N wrong, any other time Niall would have told her that his great Pyrenees puppy was yapping and chomping at the wind, she would have brushed it off. “Niall, you’re just going to have to accept that he’s going to be a big, sweet dummy when he’s older.” But she was so desperate for something, anything -- because if something felt it other than she and Harry, then she wouldn’t feel quite as crazy.
“Sometimes it feels a bit like something’s watching me,” he tacks on at the end, taking the brown napkin from the stack in between them and dabs roughly at his mouth, “At night, when I’m walking Butternut, I get these chills but there’s no wind around.”
Y/N leans forward, thankful, “Yeah?” she presses, “Is it like -- describe it. What does it feel like?”
“Y’know, I do forget you’re a witch until times like these,” he leans back in his chair, a heavy sigh slides from his lips before he closes his eyes like he’s trying to place himself back at the moment, “I’ll tell ya what, it’s fuckin’ -- it’s a bit like I feel it right down to my bones, but then --” he opens his eyes, raises his closed fists and flicks his fingers out at her, “Poof, s’gone as quick as it came and I forget about it. My nan used to tell me that was the devil patting your shoulder, but if it went away quick s’because an angel kicked his arse out of there.”
It’s enough, Y/N decides, so she nods and relaxes back in her seat, “Okay, good.”
“Good?” His brows furrow, as he reaches for his can of soda and the aluminum can crinkles beneath his fingers, “Tell you that I get chills and you’re relieved? Should I be relieved too, or worried?”
“It isn’t anything to concern over, I don’t think,” she explains to him, “If anything changes I’ll let you know.”
Niall uses one of his fingernails to dig the dirt from beneath the other, “Did that Harry bloke muster some horrible demon up again?” His voice is laced with vexation. Niall wasn’t a hard guy to get along with -- he was loud and Irish, could chat up a storm about anything and everything, and while he could be scrappy at times, it was for all the right reasons. He was equanimous in most situations, even-tempered to a fair degree; if Y/N were in a situation where a cool, calm collected head would be the best approach then Niall was definitely the person she wanted on her side.
(Like when they had to drive home from a day trip to the massive lake just north of them, but the roads hadn’t been pretreated for the icy sleet that gripped the pavement. He drove them the whole way on the windy roads with little traction from the tires to the road, and was still bobbing his head and singing along to Ed Sheeran on the radio).
But Harry Styles? Oh, the mention of his name could dig right beneath Niall’s skin. Y/N would like to think that it was because he was so cruel to her, but she knows that there are two main reasons Niall is not too fond of him nor his craft. One of which is the fact that he slept with Liana (she happened to be one of Niall’s flings at the time -- there were plenty, but Y/N only remembered this one’s name because she shared it with a woody stem rooted to the forest soil that made for easy climbing), and the other, the fact that he had helped the captain of the opposing summer footie team with one of his enchantments to make them win. There are few things Niall cares for so deeply that he would dislike someone, but his sex life and his footie were two things a person just couldn’t mess up for him.
“No, it wasn’t him this time,” she clears her throat, pushing the rest of her ramen around idly, “It’s a bit too strong to be his doing -- more sinister too. He conjures mostly petty demons; the little ones that don’t have much better to do anyway. This is something. . .I don’t know, it just feels different.”
Niall sighs heavily, “Well, thanks for that, reckon I won’t be sleeping tonight,” he pushes the container away from himself to signify he’s done and when she takes a peek inside and sees nothing but a few noodles limp along the sides, “I like that you keep me in the loop, but sometimes I wish you would let me live in ignorance.”
“You know, I would apologize, but you’ve gone into an in-depth description of your arsehole to me so I thought any boundaries and forms of secrecy were long gone by now.”
His brows furrow features contorting into that of the same desperation he had come to her with two months ago, “Ugh, c’mon! You’re practically like a witch doctor or somethin’, I thought you would have a cream or something for it.”
“You had a hemorrhoid, Niall, for fuck sake! Even if I were a “witch doctor” then I would never let you put anything that came from my plants on your filthy bum.”
Niall stands, gathering their trash from the break room table but using his free hand as he passes her, he swats her shoulder, “You better be nice to me, or you’re gonna have to start eating lunch with Styles.” He steps on the level for the waste bin, throwing the trash in the bag, “Though I think you two would just end up hate fucking and the food would go cold.”
“No,” she rolls her eyes, “I would never let that Gremlin near my naked body.”
“Listen, I’m not saying I want the guy anywhere near your naked body,” he plops back down in his seat, “What I am saying is that you lot have such unbridled sexual tension it is practically palpable when I’m at the shop with the both of you. Maybe it’s ‘cos the two of you are the only witches, and opposites at that.”
Y/N snorts, “Maybe if we were in some enemies to lovers film, sure.”
After they finish their break, and Y/N realizes that she’s been with him for a little over an hour, they make plans to meet up tomorrow for a movie and she heads out. The air was cool -- when she had made her way over here the sun had been glittering rays down that bathed the world in gold, but it was now hidden beneath an overcast of thick clouds. Rain always carried a familiar scent just before it started to pour and Y/N had forgone a jacket, so she huffed her way back, breathless by the time she made it up the hill and saw Harry leaning against her door.
The sight of him makes her exhausted, but not in the usual way it does. He looks awful -- and typically he doesn’t! Y/N could admit that Harry was gorgeous; his hair always appeared soft, loose curls dispersed along the brunette strands, his eyes are a sea green, tender in his gaze when he wasn’t being an absolute prick and always bright (even when he was). His lips were pink, shaped perfectly, and his skin is typically smooth but even when he grows out his facial hair it still manages to look good. He had dimples. . .hell, Y/N would place a bet that he’d made a deal with the devil to look like that.
But today, he just looked worn down, and exhausted, like he might not have slept the entire weekend. His eyes were closed, his hands were in his pockets and his chin was tilted down towards his chest. If not for the way his head perked up immediately when her foot crunched into the gravel pathway leading up to her store from the small parking area (that was more so a beaten down, once grassy area now just dirt with tire tracks in it), she would have thought he was asleep standing up. There’s relief in his eyes when they meet her own, which she isn’t used to seeing from him, “Thank fuck.”
“You look horrible,” Y/N slides her hand into her pocket, pulling out her keys so she could unlock the door, “Budge over.”
“I feel it,” he rubs tiredly at his eyes, “Go on and open up quickly then. Why the hell do you keep your store closed on weekends?”
Y/N fits her hand over the knob, twisting it and shoving the door open with her shoulder. Thumper greets them at the door, nudging the top of his head against her ankle, “Do you work every night?”
“No --”
“I keep it closed on weekends for the same reason why you don’t work every night,” she heads toward the counter, settling her things down and reaching in for Thumper’s hay stash so that she could give him some, “What’re you here for? You usually come around to bother me later.” She chances petting at Thumper’s head for a moment, and since he was preoccupied with his hay he would allow it.
“Fuck!” Y/N startles, popping up from behind the counter, looking back up only to see Harry with wide, disgruntled eyes, “Where’s your chamomile?”
Her brows dip, “I’m out right now, so --”
“How the hell did you run out? Shit, what am I going to do now, hm? Shouldn’t you keep up with shite like this?” He’s going a mile a minute, he’s walking closer to her, distress was written all over his face and Y/N is alarmed to a fair degree -- Harry’s always seemed very collected and calm, it was seldom she ever seen him have more emotion than pure elation to fuck with her or displeased with her presence.
“ -- so I’m going to make more today. What’s going on with you? Why are you so pissy over it?” She finishes her previous thought, watching as he leans against the counter, propping his face up with his hand and she could now more clearly make out the bags beneath his eyes.
He rubs at his temple with the finger closest to it, “The only way I can sleep is with your bloody tea,” he grumbled, “That’s why I come around all the time -- well, that and to fuck with you, but mostly the tea.”
“Oh?” She reaches down, plucking Thumper from where he’d been positioned by her feet and setting him on the counter. He thumps his foot at her once but eventually makes his way over to Harry, sniffing at his chin before resting right before him. Y/N wasn’t necessarily doing it to be nice, but the energy he was exuding could really dampen the growth rate of her plants, and Thumper had a soothing way about him that drew all that negativity out. It was one of those odd little familiar powers that went unexplained for the most part. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“Dunno,” he shrugged his shoulders, but the tension in them begins to dissipate as Thumper snuggles beneath his chin, “Reckon I pissed off some demon or summat -- usually it isn’t this bad. Without your tea, I can at least get to bed for three hours before waking up and catch cat naps during the day, but nothing was working this weekend. I think I’ve slept a total of two hours?”
“Christ,” she tuts her tongue, but her brain starts churning, “Do you think it has anything to do with that. . .with that thing, that’s around? That feeling?”
Harry huffs a sigh, “Fuck, here you go again -- Babe, listen, I can barely keep a coherent thought, so why don’t I just give you some money and you make that tea for me, alright?”
“That’s no way to ask,” Y/N chastises him, and though she is already beginning to gather the supplies she needs so she could go out and harvest her leaves, she taunts him, “You’ll have to say please, or I might just decide to wait on this batch.”
“Please,” he wastes no time in saying, “Pretty please harvest the chamomile so that I can sleep and I promise I’ll sit and theorize with you over whatever the fuck thing you’re feeling.”
Y/N could go through the trouble of doing a blood binding with him to ensure that he wasn’t lying to her, but she felt that was a little on the extreme side so she took his word for it. She could easily harvest her chamomile here at the shop -- she had two doors behind the counter, one that led to her garden, the field, and the forest outside while the other led to a backroom that was made into a little kitchen area. It was easier for her to do things here rather than at home and have to risk tainting them in transport; for the best results to any enchanted item, one has to seal it immediately and it should only be reopened prior to use.
She wouldn’t allow Harry to hover over her while she worked, so she sat him behind the counter and told him to not speak to any customers if they come through (“Wasn’t planning to,”) while she went to work. Y/N gave Thumper a look when he had started to follow her, and with a small thump of his foot (his way of saying Fine!) he hops himself into Harry’s lap and settles there. The tension once again eases from Harry’s features, soothing the pinch in his brow and the way his lips had been pursed in a frown.
It was silent as she set to work, and save for a few customers who filtered in and out (at least a dozen of them, only eight purchased something but her Mondays were always pretty slow so that was expected), there wasn’t much to disturb what appeared to be a dozing Harry. He looked much more peaceful than she’s ever seen him, and for a brief moment she contemplates sending Thumper back home with him, but she shakes her head physically as if to expel the thought from her brain. What was she going on about? She would give him his tea and send the heathen on his way. No matter how empathetic she felt for him (she had struggled with issues sleeping when she was a lot younger), there was no need to go out of her way. . .even if she could admit that the sight of him cuddling with a bunny was a little too sweet not to be documented somewhere.
She’s finished drying the leaves and carefully stirring them in the fine powder that she still had leftover from her last batch (there were many flowers from her garden ground up and enchanted with an incantation, which sounds like a simple enough task but the entire process took a little over a week -- the magic had to be purified several times, and the potential adverse effects had to be mollified. . . if she didn’t, instead of pleasant dreams of floating in clouds, her customers would be in an unsolicited astral projection) in a little over an hour. Y/N takes care to bag them delicately, adding a little extra in the two bags she would be giving Harry so that he would bother her less over it.
By the time she’s retreated from the back preparation room, she finds that Harry is awake now, eyeballing her Intimacy and Romance section. When he sees that she’s returned to the front, he holds up the small, cardboard parcel, “I didn’t know you doubled as a Pulse and Cocktails.”
“That’s a natural aphrodisiac,” she tells him, walking over to her empty chamomile shelf before she begins to fill it, “You might want to take some so your partners will actually desire you for once.”
“Oh, Honey,” he shakes his head, a look on his face almost like he pities her, “Don’ know a thing about how people desire me. Barely have to take my cock out for them to be gagging for it -- kind of how you are, but won’t admit it to yourself.”
Y/N kisses her teeth, “Alright lecher, come and get your chamomile then,” she plucks the two remaining bags from the box she brought them in and holds them out for him, “You should look into some spells to combat that though -- if a demon is purloining your sleep, then it’s probably still hanging around and like deluging your flat with negative energy.”
“Dunno’ if you know this, but I work with demons often, I’m always surrounded by negative energy,” he plucks the chamomile from her grasp, before reaching in his pocket and producing a small wad of cash that he places in her palm-- Y/N opens her mouth to decline it (she felt that his money was earned in a dishonest way and would not accept it for her flowers, because it felt as if she were disrespecting them. . .she would much rather give it to him for free), but he cuts her off, “Oh, hush and take the money. This is from a care package my Nan sent me, so it wasn’t earned in any rotten way, you spoiled brat.”
She sighs, clutching the money in her hands, “You still better keep your end of the deal,” Y/N tells him, “I want to talk about this. . .whatever that feeling is, around here lately. And I want you to be serious about it!”
Harry was already retreating, waving his hand up at her, “Yeah, sure thing, I’ll have my secretary get in contact with you --”
“Harry --”
“M’only joking. I’ll come around Friday.”
. . .
Later that night, with Thumper snuggled in her lap snoozing, Y/N looks into purging a home of sleep stealing spirits.
She’s only curious.
. . .
Sleep comes gradually, then all at once, like the shift between summer and fall.
Wind whistles past window sills singing shallow songs of change, while red apples ripen on their branches in the orchard during harvest season. The air grows colder in the mornings and at night, the day is still steeped in the sun’s benevolent kisses of heat at first until even that begins to wane. An aesthetic of reds, oranges, forest greens and golden hues occupy the minds of many as the leaves start to stain with color. Everyone waits with bated breath for true autumn to come around the corner.
And when it does, it’s with a cold slap of air against the face when they step outside. The air carries that distinct autumn smell, the world is chilly enough for thicker jackets and long socks, rain comes in sheets during the evenings, and the colorful leaves that had drooped from the trees adhere to the concrete, or in matted piles on the forest floor. Suddenly, the warm drink in everyone’s hand is a little less for the excitement and impatience for fall to begin, and more so to warm their cold palms from the onslaught of biting wind.
It isn’t autumn, and then it is -- just like sleep. Harry’s awake one minute, and then he’s passed right out.
Well, with Y/N’s help, bless her. Sure, she had been rotten before, but she made him a new batch and sent him off with two hearty bags full of tea that would soothe his worries and put his arse to bed. Plus, he had cuddled with her sweet little bunny Thumper for a while and he had a feeling the little bugger was exuding some sort of her soft magic unto him in the form of calming waves. When the rabbit sat in his lap, all the tension eased from his muscles and he sank into an otherwise uncomfortable chair like it was the softest mattress he’d ever been privy to. So by the time he came home, started the kettle, drank a mug full, and hot tailed it to his bed, he was asleep before his head could even quite hit the pillow.
It was so good. His dreams were pleasant, his sleep was heavy, and deep, and lasted around fifteen hours -- which in the grand scheme of things, made him feel a bit like a sloth, but he knew he needed it. He still couldn’t quite pinpoint what had happened that he just couldn’t sleep even a little bit, but he has no interest in investigating now that he had a full night’s (and partially day’s) rest. Plus, there was no time to do any exploring when he needed to make up for the work he’d missed in his time exhausted -- his powers are nowhere near as strong if he is tired, and it’s incredibly dangerous to be working with little sleep. He could mess up, and a mess-up could mean someone would likely end up possessed and -- albeit how interesting they are -- Harry’s intrigue with exorcisms ended after the seventh one he performed.
After he woke up, showered off, and ate brekkie, he sat down with his kitten and they cleaned his crystals and a few amulets before he set on preparing some of his finer elixirs, that he always waited until he was down to the last drop to begin making more canisters of considering how extensive the process was. It would be easier if he had someone else to help out, but the only other witch within 160 kilometers of him, he wouldn’t label as the type all too willing to help him break into a blood bank.
But he did have his kitten Oat. He was his little miracle -- Harry had been so sad when he learned that witches could have familiars, but the animal would come to him and he was supposed to just know. At that point, he’d been practicing for three years and the only feelings he could sense from any animal around him were fear and disdain, so he had thought that maybe he just wasn’t meant to have one. Which felt horrible. . .he loved animals.
One day, when the chill in the air rosied his cheeks and the cardigan he sported did little to shield him from the cold, he was taking a walk in the forest nearby. He’d left the trail, but not because he was working. . .if he were honest, he thought that the garden that Y/N kept out there was quite magnificent. It flourished even in the winter, a meadow of flowers that’s petals never frost, and the ground never grew hard. There was an air around it that made him feel warm and pleasant, so he visited often without letting her know. Which was what he was doing, walking through the small path that she had created so that she could tend to them (he’d seen her water them once when he’d come unknowing that she was there to cater to them).
And one moment he was looking at what he believed to be an oat grass, he heard a rustle from the bushes to his left that he looked toward (it was a bird flying away), and when his gaze returned to where it had once been, there a small kitten was laying. She was the kind of small that made his heart ache, with her eyes barely open as she yawned and stretched very wide -- she wasn’t there, and then she was. Harry always liked to say she was born from the soft soil of Y/N’s garden which was why her grey fur felt like clouds and she always smelled sweet as heliotrope. . .and, well, she smelled a lot like Y/N too. He may not be all too fond of the girl, but she did always smell nice.
She hadn’t grown bigger than one of his boots, the tiny little thing, but not because she was malnourished in any way (Harry always made sure she was well-fed), he just thinks she’s finished growing. He couldn’t tell her breed, but if he had to guess she was some mix between a munchkin and a ragamuffin cat. Harry knows all familiars have their duties and special abilities, but he wasn’t quite sure what hers was -- he just knew that he loved her to bits and pieces, and couldn’t ask for a better little ball of fur to sit on his shoulder while he made coffee in the morning.
What Harry did know, was that none of the demon’s he had ever conjured had ever bothered her, and she loved to be rubbed behind her ears.
So Thursday night, when the town grew quiet and the air was still, Harry ventured out with his tote bag slung over his shoulder. It was easy to move about relatively unseen in a place like this, that wasn’t so big there were people constantly looming around the corners of every nook and cranny, but wasn’t so small that everybody knew everyone’s business. It was a pleasant in between, where he could snake through the mouth of the forest, walk a trail and end up on the other side of town without having been seen by more than a few critters. He typically made this journey relatively late, without a worry or stressor in sight -- it only took him about an hour and a half to get everything done.
Today though -- today, he felt off. It hadn’t been immediately when he’d stepped outside, but after some time in his walk, goosebumps prickled his skin and the hair at the back of his neck stood on end. He couldn’t quite decipher what was making him feel like this when the wind hadn’t rustled the trees in a few minutes, but it put him on guard. He disliked the feeling and had only truly sensed it to this degree that night Y/N had originally questioned him about it. It was an unsavory sensation, and for it to even make him feel uneasy was saying something tremendous.
He attempts to ignore it, even though it only grew stronger the closer he was to his destination. He weaves through the trees, stepping over the thick roots, crunching over fallen leaves, and appreciating the scent of autumn as he goes. It was a nice night, despite the chill that ran just beneath his skin. . .it was the kind of night that he might go out on his balcony and sip on his tea until he grew weary enough to step inside. Oat liked to sit outside with him, curled peacefully in his lap and resting without a care in the world (she made him feel not so lonely all the time, which he appreciated immensely).
Harry was thinking about how that was precisely what he was going to do as soon as he returned home after he had emerged from the trees and walked through an expansive field, toward an old road that led him back into town and entered the blood bank (after melting the lock with one of his crystals). Though he sensed something strong when he was walking down the cold, dark hall. . .or someone that is, who -- before he could register their presence -- ran straight into him as they were peeling around the corner and nearly knocked him on his arse (but definitely knocked them on theirs).
“Fuck sake!” He cried out, steadying himself, looking down at the assailant, “Watch where you’re going, mate, or you’ll -- oh, Y/N?” He pauses, confusion laces through his brain as he recognizes her, “What’re you doing here so late?”
Y/N was on her bum, scowling at him as she gathered herself before flattening her palms to the cold, white tiled floor and pressing up to a stand, “I could ask you the same question.”
“It would be a silly one if you did, ‘cos you and I both know what I’m doing for a living,” he watches as she swipes her bum of the dust adhering to her sweatpants -- he had never seen her so dressed down before, in a dark-colored hoodie that just about swallowed her whole. She appeared much less ferocious this way -- not that she appeared very ferocious before, but he is always intrigued to see typically put together people in their sleep clothes. . .he thinks it says a lot about a person. From Y/N’s choice of pajamas, he could tell that she probably kept her flat on the side of too cold because she liked to bundle up. . .she felt safe that way, he would guess, and he would bet 50 quid that there was bunny hair all over it because -- despite his grumpy tendencies -- Thumper loved a good cuddle.
“I felt it again,” she says after a moment, her voice only above a whisper, though there was no security here -- or anyone, for that matter since the place closes at 7 PM, but her eyes still shift around like she’s a high schooler ditching class and the headmaster's down the hall, “. . .that thing, y’know, while I was getting ready for bed, so I followed where it felt grossest and came to check it out to see if it led me anywhere.”
Harry’s brows furrowed, “Well that was stupid,” he derides her, fixing the tote around his shoulder and shifting weight from one heel to the other, “What were you going to do if you found something, hm? Fight it off with your bunny and rose petals?”
Her scowl returns, “Piss off,” she utters before her gaze flickers to his tote and the reason he’s here becomes clearer to her than it had been before, “You shouldn’t be stealing blood. Isn’t that unethical?”
“It’s either this or siphoning it from a live vein, Babe, and while I’m aces at plenty of things, I have not been properly trained to set up an IV. I only take the blood that’s about to expire anyway,” He nods down the hallway, toward the refrigeration where they kept all of the baggies, “You might as well continue investigating while we’re here because it’s coming from that way -- plus you can make yourself useful by keeping the door propped open for me.”
In all honesty, Harry expects more fight than he was given considering how often she seems to object to every move he makes, but she merely rolls her eyes and starts ahead of him. The feeling does grow stronger the further they descend into the hallway and he knows Y/N can feel it too, from the way she shuffles just a little closer to him, and he can hear her breathing hitch to a small halt as they stood before the door and it felt like it had all been focused just behind the door. As strong as the taste of frozen orange juice concentrate, it made his face pucker just slightly as he raised his fingers toward the keypad and began punching in the code.
“You’re really gonna go in there?” Y/N queries gently, and Harry only nods his head in response, reaching for the door handle. An urgent, delicate touch of Y/N’s hand startles him, looping around his wrist and dragging his attention toward her, “Shouldn’t we have a game plan if something is behind the door?” She asks, her hold on him tightening just a little, and Harry notes how soft her palm feels against his skin, “Like, let’s say we open the door and a behemoth is standing there, what do we do?”
“The only behemoth that could fit in this tiny room is the band from Poland, Babe, and I reckon they have better things to do on a Thursday night,” he retorts, clenching around the knob and tilting it down, “Now unless you want to hold hands in there. . .”
She lets go before he can finish, and he doesn’t have to look back at her face to know she’s irate. A small smile quirks at his mouth as he pushes his shoulder against the heavy door to aid him opening it, bracing himself to see something potentially horrid. . .
And there’s nothing.
Actually, as soon as they open the door, the dark, odious feeling that had been encompassing both of them disappears entirely. “Whoa,” Y/N pushes her hand against the door and keeps it open, taking one step inside of the room, “There’s a lot of blood in here.” His gaze flickers back at her, as she looks around, looking more intrigued than disgusted -- there was a lot of blood, 8 by 5-meter room just filled with it, so he could understand some of the awe. The more he returns, the less awe he feels, but he reckons that was to be expected.
“There are about five other refrigerators in this building too,” he tells her as he lowers to his knees, cracking open his tote, “This one’s computers are easier to get into though, and doesn’t say the date and time the amount was changed so nobody knows anything is missing. Easy peasy.”
Y/N nods, “Right. Stealing blood -- easy peasy,” she leans against the door, “What is it that you use it for?”
“It really depends,” he murmurs as he pulls out a rack, counting out the baggies he needed, “Some demons like blood more than ash, so they come when called and are more willing to help you out when given a little gift. There are a few spells that call for it, and elixirs are twice as potent — sometimes I have to drink it, which is...unpleasant,” he hears her shiver, “—but it makes the outcome better. All in a day's work.”
“Oh wow,” Y/N hummed, “That’s...different. I think the weirdest thing I’ve had to drink for a spell was doe milk and I felt guilty the whole time. Like I was taking it from a fawn that needed it.”
Harry huffed out a laugh — Y/N was a soft little thing, comparing drinking blood to milk — sometimes he forgets how sheltered her world of magic is compared to his own. It was easy to forget with all the spiteful words she could throw his way, but to see her out of her comfort zone. . .it’s refreshing. Not because she is less confident in her surroundings, but because she is more open to his own If someone would have told Harry they would be even remotely civil with one another in a room full of blood, he would have snorted before asking what they were snorting.
“I oughta call you Bambi then.”
He was on his last baggy of blood, checking the expiration date, and logging it into the computer when the dreadful feeling returned. Like a fly to rotting meat, it clings back to the room they were in tenfold. From behind him, a sharp clatter and Y/N’s squeal startles him to look back at her, “Harry!” She cried, pointing ahead of her, “The walls! L-look at the walls!”
Harry follows her finger, watching as a thick, black substance oozes from the wall’s coving. When Y/N had noticed as much, she knocked down a stray IV pole that had been left in here, and it lay at her feet where the same black ooze had begun seeping up from the trim of the floors. In all his time doing what he does, Harry had never seen something so odd, nor had he ever felt something this grotesque overcome his being. It makes him act quickly, and while he doesn’t speak, he does fix his tote over his shoulder and practically jog the short distance to Y/N, knocking her out of the room, grabbing the door by the handle, and swinging it shut. He had hoped to seal it in there, whatever it was, but when they look down at the floor, the goo bleeds beneath the door and they both take a startled step back, “Oh fuck me,” Harry mutters to himself, shaking his head.
“What the hell is this?” Y/N is panicked -- it’s very clear in her voice, and while Harry was a tad thankful not to be dealing with this alone, he can’t say that a soft which, who planted pretty flowers and made sleepy time tea was necessarily the backing he wanted in the event he had to exorcise a demon. He didn’t even have the proper tools for it. . .he didn’t know what he was exorcising, fuck sake -- “Harry, shouldn’t we --”
“We need to leave,” he states, pivoting on his heel and hustling down the hall, Y/N was quick to scurry behind him, though she still murmurs some protest.
“We shouldn’t just --”
“Listen, unless you have any idea what that is and how to clean it, let alone banish it to hell, I saw we have a better chance through those doors than we do staying in here for even a second more,” he told her, holding out his hands to the crash bar, shoving the heavy door open, only looking back to make sure that Y/N had made it through, seeing that the black ooze had been following them before he promptly slammed the door shut.
This was one of the back doors, so it spits them out to the graveled employee parking lot that dances along one of the many mouths of the forest that surrounded them. They’re both out of breath, adrenalin zipping through their veins in a tidal wave as their chests heave and they stare at the door. They wait for it to crawl beneath these doors. . .they wait for the building to either be overcome by sludge or combust from whatever sinister being had decided to preoccupy this space.
But nothing happens.
The wind picks up, the leaves rustle against the branches, and as if it were a gift from the Earth, the sordid feeling blew right away with it.
“What the hell was that?” Y/N asks for the second time.
Harry straightens out from where he’d been crouched, inhaling the cool air, appreciative to be in it.
“Do you think for a second, with my reaction, that I have any fucking clue?”
. . .
Y/N doesn’t have people at her flat often.
Actually, apart from Niall and a few maintenance men, nobody had ever really come over. Not for any particular reason, really, and not because she didn’t want them to necessarily -- the opportunity just rarely arose, or more so, she didn’t often allow it to. If she were going to meet someone then she would meet them somewhere else, and they would part ways after they were finished (again, apart from Niall, who would simply follow her home, kick his trainers off, and head toward her couch which he had told her was simply the comfiest he’d ever been on). Her home was her humble abode. . .it was where she came to destress after a long day, and where Thumper sometimes waited for her debating whether or not he wanted to nibble her bathroom rug to shreds.
Not to mention she had plants growing here too, and flowers that she held dear to her, and while people are more reluctant to go touching what isn’t their business at a store, they are much less disinclined to give that same respect to her plants. Once Y/N had a maintenance man over to fix her faucet and she’d walked out from her room to see that he was caressing her snake plant’s leaves. She couldn’t blame him -- the plant had a very encompassing presence about it and had a way of drawing people in if they weren’t careful. . .hypnotized by the way it made them feel. All of Y/N’s soil and seeds are charmed with special incantations and concoctions that took her years to perfect, she would be disappointed if they weren’t causing people to leave all semblance of professionalism to even for a moment feel as if they were in a room with such clear air, their lungs felt renewed and they deemed it necessary to get closer.
But then she had to apologize to her snake plant for nearly two days after! It had been so upset with her, she could feel it, so she started being even more careful about who she let in. If she was going to go out of her way to have someone over, then there was a good reason for it. . .or it was Niall.
And a demonic, gooey substance sweating from the walls of a blood bank, was well enough a good reason to have Harry over.
It took some coaxing on her part -- he was convinced that they needed to just go back to their respective flats and go to bed, but Y/N was adamant in vetoing the idea. “We’re supposed to talk tomorrow anyway, so we might as well just go ahead and do it tonight -- and you are not leaving me alone after whatever the fuck that was!”
After a good ten minutes, he finally relented as long as they could stop by his flat so he could get his kitten. Y/N hadn’t known that he had a kitten and thought maybe he would bring out some ragged-looking thing, but she was surprised to see through her windshield window that Harry was approaching her car with a small grey kitten. Her face contorts in the way everyone’s face might when they see something small and cute, “Look at her,” she coos once Harry opens his door, “What’s her name?”
“This is Oat,” he answered, holding her out for Y/N to pet, “Be careful, she’s vicious.”
Y/N pet at her head and Oat’s eyes shut as she nuzzled into her palm, “Oh yeah, what a panther.”
Apart from the nerves that had already materialized from what they had seen in the blood bank, she was a little worried about inviting him into her home. When she visualized her safe space, Harry was not typically who she saw sitting on her couch when she came in from the kitchen, holding mugs of warm tea. Yet there he was, introducing Thumper and Oat to one another (who merely sniffed each other, then immediately cozied against her olive throw blanket on the end of the couch), and Y/N is handing him his steamy mug.
“I’ve been thinking,” he began, immediately nursing the mug between his palms and lifting it up to his mouth for a small sip -- the steam disperses around his face in plumes, “And it wouldn’t make sense for. . .for whatever that is to just be a demon.”
“What?” She inquires, taking her seat beside him on the couch, her body twisted so she was facing him entirely. Y/N had adjusted the temperature to something that would be a bit more suited toward having a guest -- when she’s alone, she keeps it ungodly cold so she has an excuse to bundle up in her clothes and blankets. There’s nothing like feeling safe in a cocoon of various fabrics with Buffy the Vampire Slayer on the telly.
Harry strategically places the mug between his knitted socked feet, steadying it there as he begins to play with the thick, brassy tiger ring on his index finger, “Demons are strong, sure, but if they’re gonna be that strong there’s typically two reasons for it: they have already inhabited that area, or someone is controlling them behind the scenes. I would be more inclined to believe the prior, but I’ve been going to this blood blank for about a year now and unless there were some pentagrams I’ve missed or a gruesome ordeal that never made the papers in the past two weeks -- then there’s no reason for that to have happened at the hands of a spirit. Even a blood demon isn’t strong enough to make what happened in there happen, and they literally feed off the substance in the room.”
“So you think someone summoned it or something? I thought you were the only one around here that did that?” Y/N probes, trying to look in his eyes but she keeps getting distracted by his rings -- how many did he have? She thinks he nearly has one on each finger, and he’s plucking them off and placing them on different knuckles as he speaks. Y/N wonders if it’s something he does in response to a stressor, like how she picks at her nails.
“I’m the only witch that summons things around here, but not even I could conjure something that feels that vile.” He explained, fitting the last ring against his knuckle before he pops the bones in his fingers, and Y/N watches as the skin stretches and moves around the muscles in his hands, “I think someone is trying to manifest something without the proper safeguards in place. . .the lack of protection charms, crystals, and spells can invite much more heinous creatures to the living world. They feed off shite like that -- naivety. . .thinking that any person could decide they’ll have a demon carry out a job for them. It’s easier for them to take advantage of them that way.” Harry exhales, running the pad of his thumb around the rim of the mug— she’s given him the one that has intricate, realistic drawings of beluga whales on it, not for any other reason apart from that one was her favorite and she liked to see it in use, “And with a full moon coming up? Recipe for disaster.”
“Oh shit,” Y/N holds her tea closer to her being, “That’s why the feeling is so profuse and disagreeable in the air then, ‘cos they aren’t containing it right? When I was looking into a little bit of what you do, I read that there are containment spells so the demon or spirit doesn’t have free range to do as it pleases, but the spell is dependent on the demon in question and the severity of its power.”
Harry looked pleasantly surprised, “Yeah, that’s right -- what’re ya looking up what I’m doing for?” He settles into her couch, “Have you got a crush on me or summat?”
If Y/N rolled her eyes any further back, she thinks they would have done a 360 in her eye sockets, “I fell down a rabbit hole the other night when I was trying to figure out why you couldn’t sleep,” an impish grin slides onto his mouth, “And not because I’m “in love with you” -- I just thought it would be interesting to know if your insomnia was the reason of a demon because that would mean one of my items combats against that and wins. My. . .most of my magic is based on prevention when it comes to dark things like that, not really to fight what’s already there.”
“So your flowers don’t like -- I dunno, Little Shop of Horrors it?” He teases, motioning to her Hoya plant that had just begun to bloom for her, “I reckon when I think of plant magic, I think of you snapping your fingers and thorned ivy whipping around to slow assailants.”
“No, none of that,” she laughs lightly, shaking her head, “They’re much too nice and gentle. . .they only want to help. And I’m rarely in a situation where I would need thorned ivy whipping around.” Y/N locks eyes with Oat for a moment, whose eyes close nice and slow before she reopens them and Y/N thinks she might just melt, “What do we do then? How do we stop it?”
He slides a ring with teddy bears from his pinky and spins it between his forefinger and thumb, “There’s nothing to do -- if we don’t know who the problem is, then we can’t fix anything.” Harry shrugs his shoulders, and the action makes his already loose cardigan slide down his arms, revealing more of the cream-colored shirt he wore with Smokey the Bear on the front reading Only YOU! can prevent forest fires, “All we can do is wait for the next fucked feeling and hopefully run into the person causing -- oh,” Harry pauses, motioning toward her, “You’ve got a new friend.”
Y/N’s confused, brows knitted until she feels a paw press against her shoulder and the telltale purr of a happy kitty. When she turns her head, she finds that Oat has snuck her way up to her, and is now attempting to perch on Y/N’s shoulder. She presses closer to the back of the couch so that she had a better footing, and in return Oat bumps at her cheek with the top of her head, “You’re so cute, stop it,” she murmurs, and when she takes a breath through her nose, she smiles, “She smells like my heliotrope flowers too! How are you the familiar of such a grumpy, cruel lug, huh?”
“Oi,” Harry mutters, “I resent that. I’m not grumpy or cruel, you’re just rotten.”
A retort plays at Y/N’s mouth but her phone screen lights up from where it’s sat on the coffee table and strays her attention. She’s confused -- the only person who would be messaging her this late was Niall but she’s almost a hundred percent certain that he was supposed to be out at the bar tonight. It is him though.
Fuck me, have ya looked at the news? Is this that thing we were talkin bout?
Harry is a nosy bugger, and after reading the message with her he reaches for her remote, “You told him about it?” He turns on her telly, quick to open her TV guide, “So he knows about you?”
“Yeah, he knows -- turn to 3,” she tells him, and soon enough the local news is playing out, big bold letters on the blue band stretched across the bottom of the screen.
MAN TO BE CHARGED WITH ATTEMPTED MURDER ON GIRLFRIEND
He turned the volume up, so they could hear the news reporter who was on site. There was yellow caution tape stripped around a house, police lights, cops walking around in the back, and frightened neighbors who had left the comfort of their homes to investigate what was happening. The woman on screen had long blonde hair that whipped when the wind blew and muffled her microphone feed, her face set stony as she recounted the events as the police had told her, “. . .has no recollection of the event, and is claiming the “walls” were dripping in blood and demanding that he do it. Jacobs is being taken in for further questioning and pending a psychiatric evaluation -- his girlfriend Amanda Wilson is being rushed to hospital that’s all anyone knows right now. Back to you Tom...”
“Oh, fuck sake,” Harry groaned, shaking his head, “Now this is a problem, problem innit?”
“Was it not before?” Y/N takes the remote from him, turning the volume down, “Do you -- does that sound like anything you’ve dealt with? That would try hurting someone like that?”
He presses his knuckles to his eyes, sighing, “Not that I remember -- I’ll have to do some digging. . .this is bollocks, you know how bad this is for business? Nobody wants to mess with dark magic when shit like this is going on.”
“Aish, don’t think so selfishly. People are in danger,” she tsks at him, “And we’ll need to -- what are you doing?” She asks as he removes his feet from where they had been on the couch, reaching down for his loafers like he was about to put them on.
“S’getting late,” he responded, “I was g’na head home --”
“No you’re not,” she told him, her face dropping in borderline disgust as he seemed genuinely confused with her, his face twisting, “We experience something like that, then see the news, and you not only want to separate, but you want to walk all the way home, alone, in the dark? No way, that’s too stupid, you’re staying here.”
Harry’s brows dipped in, irritated, however, he did stop reaching for his loafers, “But --”
“Listen, we may not be fond of each other but I’m not letting you put yourself in danger,” she tells him, before adding quickly, “And you are fucking not going to leave me alone after that! Are you mad?”
“I’m sorry, I thought I’d be doing you a favor without bothering ya with my presence. Never thought Miss. Good Witch of the North would want me breathing her air for too long.” He ripostes and it reinvigorates any distaste for Harry that had been easing throughout the night the more they spoke. He always did that -- always made her feel like she was some stuck up prick who never gave him a chance, but she would have if he hadn’t started out being such an arse to her. Sure, the circumstances they had met under weren’t fantastic. . .she snapped at him for taking her flowers without asking, but he could have just apologized -- could have said sorry, and they could have started over but he was immediately put off by her she presumes, because ever since he’d been nothing but cruel to her. His knocking her out of the room in the blood bank was probably the first kind thing he’d ever done for her, and she isn’t a hundred percent certain that she wasn’t just in his way while he was trying to get out.
So she glowers at him as she pushes from her couch, “Sod off. I’ll get you some blankets.”
He almost immediately replaces the spot that her body had been with his legs, stretching out as far as he could and his feet flop on the arm of the sofa, “Reckon you should make me some of that tea though, so I can sleep.” He called after her. Thumper hops off and follows after her, while Oat finds her spot at Harry’s side and cuddles into where his cardigan’s extra fabric bundles. Y/N goes to the closet in the hall that leads to her bedroom, pries it open, and reaches to the top shelf where she keeps her extra blankets and pillows. Despite how irritated he makes her, she grabs him one of her heavier quilts, because even with her heat kicked up higher than normal her flat has very poor insulation, and the night’s into early mornings get pretty cold. She’s about to grumble at him that he better thank her for this and the bloody tea, but when she returns to the living room. . .he’s asleep.
Harry just fell right to sleep.
She’s confused -- understandably, she thinks, because she remembers how much of a fit he’d thrown about her tea and how she was closed on weekends so he couldn’t have any of it. Had whined how he wasn’t able to sleep without the tea, and she had only given him peppermint tea tonight, so there was no reason that should have put him to bed.
Yet there he was, fast asleep with his arms crossed over his chest.
Tutting her tongue quietly, she unrolls the blanket she had chosen for him and strategically places it over his legs. She is careful to move Oat so that she doesn’t suffocate under the covers as she pulls them over, up to Harry’s chest before replacing her in the spot she had snuggled prior. She pauses for a moment before she leaves them, taking in a completely relaxed Harry -- not that he doesn’t seem relaxed all the time, but he’s just. . .calm. His muscles have melted against her couch cushions, his brow has soothed and his amaranth pink lips are soft and parted. Gentle, easy breaths slip through his mouth. . .Y/N thinks that she likes him like this. Not spiteful, or crass -- this Harry doesn’t seem to hate her. This Harry is warm and comfortable enough to just fall asleep on her couch.
Thumper thumps his foot against the floor, his not-so-silent request that they go to bed and Y/N snaps out of whatever hypnotic state she’d been in watching him rest. She feels creepy but shakes it off, reaching down to pick up Thumper by his belly and cradling him to her chest as she leaves the living room, keeping her lamp on for him in case he wakes up to have a wee or anything.
It’s when she goes to the kitchen to grab him a bottle of water to leave at the coffee table for him, that she can feel Thumper judging her. This is only confirmed by the way he is looking up at her when she looks down at him, his small, pink nose twitching, and she can just sense him repeating Harry’s tease of have you got a crush on me or summat? -- it’s not like he hasn’t questioned her before. She reckons if Thumper could actually speak and not just implant little thoughts of his in her head through whatever little bond they have, he would be very free with his accusations about who she might have feelings for.
Y/N rolls her eyes.
“No, I don’t,” she disagrees with him quietly, “What do you know about crushes, hm? You’re just a bunny.”
. . .
It had been a while since Harry had worked.
Though he was always hesitant to call it work, all things considered. Y/N had once described to him that what he did was lurk around seedy clubs and wait to be recognized by a sorry sap that wanted something they didn’t want to put much effort towards, and Harry can’t necessarily say she’s wrong. He preyed on the lazy; men and women who couldn’t be arsed to obtain a goal without the help of a little magic no matter how negative, and Harry couldn’t really fault them for it. One, because sometimes goals are unattainable with literally anything other than a demon's help, and two because he gets a hefty wad of cash in his pocket for his trouble. How hypocritical could he be to deprecate their usage of dark magic when he is doing the same thing. . .when he relies on that more than anything, even the silly little romance novels he writes so that nobody questions where his money’s coming from.
It was a Friday night, and since he was no longer tied to the commitment of meeting Y/N to discuss the horrible, no good, terrible thing that was slithering its way through town and apparently spurring bouts of attempted murder -- he was able to visit a club. Though Y/N had made him lock pinkies with her that morning, telling him to keep his eye out for anything suspicious that may or may not have led to the events from the night prior.
Promise me that you’ll keep informed on what’s going on there, okay? And promise me that you’ll tell me about it.
The club he’d visited was one of the more popular of the four he frequented, and within the walls, amongst the gyrating bodies in scant clothing and sweat-drenched skin, were many of his regular clients. One of which had been blowing up his phone for the past week telling him how he desperately needed help, and he needed it ASAP. Harry finally replied to his message with a simple time that he would meet him, and that they would discuss the cost once he’s explained what is being asked of him. This guy, in particular, wanted many frivolous things, and typically his requests revolved around wealth, though Harry thought he had more than enough. And while Harry could do a few simple spells that would bring the money gradually and don’t come with the dangers that a demon will, he refuses. Harry has always told each of his clients that a spell and a demon could do the same thing, but demons brought faster results, albeit potentially precarious consequences.
And when it comes to summoning, things can get a bit tricky. If the person who is summoning is the person who will benefit from the demon’s will directly, then it may come with a price, and that price may or may not be hidden between the lines. Especially when it is someone who has no clue about the actual process, offerings that could be made without including their soul for the taking, and spells that could be done that would protect them. After doing this for so long, Harry had developed and harnessed enough power that it was rare a spell every backfired or a demon ever bested him, but if Bradley Evans tried this himself, he’d be good as dead.
This is why, no matter how this man grates every open end of his nerves with a dull blade, he continues to help him. Again, Harry gets paid an obscene amount of money for what he does, so he sucks it right up -- and it’s not as if this money is just for him. He has people to take care of, his own personal gripes with the smarmy, rich, meat-headed pricks that want him to summon Clauneck for a trip to the Bahamas matter very little in the grand scheme of things.
He’s leaning against the far back corner, at a table that he’d claimed for the night and a cherry mango cocktail that wets his lips and stains them red. He really isn’t scouting for suspicious behavior like he had promised to, only because his mind had floated elsewhere entirely. Like how, after so long of only ever being able to rest with help of Y/N’s chamomile, he was able to fall asleep without the help of anything. He had asked her about the tea that she and he drank prior to him passing out unprompted on her couch, but she told him it was just a store-bought strawberry tea that was a guilty pleasure.
It perplexed him greatly. He only remembers her demanding him to stay the night because she didn’t want to be alone (and if he’s honest, neither had he after the night they had), he remembers her standing and him stretching out on her couch, and he remembers asking her for the tea that would help him sleep.
And then he remembers waking, feeling refreshed, and renewed. Confused, but reinvigorated, he had a wee before poking around in her kitchen for something to satiate his grumbly stomach. Y/N was still asleep -- he’d peeked his head into her cracked open door only to find her dreaming peacefully, relaxed, and content. As creepy as it felt to stare at her as she slept, he did watch for a moment. It was different to see her without the accompanied scowl he usually coaxed upon her face -- the blissful gleam that exudes from her now is the same that he sees when she’s tending to one of her gardens.
He brewed two chai lattes in her Keurig with Oat on his shoulder like a bird and she woke as he was taking the second mug, setting it on her kitchen counter, “G’morning,” she yawned, Thumper hopping behind her, looking just as sleepy, “Did you sleep through the night? I made you a cuppa and kept it in the microwave in case you woke up.”
His heart had lurched. . .a genuine clench that Harry had not felt in a while.
“Oh,” he blinked at her owlishly, “I slept just fine, but thank you.”
“Mm, good,” she was so sleepy still, Harry remembers wondering if she was even fully awake speaking to him, “I have sliced fruit in the fridge if you want, for brekkie.”
It was a domesticated scenario that Harry had not been privy to.
Had it been her flat? Maybe the plants that she had strewn about the room were all enchanted, singing sweet songs of sleep that lulled him to sleep without him knowing. All he could recall was feeling so unbelievably comforted and no matter how cold it was in that damn flat, he felt so warm. . .so warm, and it smelled so good, and Oat was snoozing happily at his side. Plus she had wrapped him in this quilt that was heavy and smelled nice -- he thinks, in that moment, he finally understood why babies liked feeling contained in a swaddle blanket. Regardless of what happened at the blood bank, and what they found out on the news, Harry felt safe in her flat. And he probably wouldn’t have left either, if he didn’t have to work.
He’s so caught in his reverie, that Bradley’s arrival truly startled him. A clearing of his throat catches his attention, dragging his unfocused gaze from the crowd of dancers to Bradly, dressed in a Lacoste polo that thought was ugly but he would never say it aloud, “Oh,” he straightened up, bringing the rim of his glass to his mouth and taking a small sip of it, “Right then, what can I do for you? Another trip to Barbados?”
Bradley shakes his head a little frantically, and it's only then that Harry takes in the actual appearance of him, that surpasses the Lacoste and zeros in on the panic that decorates his face, “I need like -- like a demon protector or some kinda spell or -- I don’t fucking know, or something.”
“Oh --” his brows dip, “What’s wrong? Is something bothering you?”
He starts to nod, then switches it to a shake of his head, and that morphs into a shrug of his shoulders, “I don’t know man, I just don’t feel -- I don’t feel safe. I wondered if one of those demons from before were like. . .after my soul or summat.”
“Not possible,” Harry dismisses the idea, setting his glass down on the high round table, “When I work with them we make a spiritual, contractual agreement that they are bound to. If your soul was not on the table, then it will never be on the table -- it must be something else,” he thinks for a moment before a slither of realization stokes the fire in his brain, that sets the coals aflame and heats the cogs to a churn, “What -- explain to me what you’re feeling?”
“Like something is watching me,” he blinked, crossing his arms on top of the table and leaning most of his weight onto it, the scent of liquor wafts over Harry’s face when Bradly breathes, “It’s heavy and. . .it’s like swimming in ink. It’s horrible and frightening, and I’ve never -- I’ve never been one to rely on vibes, but mate, they were bad. . .they were like -- vile. Vile vibes, man.”
Harry thinks, while his description is repugnant, he knows exactly what he’s talking about, but there wasn’t much he could do. Harry can make protection spells that are generalized but he doesn’t believe that any of them are strong enough to fend off whatever this thing is. In cases like this one, sometimes dark magic is not good to fight dark magic, it can only make it grow and fester like a nasty, infected wound. He really did not want to try that out on Bradley. . .he may not be fond of the guy, but he didn’t wish anything ill on him.
“You wouldn’t come to me for a protection spell, for something like that,” Harry begins, “You would need --” You would need Y/N -- is what is about to leave his lips, but it drops away. As much as it’s true -- as much as Harry knows that the reason he felt the safest he’s ever had in Y/N’s presence was whatever protection spells she had put in place and strengthened -- he couldn’t. The thought of sending someone like Bradley to someone like Y/N, makes him feel sick. “Give me one second, yeah? Stay here.”
Y/N gave him her number that morning, telling him that it was silly for them to be unable to contact one another. Harry saved it into his phone and sent her a picture of Oat so that she would have his, but left it at that -- he had assumed, until this moment, that he would never have a reason to have her number. If he ever wanted anything from her he would just show up at her store.
But here he was, scrolling through his contact list to find her, pressing her number and holding his phone up to his ear. It only rings twice before she’s answered it, “Hello? Is everything okay Harry, did you get a lead?”
Harry laughs in disbelief, “What’re you, a detective?” He cleared his throat so he could speak over the music clearly, “I need you for something, and I’ll give you half. And before you get all high and mighty, it isn’t for anything bad -- one of my regulars is experiencing the same fucked thing we have only it’s more vile vibes opposed to blood seeping from the walls. Need a protection spell -- whatever you use for your flat and store.”
She’s quiet for a moment, long enough that Harry questions if his service dropped, but her voice reappears.
“Where are you?”
Fifteen minutes later, Harry is flagging Y/N down to his spot in the club where he stood next to Bradley whose friends kept coming around wondering if Harry was his pull for the night. Her jumper with a printed bunny right in the center made him chuckle to himself -- it was more than clear that she had not planned on coming out tonight, and if not for Harry, he thinks she would have spent three more hours at her store tending to the garden there if not for him. When she sees him, noticeable relief makes her shoulders slump, and as she gets closer, she reaches into her pocket, “Thank god,” she called over the music, “I’ve been in here for three minutes and if I got knocked into one more time I was going to lose it.”
She produces two things -- one is a tiny vial, with an unidentified green liquid, and the other is a small baggie of her tea. Harry takes both from her hand, “Thank you,” he murmurs, before dipping down closer to her ear, “Go over to that empty table near the bar, I don’t want this guy seeing you clear enough that he could ask you for anything ever again.”
Though she was confused, she listened to him, slinking her way over to the table while Harry turned to Bradley who had been looking at his phone, before both were placed in front of them, “Thank you,” he tells him, “Thank you, thank you, thank you. How much?”
“850,” Harry says without batting an eyelash. Typically his business runs closer to the thousands but he cuts the guy a break since he’s scared.
“Each or what?” Bradley asks as he fishes his wallet from his pocket, flipping the leather open and beginning to thumb through his bills.
“No, just 850,” he takes the bills from him, folding it between his fingers, “I shipped your crystals last week, did they come?”
Bradley nods, a big grin on his face, “Oh, fuck yeah dude, I almost forgot! I already transferred you the money for them right?”
Harry thinks it’s a shame that he doesn’t keep track -- he could really scam him if he wanted to, with these black crystals bathed in the water of Asmodeus (they increases stamina and aids them in not being shit in bed; it was a fucking full-day event to get Asmodeus to recognize the clear stream water, in an incubator that he checks every 15 minutes or so to see if the water has been touched red) “Yeah, you sent double the amount ‘cos your buddy wanted some too, right?”
“He loved them, mate, he’s way less narky too now that he’s getting his dick wet.”
Harry holds back a grimace, “Alright then, stay safe. You know how to contact me if you need anything.”
Bradley bids his goodbye and Harry seeks out Y/N, who is picking idly at her fingernails and bobbing her head slightly to the music. When he gets close enough to her, he starts on his spiel as he waves the money toward her,
“Listen, Babe, you used your plants to help him, honestly you deserve way more than this -- a fucking Nobel Prize probably,” he holds it out to her, “Here.”
She shakes her head, but not in the way she would if she were refusing it because she was disgusted by him -- no, instead she closes his hand around it again and presses it closer to his body, “No, no, you keep it, he’s your guy or whatever.”
Harry tilts his head, brows knitted, “But they’re your plants.”
“Yeah, but I would just feel guilty taking it from you so --”
He sighs, counting out 450 of it, taking her hand, opening her fingers, and sliding the bills into her palm, “Even split then. If you’re going to utilize something precious to you to help someone like that fucker, you deserve a little compensation for it. “
Y/N must realize that he wasn’t going to let it go, because she finally folds it in her hands, slipping it into her pocket, “What’s with that guy then? Why do you not like him?”
Harry can see it clearly; the image of his childhood self, his family struggling to make ends meet but going to primary school with the wealthier kids. The ones who laughed at his faded shirts, and holed winter coats -- who would ask him to their birthday parties and talk shit about the gift he’d scraped up coins for doing miscellaneous work around the neighborhood. He thinks about how he knew they would go home to kitchens full of food, and bountiful dinners that they would never appreciate, while Harry never took seconds because no matter how hungry he was, he made sure their bellies were as full as they could be. And Harry remembers how the headmaster did nothing to quell his worries because those kid’s parents could buy out the school if they wanted to.
He sees it all, and he hears it all, and for a moment -- selfishly -- it makes Harry wish he had never given Bradley the protection spell at all.
But he only shakes his head, “He’s just a prick,” he answers simply, before nodding his head toward the door, “Reckon we should get out of here, it smells like piss.”
It’s always a little easier to leave the club than it is to enter it, so they’re out in the cool air soon enough. A small line had formed outside since Harry had been in there last, and as they step out, a group of three is let in through the rope chain that the bouncer is policing. This part of town is always bustling late into the night, so neither feel the cold brush of fear they have been when they’re out in the dark -- or at least the relaxed way Y/N is looking around tells him that she’s pretty content.
“Do you want to get something to eat?” She asks him, pointing at the 24-hour diner right across the street, that had been strategically placed there because people who are drunk and high who just sweat out half their body weight love greasy food, “I skipped dinner today.”
“What a coincidence -- so did I.”
They got a booth in the far back corner, where the white and maroon tilted floor glistened wet from a recent scrub from the mop, and the air smells of lemon pine-sol. This along with the fact that the black leather seats were dusted of the crumbs that usually mottles them, Harry would assume that they had come just in time for their 12 AM clean up, where the first batch of besotted clubbers had left a mess and they were waiting for the second wave to come through. He didn’t miss the eye that the waitress had given them, looking them up and down like she was trying to decipher what state they were both in, but when neither of them wobbles in their stance, or slur through their words asking for a table, she relaxes and asks them where they’d like to sit.
After they get settled and order their food (Harry convinces her to get one of their malted milkshakes with him -- his favorite was strawberry and after she confessed that she never had their strawberry malt, he was insistent on her trying it), Harry’s curiosity is suddenly piqued as he thinks of something he hadn’t thought of before, “How did you make it over to the club so fast, hm? Do you just have jars of this stuff made laying around?”
Y/N sticks her clear straw in the icy glass of water she’d been poured, stirring it like there was anything to mix, and the ice cubes clink together soundly, “No, no, I actually don’t make protection spells unless I’m asked directly -- or usually that’s the case, but I was already in the middle of making some for you and me, so I had a little leftover.”
“For me too?” Harry inquires, genuinely surprised by the concept that she would make him something to keep him safe. She nods though, like it was silly that he thought she wouldn’t have, only this time she reaches into her purse and retrieves two much larger vials with little cork tops, and one bigger bag of the dried leaves, accompanied by a smaller one tied with red ribbon.
“I was doing some research while I was at work --”
“You do a lot of research, don’t you?” He cuts her off and she nods.
“Mhm -- and there’s this like. . .there’s this elder witch who lives an hour or so drive away from us who I think might be immortal, but that’s beside the point. She has this blog that I was scrolling through and she linked her email, so I messaged her and she sent me her number and told me to call her immediately.” She slides one of the vials over to him, along with the tree leaves, “When I did, she told us that we were in a little more danger than everyone else ‘cos like -- whatever this thing is could start trying to feed off of us, especially you. Said that we needed a potent protection spell, and I told her about mine. You feel safe in my store and in my flat right? Like -- like whatever that thing is couldn’t get to us?” He nodded, eyes fixed on hers, “So this is a version of that suitable for our bodies. The tea leaves are for your flat, and then this little bag here --” she points at the one tied closed with the small strip of red ribbon, “-- this is a tea version of it safe for Oat to drink.”
Not only had she made him some, but she also made Oat some too? As much as he disliked her before, he can’t help how this warms his heart, zipping through his body and makes him feel just as safe as he did when he was wrapped in her quilt snug on her couch. Harry wonders if this is what she’s like all the time with her friends. . .he wonders if this side of her, that researches and makes protection goodies, brews him a cuppa just in case he woke up in the middle of the night and comes out in the depth of night to the seedy clubs she despises just because he called and asked -- if that’s what they get to see. If that’s what he would have seen had their meeting been any different.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, taking the vial and the bags, looking at them against his palm, “A lot. You didn’t have to do this for me.”
“I did though,” she takes a drink of the water through her straw, “I may not agree with what you do but we’re the only two witches here and there is power in unity, even if our versions of magic are different. We have to be there for each other -- Thumper agrees, and that’s a lot coming from him because he doesn’t like much of anybody. . .he barely likes me,” she holds her hand up, the index finger of her other going from finger to finger as she lists off the ingredients, “So we’ve got fern, anise, leaves from the ash tree in the forest, fennel -- the nice old woman told me to hold off on the mugwort unless we’re planning on astral projecting or doing anything with divination, but if we felt that it was necessary we could wear a wreath of it around her necks. That’s an old wives tale though, I’m pretty sure.” She wiggles her fingers, “All that and a little bit of moon water, and we have ourselves a little protection spell! I dipped my finger in for a taste test and I’ll be honest, it’s awful and plant-y but I reckon we can toss them back like a shot and chase it with a sweet drink like juice or something.”
It hits Harry that he gave Y/N very little credit for what she did, but now as he’s looking at something that she’d made specifically with him in mind, that wasn’t just a glorified sleepy time tea, it puts some things in perspective for him. Sure, she’s been a dick to him in the past, but he was a dick too, about her magic. While he isn’t going to start kissing the ground she walks on, he decides then that he’ll be more mindful of her craft. Plus, from the amount of time that they’ve had to spend together in the past two days, she’s tolerable when she isn’t on her high horse about him summoning spirits and ruining the town. She’s even helpful.
“Thank you,” he repeats, “I really mean it, I appreciate this a lot.”
Y/N smiles at him and it’s a smile that he’s never been gifted before. A smile that makes him smile back, as she places her elbow on the table and holds out her pinky toward him -- she’s big on pinky swears, he’s finding.
“We’re looking out for each other, okay? I’ve got your back if you’ve got mine. . .I swear it.”
Harry locks his pinky with hers without a second thought.
#WRITING#WOOOOOOOOO#SPOOKY#YAHTZEE#I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT BECAUSE I LOVE IT LOADDS#AND I LOVE YOU LOADS#HAPPY READING :D#HARRY STYLES
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shut in [4]
Summary: When your high profile mission goes terribly wrong, you’re forced to hide in a safehouse with a man you’ve never met before. With seemingly nowhere else to go, you’re forced to work together to figure out who is trying to have you assassinated before it’s too late. (Sam Wilson x Reader, Hitman AU)
Warnings: cursing, threats
Word count: 3.7k
A/N: greetings everyone!! how are we all doing? i have nothing to say here tbh so anyway stan sam wilson being a lil shit whenever possible.
i also appreciate feedback so if you would like to, please consider dropping me an ask or comment ly guys!! also if you want to be on the taglist, it’s mentioned at the bottom of the chapter.
here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333
Previous Part || Shut In Masterlist
“I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Alright, thank you.”
You hung up the call, trudging back to the house, discarding the battery along the way.
The air had a chill to it and there was an occasional breeze that went past, rustling leaves providing an eerily comforting background score. The temperature tended to rise as the day went on but nights were especially cold due to the abundance of trees.
Even though the stress of the situation you were in constantly consumed all your waking thoughts, you still found the time to appreciate how beautiful your surroundings were.
The last few days were barely memorable. Sam and you tended to stay out of each other's way unless your meal time coincided or you watched the local news together. The schedule had worked out favourably.
He wasn’t very hard to live with.
Most of the time.
His commentary and small jokes were never-ending but were not as unwelcome as you initially thought. It brought some much needed light into your otherwise dreary day. When it came to figuring out how to do laundry due to your now extended stay or whose turn it was to do it, things got a bit messy but were resolved quickly.
He used to disappear often for hours on end. You never concerned yourself with going after him to find out where he went, figuring that unless he was hatching a plot that led to your demise, he was entitled to his own privacy. He’d return a while later, calmer than when he left.
It was fine. Nothing to write home about. Neither of you were dead yet.
“What are you doing on the bed?” You were reconsidering your last thought when you walked into the bedroom to resume your self-interrupted sleep, only to find him face down on the sheets. “It’s my day today.”
“Just give me some time. I’ll be out of here soon enough.” His voice was muffled as he spoke into the sheets.
“You can take all the time you need tomorrow when it’s your turn.” You swatted at his legs, earning a grunt of chagrin from him.
“Go eat some soup and maybe you’ll calm down,” he fired back, unmoving.
“Today’s not soup day. Which you would know if you paid attention to our schedule. That we made. Together. The same schedule which says it’s my turn today.”
He groaned, shoving his face deeper into the pillow. “My back’s killing me. Just give me a few.”
“Why, what’d you do?” you asked curiously, letting go of his leg.
“Combat training. Took a few beatings, fucked up my spine.”
“Does it hurt a lot?”
“It comes and goes.” Sam finally rolled onto his back, giving you a view of his face. His bone structure was amazing, even from quite possibly the ugliest angle you could have over him. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”
You just stared at him as he linked his arms behind his neck, elevating his head to look at you. He had a small stubble that was starting to grow longer. You wondered if he would shave it. He looked good regardless.
“How’s your beloved?”
“Huh?”
“The person you keep sneaking around to talk to on the phone. I’m not your dad, y’know. You can talk to them inside the house, ‘m not gonna ground you,” he quipped, a small, teasing smile on his face.
“He’s not my lover. Just... an acquaintance.” You felt the awkwardness starting to set in after you trailed off. “Anyway since you’re awake, we need to talk.”
“‘Bout what?”
“What happened that day. We’ve been avoiding it but we need to figure out what went wrong. Or at least a clue.”
“Okay,” Sam agreed, wincing as he sat up straight. “How do you want to do it?”
“Just talk me through how you got put on this mission and what exactly happened that day, I guess.” You took a place on the bed, leaning backward on your hand for support.
He nodded, delaying for a second to collect his thoughts before beginning.
“So basically-”
The sun was particularly relentless that day.
The ringing bell above the door of his favourite coffee shop was a welcoming sound. The barista smiled at him in greeting, asking if he wanted his usual to go.
His park bench was empty as it always was. Sam liked to think of it as a small gift from the universe; the fact that it was perpetually unoccupied.
He liked to sit there and watch people’s day go by. His iced coffee-
“I don’t really require that much detail.”
“Patience. I’m getting there.”
It was arguably one of the most peaceful days he had had in awhile, and he was hoping to keep the streak going. Nothing seemed like it would phase him, not even the phone ringing, drawing his attention away from the scene in front of him. Caller ID didn’t trace who it was.
“Hello?”
“Wilson.”
Sam gripped the cup so hard he thought it might spill over onto his jeans.
“I told you not to call me, Ransone.”
“But honey we had such a good time last night,” he faux cooed, “You know I have needs-”
“I’m not getting involved in your stupid organisation, Vincent. I told you I’m done,” Sam broke in, not wanting to waste time listening to his stupid dramatics.
“Listen here, Wilson.” The swift change in his tone was looming, threatening. “You’re done when I say you’re done-”
“Wanna bet?” Sam took a sip of his coffee. “I thought we made it clear in Detroit that we’re done. Honey.”
He added the last part out of pure spite just to get a rise out of him. Much to his glee it seemed to work as Ransone let out a deep exhale before continuing.
“That was before we found out there’s a mole in my gang. I want you to kill him.”
“This is way below my pay grade. Have one of your interns do it. Your shitty murder warehouse hasn’t seen much action in a while.”
“This is Pierce we’re talking about. If he’s working for another organisation, his ass is going to be so guarded, these kids couldn’t wouldn’t even get past the gate. Besides, you know my murder warehouse is for special guests only-”
“Man, it must suck real hard to be you right now,” Sam didn’t wait for him to complete his sentence. He finished the last bit of the drink he had left, gathering his things before standing up. “Find someone else. I’m out.”
“You might want to reconsider that. We found him.”
He stopped in his tracks.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam said steadily, grip on the phone tightening.
“I think you do, though. Had us fooled for a while there, thinking he’s dead. A little more research, some cash into the right pockets and boom! There he is, clear as day.”
Sam felt a chill go up his spine.
“He doesn’t know we know. We’re just keeping an eye on him for now.”
“If you even fucking think of touching him-” his fists were balled up, struggling to keep his anger from rising.
“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t.” Ransone laughed. “I’ll just have one of my interns do it.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Ransone. It’s not somethi-”
“Do this hit and I’ll leave him alone,” Ransone interjected. “You’ve worked so hard to pull him from our radar, Sammy. It would be a shame if it all went to waste.”
Sam’s jaw clenched. Suddenly the day didn’t seem as bright as it was a few minutes ago.
“I’ll text you the details. You tend to leave me on read so I thought I’d make it more fun. Do you want the confetti with the message or the lasers-”
Sam just hung up the call, feet firmly rooted in his spot. He had no idea what he was going to do.
The notification of a new text alerted him. Pierce’s address along with the exact timeline of when he’d be home.
It was across the country. If he botched the mission on purpose, Ransone wouldn't be able to find him for a few days at least, much less reach him. He could go on the run-
‘Do it or he dies.’
His train of thought was interrupted by a picture that made his blood boil.
Especially when it exploded with the stupid confetti effect.
“Okay, basically he threatened you with something to go do the hit.” You didn’t ask him what exactly he was threatening him with and Sam didn’t really elaborate.
“Yeah. Didn’t leave me with much of a choice. He’s batshit fuckin’ crazy anyway, I knew he’d do whatever he felt like.”
“So you ended up going.”
Pierce didn’t seem to get many visitors. Not that anyone could be blamed, this guy was one of the biggest pieces of shit Sam had had the misfortune of meeting.
Over the two days he had staked out in front of the mansion to find out if this guy had as much security as Ransone had boasted of, Sam had come to the conclusive truth that no, he very much did not. He had a standard home security system which was lacklustre compared to the rest of the house.
Maybe he just assumed that being a senior member of the mob would garner some fear to his name. Dumbass.
He found the tall shrubbery surrounding the property to be out of the line of sight of the camera, and climbing it wasn't very hard. He landed softly on the manicured lawn, adjusting his gloves and checking his surroundings before pulling his gun that was secured in the waistband of his pants.
He removed the safety, keeping it close to him as he stalked through the front yard.
The red car parked at the side earned an eye roll from him. If he had one, there was no doubt there’d be more. He just had to find a basement or garage.
Walking around the house, he kept close to the wall, searching for any opening to the basement.
It didn’t take long before he found a set of stairs to the exterior entrance of the basement. He checked to see if anyone was around before making his way down them. The lock was unsurprisingly easy to pick.
The basement was mostly dark save for a few strategic lights placed to highlight the magnificence of his several race cars. The man was moved slower than the second coming of Jesus. The cars just seemed like an overcompensation.
The switchboard was not difficult to find. He pulled open the cover, glancing at the switches before turning all of them off, plunging the whole basement into darkness. If his security system was as outdated as Pierce was, it would have turned off along with the rest of the house.
“Oh, that’s why the cameras weren't working when I showed up.” Bits that seemed amiss were beginning to place itself together the more his story progressed. “I assume you entered the house through the window on the side?”
“Sure did.”
Your guess was right. He’s the reason why it was ajar by the time you arrived.
As soon as he entered he had his gun raised. Scanning the room as he went past, his senses were dialed up to eleven. If he was really under the protection of Serpentine, they were doing a terrible job. He had gotten in completely unscathed.
As he made his way deeper into the house, the sound of some movie playing became louder. But he had cut off the power supply to the house.
His eyebrows pulled together tightly into a frown, he made his way down the hall towards the sound. No one was in the dining or living room he canvassed.
Finally, Pierce’s silhouette became clearer. He appeared to just be sitting there idly while a smaller screen played in front of him. It wasn’t a TV, just an iPad.
If Pierce was asleep it would just make the job easier. Gun raised, Sam made his way into the room silently.
Pierce was still. Sam raised the gun, taking a step closer.
A floorboard creaked.
He immediately cringed, shoulders tensed as he came to an immediate stop. It seemed like forever as he waited for Pierce to wake up, to brandish a gun and try and defend himself.
He didn’t.
Taking a step to the side, Sam moved diagonally. Each one was slow. Ready for any sudden movements from his end.
He finally stopped in front of Pierce.
A bullet hole in his forehead. Eyes open. Chest still.
He was dead.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Sam breathed out, lowering his gun. Pierce’s glassy eyes stared blankly ahead. He didn’t look like had been dead for too long.
A soft thud in another room made his head snap up. It was in the same direction from where he came.
He silently moved backwards to the corner of the room, hoping that the darkness was enough of a disguise as he saw someone stalking down the hallway.
“And that’s when you come in. Thought you were comin’ back to make sure he was dead.”
“I had just got there. Saw that everything was off, and just assumed it was a power outage.”
“What about you? How’d you end up there?” Sam had his legs crossed, leaning forward to listen to you.
“Ransone told me that there was a spy who was sending information out for nearly two years. Needed him gone and he wasn’t sure if his other agent would show up-” you mentioned to him- “I guess that’s you. Told me I had an opening at 8pm. When I got there, the CCTV was off. Found the window open so I just used that.”
You were replaying your memory, step by step to remember what exactly you had seen.
“Heard the movie playing, found no one when I went down the hall. I saw the car keys on the island, which came in handy later. Entered the room, pushed his head with the gun and he just slumped over like a damn rag doll. That’s when you made your grand entrance.”
“Got one chance to make an impression. Had to make sure I looked cool, emergin’ from the shadows and whatnot.”
“It doesn’t make sense though.”
“Ouch. Thought it was pretty legit, actu-”
“No, no-” you waved him off. “Not your entrance. The henchmen thing.”
He paused, mulling over what you said. “If he was working for Serpentine, he would have been more careful. Why did they show up after he’s dead?”
“I don’t think they work for Serpentine. If Pierce was giving them information, they wouldn’t kill him.” You had good reason to be confident about that. You thought you did, from previous assessments.
“Unless they were scared that he’d switch again,” Sam suggested. You looked up from your fidgeting fingers to him. “Didn’t want any of their secrets going back to Ransone. They got to him before we did.”
“Why’d they shoot at us then? If they killed him and left, why’d they wait for us to show up? Why did they try to kill us?”
“I think we’re ignoring the important thing here,” he paused. You looked at him expectantly, prodding him on. “How did they know we were coming? They should have killed him and disappeared but they expected us.”
You tilted your head. “Are you saying-”
“There might be more.”
“Pierce might not have been the only one,” you finished. “There are more spies.”
“Tipped ‘em off. Told them we were going to be there.”
“And killing us was just to poke Ransone with a stick,” you murmured, eyes downcast, fidgeting with your fingers again. “But that just seems random. It doesn’t make sense.”
“None of this makes sense, sweetheart.” Sam scoffed, leaning back again.
“We’re missing something. There’s something wrong.” You looked at him. “If it’s just a random attack, why did they release our face to the whole fuckin’ country? Why are they specifically targeting us?”
“Finishing what they started. Covering all their tracks from that day. If we’re not dead, we’re a liability.”
“What if it’s not Serpentine at all? What if it’s another gang?”
“Serpentine has the most motive.”
“We don’t know that.”
He looked at you incredulously. “I think there’s substantial evidence to suggest they fuckin’ hate us. Besides, they’d want me dead specifically.”
“Why?” you inquired, eyes narrowing.
He opened his mouth like he was going to explain but closed it a second later, leaving you guessing.
“Fine, but it doesn’t mean they’re the only ones who do.” You made a point to ask him later or at least conduct your own research into it.
“Okay,” he said, shifting to lean on his elbows, “who else could it be? If Pierce was working for Serpentine and Ransone found out, sends someone to kill him, it’s essentially an attack on one of their own members. I’d say that's a pretty good motive.”
“I don’t know. Hydra doesn’t like us either. There’s Ten Rings too. But Serpentine just doesn’t work out.”
“How are you sure?” he asked. “You a spy for them too?”
You rolled your eyes at him as he raised his eyebrow. “It doesn’t make sense. What if we’re missing something? Did we go through everything?”
“I just went through my entire story down to the most irrelevant details. Twice. Nothing’s missing on my end.” He pushed himself off the bed, taking a long stretch before looking back at you.
“I think we should do it again. Just to make sure.” You rotated your torso to look at him. “We can figure it out-”
“You’re going to lose your mind if you keep at this any longer for today. Take a break.”
“I can’t take this lightly. Everyone’s out there looking for us and there is no one we can trust-”
“And going through our stories for the third time today is going to solve that how?” He had his hands crossed over his chest like a stern parent.
“I’m sorry but our faces are probably plastered in every damn police precinct in the country,” you snapped, “And I think that us remembering something some stupid detail might actually help rather than, I don’t know, taking naps and eating sandwiches. So no, I’m not going to drop it. Because I actually want to get out of here.”
You didn’t mean to sound so angry with him. He had told you everything twice already and patiently answered questions that you had. You didn’t think he was lying. You had no way of knowing but you hoped that some sort of allegiance was being formed between you both.
There was silence for a minute, leaving enough time for the guilt to creep in when he didn’t fire back. It’s what you expected.
“I’m not asking you to drop it. I’m saying take a break,” he said calmly. “You’re thinkin’ enough for the both of us anyway.”
You let out a small exhale, forcing the edge to retreat from your voice.
“I’ll be back in a while.” With that he turned around and left the room. A few minutes later you heard the backdoor open and shut.
Great.
You massaged your throbbing temples, eyes closed. He was right. Your mind wasn’t clear and you had been at this for hours. You wouldn’t be able to think critically.
Or at all.
You dropped back on the bed, grabbing a pillow and pressing it to your face. The coolness of the fabric felt nice.
You just let out a sigh, turning to your side to hopefully get some sleep.
_____
You woke up what seemed like hours later to a dark room.
It took your eyes a while to adjust stepping out into the hallway illuminated by the light in the kitchen.
“Hey,” Sam’s voice rang out. “Made you a sandwich.”
You rubbed your eyes groggily, looking where he was pointing. Sure enough, there was a sandwich on the table. He sat at the seat adjacent to it.
“Thank you.” You contemplated sitting next to him for dinner. It would be a first.
In the end you just grabbed your plate, giving him a half smile before making your way to the couch. You settled on sitting on the floor instead, leaning your back against the foot of the sofa.
The TV was already halfway through playing Megamind so you just let it continue, mindlessly chewing on the bread. As far as peanut butter sandwiches go, it wasn’t all that bad.
“Wilson,” you called out sheepishly, eyes not leaving the movie. “I’m sorry for snapping at you. It wasn’t right.”
“It’s okay.”
How he let go of it so easily was beyond you. The sandwich was surprising too, but you took it, not wanting to change his mind. He couldn’t have poisoned it. You had checked his stuff.
You sat in silence for the rest of the movie. Your mind kept slipping in and out of thought but it was a comfortable atmosphere you found yourself in.
After the credits started rolling, you went to leave your plate in the sink. Sam brushed past you, grabbing the blanket at the foot of the couch, launching himself onto the cushions.
“What are you doing?” you asked, puzzled as he snuggled in.
“Going to sleep?” He tilted his head to look at you.
“Use the bed.”
“It’s your turn today.”
“Your back’s fucked up. I’ll take the couch.”
He didn’t budge.
“Go on.” You mentioned to the room with a shrug of your shoulder.
“You’re not going to let me argue, are you?”
You pressed your lips into a straight line to hide a smile, shaking your head lightly.
“Well, okay.” He let out a small noise as he got up. “Guess I’m sleeping business class tonight.”
Sam walked past you, careful not to bump into you. You swapped places with him, making your way to the couch, readjusting the blanket that was haphazardly left there.
“Y/N.” You peered at him from the corner of your eye, only to fully turn when you caught his gaze. “I appreciate it.”
You just nodded, tossing the blanket over yourself as he switched off the light.
Next part
#sam x reader#sam wilson x reader#mcu fic#sam fic#sam wilson fic#sam wilson fluff#sam wilson angst#sam wilson series#falcon#falcon x reader#the falcon x reader#hitman!sam wilson#hitman!au#shut in fic#marvel fic#marvel#mcu#sam wilson#the falcon#sam wilson fanfiction#marvel imagine#marvel fanfiction#sam wilson imagine#sam imagine
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Captive
(Habit x Reader)
Commissioned by @selfshippinglover thank youuu bby <333
Requests are closed
Masterlist: x
Habit wipes the blade of his hatchet on his pants, smearing blotchy crimson on his washed-out jeans
He rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck
Finally home
A grin replaces the sneer on his face as he thinks of his little rabbit waiting for him inside
The thought of seeing your face light up as you rush into his arms is more than enough to coax his sore muscles forwards
He hasn’t been gone for too long, but he knows you‘re always elated to see him—and it goes without saying that the feeling is always mutual, of course
The few steps leading up to the door are speckled with brownish dried blood, almost welcoming him in as he twists the doorknob and steps through the threshold
“I’m back, little rabbit~” he croons into the entrance
His voice is a hint scratchier than it usually is because of his recent… activities, but he knows you’ll be happy to hear the sound regardless
He sets his weapons down on the entrance floor and takes his shoes off as he awaits your reply
He previously never really cared for clean floors and would shamelessly track caked dirt and blood into the house just because he was too lazy to remove his shoes
But after you’d admonished him for giving you even more cleaning to do, he’d been more careful with keeping things somewhat tidy
And, at this point, after living with you for so long, it’s become a sort of habit on its own
He pauses for a moment as he finishes wiping the filthy dried crimson on his arms with the towel you keep for him by the coat rack
Why didn’t you come to greet him? Did you not hear him come in?
He grunts
He thought he’d taught you better than that
You had to pay attention to your surroundings and stay on guard when he wasn’t there in case anything happened
“Bunny?” he calls out for you again, now making his way into the living room where you should be
But instead of being met with your adorable face, there’s… nothing—no one
His smile drops
Are you sleeping? Did you feel sick and needed to rest?
No, something’s not right—he knows it
He can feel it
His instincts flare up, alarm bells ringing in his mind as he pushes through the empty hallway
“Bunny? You in here? Don’t try to hide from me—“
He rushes to your room, the door slamming open to reveal yet another significant lack of you
The bed’s undone, sheets thrown haphazardly across the mattress, and the curtains are still drawn, like you didn’t have time to properly wake up this morning
His brows furrow
Trepidation spirals through his body, the fear and confusion of you not being there reawakening his overworked muscles like a pure shot of adrenaline
You know better than this
You know to stay put in the house until he comes back—it isn’t like you to just up and leave with no explanation, not even a warning or a note or anything of the sort
A note
He tries to calm himself down, tries to slow his frantic breaths and relax the tension in his jaw
He tells himself that maybe he’s just overreacting
He hasn’t checked the fridge or the counter for any indication of why you might’ve left
Maybe he’s forgetting something, and just needs to think things through before assuming the worst
But then, just as he’s about to turn back for the kitchen, he freezes in his tracks
A note is too optimistic, too hopeful
He has to face the facts; someone‘s taken you
His eyes close shut and he hones in on his superior senses
He sniffs the air once, twice, and a third time
There’s no mistaking the traces of something foul lingering behind
Cold dread licks up his spine
Fists clenched at his sides, his shoulders tense, white hot rage seething through his system at the realization
How could the fucker dare?
He breaths in the scent again, trying to picture its owner, trying to pick it apart from the familiarity of your smell to see what fucking idiot would take you away from him
What imbecile would steal his mate?
The intruding scent is a mix of smoldering charcoals, cinnamon, an expensive cologne and something... husky—definitely masculine
A malignant smile crosses his features as he pinpoints the exact asshole that took you
He lets out a low whistle to himself in the emptiness of the room
“Alright, you wanna play dirty, lapdog? I’ll fucking show you playing dirty”
•••
It doesn’t take long for him to wind up in the middle of the forest where the eldritch prick and most of his lackeys reside
The air is still and stagnant, the musk of rot permeating every direction
Fingers wrapped firmly around the wooden handle of his axe, he moves quietly but quickly—and with steeled purpose—through the withered trees
He knows that walking right into the center of Stick-in-the-Mud’s domain is dangerous
Not to mention that the whole situation reeks of it being a trap
But what other choice does he have?
For you, his one and only beloved mate, he would risk anything
Habit twists his weapon of choice in his hands, maneuvering it through his fingers in an impressive display of skill and control
Besides, he wants to make them pay—he wants to make them regret ever laying a finger on your pretty little head
His lust for revenge churning in the pit of his stomach overpowers any other competing sense
He could picture it in now; how the blade would cut through the entity’s skin like butter, spraying crimson in a beautiful fountain-like gush of his life-force pouring across the dirt
He knows, of course, that he can’t actually kill the bastard so easily, but still, it keeps him content as he weaves through the broken shambles of the path
He has to distract himself, anyways
He doesn’t want his rage to overtake his common-sense, or, at least, whatever’s left of it at this point
Eventually, he finally reaches a clearing where pale, faint traces of sunlight barely peak through the dense thicket of foliage overhead
You’re close, he can feel it
He pauses for a second, closing his eyes and trying to visualize which direction he should head in
Still keeping up with your scent, he lets it guide him between two rotting oak trees until, after a few more paces ahead, he reaches a dilapidated building standing all on its own
From the looks of it, he guesses it was once a hospital, though the windows and doors have long since been removed, and where they once were affixed now lie slits of darkness—the abyss inside peering out into the woods
White chips of paint peel from the exterior, with gnarled twisted vines creeping up the side like fingers caging the structure in place
He can smell your fear and distress from somewhere deep inside of it
The scent overtakes his instincts and he finds himself charging through the entrance without so much as a backup plan
God help whatever stands between him and his mate
The interior of the abandoned hospital still lingers with traces of blood and medicine, coupled with a couple of forgotten operating tables, wheelchairs and other surgical devices
He rushes through every room, every dead-end and vacant hallway—all of them lacking a crucial component; you
Finally, he stumbles across a heavy door reinforced with metal plating, and this time, there’s no mistaking your scent coming through the other side of it
He almost scoffs at the barrier
As if that would be enough to stop him from reaching you
He tugs at the handle and gives it a good pull with all his might, but it doesn’t budge
“Fucking piece of—“ he snarls a few curses under his breath, shifting positions so that he can bash it open with his shoulder
Whap! Smack!
Blow after blow, despite him using all his weight and straining his muscles as hard as he can, the door doesn’t give
He huffs, snarling in frustration
His sight lands on the rusted hinges where the door attaches to the wall
He tugs the axe from the loops in his jeans, twirls it in his hold and smashes it down against the latches
Clang!
The metal bends much more easily than it would’ve if it wasn’t rusted over
One strike after the next, he pictures the hinges as Stick-in-the-Mud’s face, and with only a couple of hits, he manages to tear them off completely
He sheathes his axe back into his jeans, and with one last blow of his shoulder against the door, it flies off into the next room over
The sound of it hitting the ceramic flooring resonates throughout the empty building
He steps over it, and as he walks into this new room, he knows he’s hit the jackpot
A dark silhouetted form is crouched over a figure chained to the floor by their wrists and ankles
A soft, flickering glow emanates from dozens of candles scattered across the room
Before Habit can lunge at the crouched fucker and tear his throat out, he stands up and straightens himself
Slowly, the figure turns, revealing themselves
Candlelight glints off his signature glasses
His expression, as usual, is cloaked in shadow and impossible to read, were it not for the sly smile curling at his lips
“Ah, Habit. I must say, I didn’t expect you so soon. What a shame, really, I was just getting to know your dearest (y/n)~”
He steps to the side—giving just barely enough space to reveal you, eyes wide with a smear of grime on your cheeks, but otherwise apparently unharmed
“H-habit, I—“
“Ah, ah, ah~” the entity cuts you off, playfully wagging his finger in your direction. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, little one. I’m sure you have much to say, but I think Habit and I have a lot more… pressing issues to discuss”
He wants to hurt the bastard more than anything else—for stealing you away, chaining you to the damn floor of all things, and now for talking down to you like you’re below him
He wants to kill him
Painfully
Brutally
But he knows he can’t just blindly charge at him
There’s no way in hell the Observer doesn’t have some kind of fail-safe, and he really doesn’t wanna risk having him teleport away with you
So he forces himself to bide his time and play nice... for now
“Fucking spit it out already,” he urges through gritted teeth
The shadow entity smirks, reveling in his opponent’s lack of control
“It’s about Firebrand,” he begins, “though I’m sure you’re already more than aware of the little situation you’ve put him through”
The Observer absent-mindedly strokes your hair, toying with a strand between his fingers much too comfortably
It has Habit seething from where he’s standing
If looks could kill
"The Operator is none too pleased with your meddling,” he continues, and when you shift, trying to retreat from him touch, he lets your hair fall back down before returning his gaze to the infuriated male in front of him
“He demands a trade,” he finally finishes
Habit folds his arms over his chest, muscles nearly bulging as he tries to keep it together
“What’s done with Firebrand is done—it’s over. Trying to meddle with shit by stealing my fucking mate isn’t gonna fix your unfortunate situation”
Despite his mind-numbing infuriation, Habit can’t help the faint smile as he thinks about how desperate Stick-in-the-Mud must be to resort to this
“It won’t,” the Observer agrees, “but you found a way to get leverage over us, and now, we have leverage over you. I’m sure we can find some way to balance this predicament we’re in, wouldn’t you agree?”
The candles to the left of the room flicker, then dim out, leaving half of the room completely drenched in shadows
From the corner of his eyes, he catches something moving next to you in the darkness, followed by your startled cry
He jerks forwards, hands reaching for his weapon, but then he stops short as the entity tuts, and your panicked gasps turn into muffled whimpers
He can just barely make out the shape of a tentacle as it curls around your mouth, your eyes looking up at him, big and watery and pleading and dear God, it’s damn near impossible to resist smashing the lapdog’s face in and saving you from that freak
“I don’t have the fucking journal,” his voice splits as he snarls the words out, a special kind of hatred and animosity seeping through at the sight of what he’s doing to you
Hell, just the scent of your fear is unbearable
The Observer smiles, and the tentacles stop moving, stop withering and tightening around your form, leaving you just enough air to breath
“Oh? Then where is it?”
"Fuck if I know”
“Hmm… that so?” dissatisfied with his answer, the tentacles start tightening around you once more
You whimper, crying out, trying to twist and turn as the growing darkness continues to consume you, slowly crushing your windpipes and suffocating your vulnerable form
“Listen, I’ll bring it to you when I get it. Hand delivered by yours truly with a pretty pink fucking bow on it”
Empty promises tumble from his mouth—anything to make him stop, anything to make him release you
Your fear and panic is worse than any kind of torture
He needs it to stop
And, thankfully, it does
Your breathing goes from frantic gasps and whimpers to short breaths—still erratic but at least without the panicked edge of pain
He can hear your heart beating like a drum in your chest and he wishes he could comfort you
He’d do anything it takes right now to have you unharmed—no matter the cost
The Observer, no doubt sensing Habit’s urgency, chuckles
He turns his attention back to you, this time tilting your chin up to break the eye contact between you and Habit
“There, see? I told you there was nothing to worry about, little one~”
He strokes your cheek, and you whimper in response, still twisting in his tentacles’ grasps
Without looking away from you, he addresses Habit
“You should watch out for your mate, you know. She’s such an easy little thing to pluck out. And how could you blame me for taking her—she’s such a compelling creature, isn’t she?~”
His smile, admittedly, dazzles you for a moment before you snap yourself out of it
You try to tug your head free but his hold on you is much too strong, so you have to look off to the side—anywhere but at his face
“I told you what you wanted. Now let. Her. Go.”
Habit’s tone is enough to bring shivers down your own spine, even knowing he’s on your side
But the entity, however, seems more or less phased by him
His gaze lingers on your face longer than you’d like, studying you, trying to perceive something within you
Then finally, he breaks the trance, glancing back towards Habit and releasing your face
“Your mate isn’t as impervious as you’d like. I suggest keeping that in mind if ever you get the urge to attempt any silly little tricks you might have”
With those final words, the remaining candles in the room flicker
Shadows crawl up the entity’s form, then everything goes pitch dark for a moment
In that instance, Habit almost fears the worse
The few seconds it lasts stretch into what feels like an eternity
But then relief like no other surges through him when the candles slowly come back to life, and there, sitting against the far back of the room, is you
You’re still chained, but the tentacles have vanished and you share an equally relieved look in your eyes
He’s by your side in an instant
He scoops you up in his arms, holding you up to his strong, firm chest to cradle you and feel your warmth pressing against him
You wrap your arms around him, overwhelmed at everything that happened in such a short amount of time
Your heart beats frantically against his, and you don’t know if you’ve ever felt safer than you do right now in his arms
You let him hold you tightly for a while, until he finally manages to calm your hammering heart and your body relaxes in his hold
“Are you alright, little rabbit? Did he hurt you?”
He cups your jaw and tilts you face to look up at him, eyes filled with concern
You can tell he has more questions to ask, but for the moment, he holds back
“I’m fine,” you release a shaky breath, laughing nervously, “it’s ok, he didn’t do anything when you weren’t here. I’m alright”
He has to hold back a scowl at the idea of you being trapped with the entity—completely helpless to whatever he wants to do to you
“I’ll fucking rip his throat out if I ever see him again. Bastard’s gonna fucking pay”
You bring your hand up to place it over his chest, wanting to feel his heart beneath your touch
Your chains rattling against the ceramic flooring as you shift, and the sound is enough to snap his attention to them
He growls a few choice words under his breath, and then he’s hugging you closer still, like he wants to make sure you’re real and solid and well and alive
“You wanna head home, little rabbit?”
His tone is gentle and soothing
You nod, shutting your eyes and nuzzling deeply into his neck
There’s a shift in your center of gravity, one that’s barely noticeable, almost like you’re swinging up on a swing set, and then the air gets warmer and the harsh ceramic flooring is replaced with something soft beneath you
He strokes your head, murmuring quiet little nothings into your hair
“It’s alright, little rabbit. I won’t let that happen again. You’re all mine. I’ll never let anything bad happen to you. You’re alright, baby. It’s ok, you’re alright…”
You let yourself be consumed by his embrace
His warmth, his scent, the pulse of his heart beneath his skin—you never want him to let you go
But your perfect moment is shattered by a sudden realization
You pull away, and his concern is immediately evident
“Wait… does that mean… did you trade the journal to get me back?”
He gives a wary smile
“You’re worried about some journal after everything you’ve been through?”
Your brows furrow, and you hesitate, chewing your lip
“Isn’t it important?”
Your voice is quiet and uncertain
“You shouldn’t concern yourself with that kind of stuff, bunny. There’s more than one journal. And I promised to give it if I ever got my hands on it. As long as someone else on my side gets it, it’ll be fine”
He playfully boops your nose, a mischievously wild grin on his face
“Stick-in-the-Mud’s lapdogs aren’t as clever as they like to think”
Your shoulders relax again, the guilt immediately melting away
“Oh, that’s good then,” you breathe out, give a small smile
“I love you, little rabbit. You know that, right?”
You nod, a content smile twitching at your lips
“I know. I love you too”
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In My Dreams Tonight
for @chaotic-bard who asked me for some fluff!
have a soulmates that dream about each other au featuring both a modern au and the canon universe!
brought to you by “Dreams Tonite” by Alvvays
---
“You’re nothing but trouble, bard,” the tall man glared from atop his horse. He always seemed to be glaring or glowering or huffing, the man in Jaskier’s dreams. The familiar stranger wore his long white hair pulled halfway back and he had golden eyes, the pupils of which were slit up the center like a cat’s. His name, Jaskier had learned after the third straight week of seeing him every night, was Geralt of Rivia. A Witcher, apparently, whose job it was to hunt down monsters.
“Ah, but what a lovely piece of trouble I am!” Jaskier replies. And he’s rather sassy himself in these dreams. Far more clever and ready to fight than he is when he’s awake. “You would miss me if I left, wouldn’t you, Geralt?”
“Hmm.”
The stranger hums a lot. He glares and he hums. Jaskier’s heart stutters frightfully in his chest whenever the man smiles, though. The sight is rare. Geralt has smiled perhaps three times in the past two months.
“Where are we going today?”
“Werewolf outside of town. You’re staying at the inn, where I know you can’t get into… nevermind. You can get into trouble anywhere.”
There’s a lightly teasing tone to the stranger’s voice that Jaskier hasn’t really heard before. He likes it. He craves more of it. He tosses and turns in his sleep, his skin damp with sweat. The dream goes on.
“Geralt, please,” he whines, “I can’t write ballads about monsters I haven’t seen! Or fights I did not attend! That’s lying to my audience, Geralt, and I simply won’t do it. I must go with you.”
“Drop it, Jaskier,” the man snarls. Jaskier feels sad. Incredibly sad.
Rejected?
“Gera-”
“I said drop it, bard.”
Jaskier wakes up feeling a little heartbroken and he yearns to be held. His pillow holds the fading scents of leather and wood-smoke. The sight of a pine sapling at the dog park makes him tear up.
He starts to wear the color yellow out of nowhere and his taste in jewelry switches from gold to silver.
When his best friend asks him about the recent changes, he cannot answer.
---
Geralt pours himself a mug of tea and shakes his hair out of his face. He’s been having odd dreams lately, things that feel familiar but manage to stay just out of his conscious grasp. Someone important is waiting for him. Someone he love and cares about and needs.
Geralt doesn’t really buy into the concept of soulmates, but he does understand instinct. He knows to trust his gut. He knows to listen and start paying attention when the same haunting blue eyes creep into his dreams every night for six months, plaguing him in the waking hours by refusing to give up their owners’ identity.
He wipes a hand down his face and sighs loudly into the otherwise empty studio apartment. “Fuck me, I gotta figure this shit out. I gotta talk to Yen.”
Talking to himself has always helped him calm down. He does it again, just to hear his own low voice scraping through the silence.
“I gotta see what’s going on with my head. These dreams are… getting to be a bit much, even for me.”
He nods to no one in particular and goes to text his best friend and coworker.
---
Jaskier hops off the bus and carries his guitar case down to the coffee shop on the corner. Finally, he’s managed to get a gig that wasn’t through the university.
He sets up his stuff in the tiny alcove the shop treats as a stage and watches as a few customers stroll around near the counter, waiting for their drinks or reading through the menu, hovering just far away enough from the line to keep others from growing confused.
He loves people watching.
Once everything is ready to go and the light outside the window has dimmed a bit, indicating early evening has finally arrived, he pulls his guitar onto his lap and strums through a few quick chords.
“Rode here on the bus,
Now you're one of us.
It was magic hour,
Counting motorbikes on the turnpike;
One of Eisenhower's.”
“Live your life on a merry-go-round;
Who starts a fire just to let it go out?”
He watches a particularly handsome man with broad shoulders and a vintage denim jacket approach the counter. Jaskier adds a haunting, well-practiced lilt to his voice as he goes into the chorus, hoping to get his attention:
“If I saw you on the street,
Would I have you in my dreams tonight?
If I saw you on the street,
Would I have you in my dreams tonight, tonight?”
An equally beautiful woman with long, curly black hair approaches the denim-clad angel and whisks him towards a table nearby. She settles with her back to Jaskier, leaving him with a decent view of the man’s sharp, lightly stubbled jaw, glittering eyes, and severe white ponytail. He’s gorgeous.
He’s also uncomfortably familiar.
Jaskier continues to perform, trying to identify his attractive mystery man the whole time and failing miserably.
---
“He’s everywhere, Yen. I feel like I could identify him by scent if I got close enough. I can’t remember his name, though. Or the color of his hair. I don’t know his face, only his eyes. It’s driving me crazy.”
“Have you talked to Dr. deStael about it?”
“Yeah, but she said this kind of thing is normal. Recurring dreams often help us sort out our trauma or something like that. I don’t know. I don’t feel traumatized by this guy I feel… protective of him. Maybe even like I love him?”
“Hmm.”
“Hey, that’s my line.”
“Shut up for a minute, this live music actually slaps and I want to listen to it. Then we can discuss your weird possessive tendencies towards your dream boyfriend.”
Geralt takes a slow sip of his coffee and glances up at the singer off to their left, perched on a barstool with his guitar held carefully on his lap. His voice is soft but somehow bright. Geralt finds himself utterly entranced.
“On the weird guitar;
Said you'd go to work
In the waking hour.
In fluorescent light,
Antisocialites watch a wilting flower.”
“Live your life on a merry-go-round;
Who builds a wall just to let it fall down?”
The lyrics are strange and hold a dream-like quality to them. They draw a picture in Geralt’s head, something dark and heavy and oddly hollow. He has another sip of coffee and tries to ignore the feeling of panic welling up inside him. He glances at Yennefer to see if she’s picked up on his mood, but her violet eyes are focused on the singer and his nimble fingers as he continues to play and sing.
When he glances up towards their table and their eyes meet, Geralt loses the ability to breathe.
That shade of cornflower blue was…
Couldn’t be…
Had to be…
The gorgeous, feathery tenor continues to fill the air, whirling pleasant notes past his ears and deep into his subconscious. Geralt knows that voice. He’s heard this man laugh and sing and cry and scream a thousand different times. Through a handful of different lives. Geralt knows that face, those hands, those strong legs and long arms and blue fucking eyes. He’s held this singer in his arms every night for centuries, feeling his breathing as they both drift off to sleep.
He has protected this man and been protected by him in return. He has kissed and been kissed, caressed and been caressed. The two men sitting across from each other in the coffee shop physically embody an endless cycle of love. It has been bound up in the souls of two no-longer strangers. Geralt knows that he knows this man.
He knows Jaskier.
Petal pink lips continue to form soft words and slender hands keep plucking at vibrating guitar strings:
“Don't sit by the phone for me,
Wait at home for me, all alone for me.
Your face was supposed to be
Hanging over me, like a rosary.”
Geralt stands suddenly, startling Yennefer but not the performer, even though he’s clearly just as shocked as Geralt about this recent development.
Their mutual realization.
“So morose for me,
Seeing ghosts of me,
Writing oaths to me,
Is it so naïve to wonder…”
Geralt crosses the room to the edge of the stage in three quick strides. Yennefer is close behind him, her latte just as abandoned as his coffee at their table. She grabs her friend’s arm as if to stop him from doing something violent, but when he doesn’t struggle against her grip she lets it go again easily.
“Geralt?” the musician asks.
“Jaskier?” Geralt replies. The guitar is placed quickly to the side and a pair of incredibly familiar arms are thrown around the taller man’s neck. Geralt hugs back just as firmly, his arms flung low around the brunette’s waist. Geralt knows that this is Jaskier’s favorite way to be embraced; he doesn’t know how he’s aware of that fact, but it comes to the front of his mind clear as day.
“Holy shit,” Jaskier breathes, leaning back to stare Geralt in the face. One of his string-calloused fingers traces down over Geralt’s eyelid and cheek and he cocks his head to the side. “No scar?”
“No,” Geralt shakes his head. “Not this lifetime, I guess.”
“Were we? Are we- are we, you know...?”
“Yeah,” Yen beams, adding her two cents from the sidelines. “I think so. Congrats, boys. This is one of those one in a million chances and you’ve gone and done it.”
“Done what?” Geralt asks. Jaskier tosses his head back and laughs. His happiness rings out through the cafe like a struck bell and Geralt’s heart stutters frantically. He really does love this man already. Wholeheartedly and without fear. “What have we done, Yen?”
“As obtuse now as you were then,” Jaskier chides affectionately. “Soulmates, my love. We’ve been bound by the red string of fate and ta-da! Here we are. Again, apparently.”
“Yes, okay,” Geralt breathes, nosing his way along Jaskier’s jaw with giddy determination. He presses a quick and wholly welcome kiss to the bard’s lips. “That makes sense.”
“Do you... do you want me again? This time around?” Jaskier asks, fingers fiddling with one of the ties on Geralt’s hoodie. A pair of chapped lips press against his again and he sighs into it, melting against his no-longer-Witcher.
“Yes. And the next one, as well.”
#bouncey's sappy hours#geraskier#geraskier fluff#yen#yennefer#yenerference kinda#getting together#soulmate au#prophetic dreams#geraskier soulmate au#geraskier soulmates#shared dreams#modern au#geraskier modern au#kissing#first kiss#magically getting together#prompt fill
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Wreck The Malls: Flip Zimmerman and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.
Flip Zimmerman x Reader
6.2k ; cw: mentions of gun violence, blood and injury ; NSFW (shower sex, injured sex, PIV, oral sex)
Available on AO3
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It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. But it is also universally acknowledged, that a lucky man in possession of a good wife, should want to get her something special for the holidays.
This is the story of how one Detective Flip Zimmerman of the CSPD, goes on a journey through hell and back to obtain such a gift, and might just learn the true meaning of Christmas along the way.
Now, though this story takes place on Christmas Eve, it should be noted that our Mr. Zimmerman does not actually like Christmas. He doesn’t celebrate it, and he thinks the entire holiday is one big headache. Does it bother him that his own holidays always seem to be overlooked in favor for the goyishe celebrations of December? Yes – but that’s not the reason he dislikes it so much. If you were to ask him, he would say something akin to;
“I just don’t know why the fuck everyone makes such a big goddamn deal.” He huffs and puffs on his cigarette in the parking lot. Flip rolls his eyes, “All month long, stores have been playing this shit music since the day after Thanksgiving.”
Sitting in his car with Ron – the only one of his friends patient enough to listen to him complain for an hour straight – Flip turns the radio down just low enough for Jingle Bell Rock to sound. They’re outside the big mall, something shiny and brand new, just in the nick of time for the holidays. Ron shrugs, going over his last-minute shopping list.
“We can go home, no one will know.” Ron points out for what must seem like the eighteenth time.
Flip had asked Ron to accompany him both for emotional support, but also to get a second opinion on the gift he was picking up for you. Flip loves you more than anything else in the entire world – yes, even more than his buc-wheat cereal and Greek yogurt – and even though you had already exchanged presents during Hanukkah only a few days prior, that wasn’t going to stop him.
“Of course we can’t go home, I want to get her something nice.” He says as much, flicking the ash of his cigarette out of the car window, the oppressive commercialism of the mall looming ahead.
“(Y/N) doesn’t like Christmas either though.” Ever the practical voice of reason, Ron tries giving Flip one more out, one more chance to turn back now, “You don’t have to put yourself through this, you know.”
“It’s not a Christmas present,” Flip shakes his head, finally turning the car engine off entirely, and silencing the radio once and for all. He steels himself, staring at his reflection in the rearview mirror, “It’s a just-because present. I already have it all picked out and everything, I just need to go in and pay for it.”
“You’ve got some real brains underneath those flowing locks of yours man.” Ron smiles, gets out of the car and stretches out his muscles for what he’s sure will be a ton of walking through angry mobs, “Minimizing the amount of time in there is probably for the best, considering.”
It’s the way that Flip hesitates that clues Ron in that maybe, Flip didn’t have as many brains as he had thought.
“Considering what?” Flip asks, the second clue.
“Flip, it’s Christmas Eve.” Ron spells it out plainly, and wishes he had a camera to capture the exact moment that the next thought enters Flip’s mind, and subsequently spills out of his mouth:
“…Oh fuck.”
Shaking his head fondly, Ron claps a hand on Flip’s shoulder as he rounds the front of the car, and the two of them brave the great unknown together.
Flip was not nearly as familiar with the mall as he likes to think, but he knows where the jewelry store is, and really that’s all that matters.
They make their way down to that section of the enormous space, and it’s almost impossible to ignore the sheer abundance of Christmas Cheer that surrounds them. Nearly every store had something in its window display: lights, statues, mannequins modeling holiday attire, some even had moving animatronic animals that gave Flip the shivers. Every pole and railing and kiosk in the place was covered in garland and lights, and in the grand atrium, enormous ornaments were suspended from the ceiling.
Pausing for a moment and looking up at them, Flip wonders what the likelihood would be for them to all come crashing down.
He’s so caught up in fact, that he nearly misses Ron branching off in another direction.
“Hey wait, where are you going?” Flip jogs a couple paces to catch up, a frown already forming between his brows.
“I need to pick somethin’ up for Patrice.” Ron explains, holding up his little shopping list. Flip gives him a mildly panicked look, but Ron only reassures him with, “We’ll meet up at the food court?”
I can do this, Flip thinks to himself, it’s one store. How bad could one store be?
“Sure, don’t take too long.” Flip eventually agrees, swallowing down the feeling of impending doom – otherwise known as “acid reflux” according to you – and squaring his shoulders.
He didn’t need Ron, he was a grown man after all. He fought in Vietnam twice! Surely he could go to the jewelry store…right?
Making his way over to the escalator, Flip has his eye on the prize; Goldsmith’s Jewelry is just off to the left, he can see it coming. Playfully taking the five golden rings theme and running with it, large decorations spin gently in the window, glittering in the light. Flip’s relieved to see the place relatively empty.
Not completely dead, but definitely not a line out the door the way that the toy store had. As a matter of fact, when Flip walks through the glass doors, he’s greeted by less than ten people, including the owner himself, who lights up when he spots his friend.
“Philip! Good to see you son. Here for those earrings you were looking at?” Carl, a fabulously eccentric man with no less than fifteen pieces of jewelry on at any given time practically jingles when he comes around the counter to give Flip a hug.
“You bet Carl, how much am I layin’ out for you?” Flip has to bend himself nearly in half to reach the kind gentleman’s embrace, already reaching for his wallet.
Carl was one of those men who could reminisce and catch up for hours on end, and as much as Flip would love to listen to the story about how Carl lost his dentures in his shoe for the hundredth time, he would rather listen to you instead. Thankfully, Carl doesn’t seem too pressed about it, and he only beckons the detective over to the register counter.
“Tell you what, since you’re practically family and helped out Darlene with her car troubles, I’m taking half off.” Carl announces with a twinkle in his eye, making Flip feel a little guilty about wanting to scram as fast as possible.
“Oh you don’t have to go doing all that Carl really – ” Flip tries, but Carl is having none of it.
“I want to!” He smacks at Flip’s hands when he tries to offer him the full amount of cash, fully turning his back on Flip to go into the little employees only room. “You stay right here, I’ll just go into the back and get it wrapped up real nice for you.”
Left alone once again, Flip has no choice but to let his eye wander. The entire place was sensory overload, really, and Flip wishes he could have a fucking cigarette. Was the music at the mall always this loud and discordant? Chewing on his lip instead of the butt of a cigarette, Flip looks around the store.
He makes uncomfortable eye contact with a man who is clearly picking up something for the wife and something else for the girlfriend, and he looks away when he realizes. Training his eye on the great big mirror up on the wall instead, Flip frowns.
Is that…no, it couldn’t be.
Santa Claus wouldn’t be taking a break from the Workshop near the foodcourt to stop into a jewelry store, would he? Flip shakes his head, he’s probably just being paranoid. The guy is probably on break and looking for something for Mrs. Claus. Flip cracks himself up with that thought, and is about to turn around and joke with the guy about it – when he notices through the mirror that the Santa is ever so cautiously reaching around the counter, looking for the lock mechanism.
“Shit.” Flip licks across his teeth, when he manages it open and begins pulling out necklaces with seemingly no one noticing.
Carl still hasn’t come back, so Flip casually reaches for the phone on the counter near the register, dials the direct line number to his buddy back at the station.
“CSPD this is Jimmy – ”
“It’s me, I’m at the jewelry store on the second level of the mall downtown. I think there’s a robbery about to go down, I’m going to need backup.” Flip mutters as quietly as he can into the receiver, keeping and eye on the Santa.
Sure enough, he’s pulling out a sack, and it looks as if this guy has already hit up quite a few stores, if the brand new boxed electronics filling it are anything to go by.
“Is he armed?” Jimmy asks immediately, and Flip tries to get a good look.
“I can’t tell, he’s in a Santa suit.” He explains, and then scowls when the line goes silent for a moment.
“…Flip are you serious?” Jimmy tries to start some bullshit but Flip doesn’t have the time for this.
“Yes I’m fucking serious would you just tell Trapp I need backup? Ron is here somewhere but I don’t know where the fuck he went.” He hisses, teeth clenching tight enough that he can feel the muscle fluttering in his jaw.
“Okay okay! I’m on it, keep him in your sight.” Jimmy replies, before hanging up.
Trying to steal a glance through the mirror again, Flip realizes he must have been a little too loud, because the Santa has bolted through the doors, sack filled with diamond and ruby and sapphires galore.
“Fuck.” Flip grunts to himself, before slamming down the phone near the register and rushing out of the store with a futile, “CSPD! Hands where I can see them!”
This would be much easier, Flip reasons, if it weren’t Christmas fucking Eve. The mall is swamped with people, loud and slow like big dumb buffalo – no, he wouldn’t do buffalo the disservice of comparing them to these last minute mall shoppers who cannot decide if they want to walk on the left or the right side of the aisle. Santa, he needs Santa – but there are so many! Nearly a dozen guys in red coats and white beards ring bells or wave or laugh jolly hearty laughs, and Flip feels like he’s in hell.
No, he supposes, Hell must be the five-story Hibbard & Co., where he finally manages to catch sight of the Santa he’s after. Bolting across the large expanse of the mall and into the first level of the store, Flip trips and stumbles through displays of empty cardboard box presents and wooden nutcrackers, causing shouts and screams of distress to erupt around him from the patrons of the store.
The employees however, are entirely unphased, they continue to spritz the air with their perfume samples, directly into the face of Flip, who is scrambling and already breathing heavy as it is, his boots carrying him around the sharp corners of the mirrored kiosks in the perfume department.
“Oh – shit – fuck!” Flip’s blinded by the perfume, his eyes stinging. He’s choking on it, unable to breathe as rose water stings his vision. “I love my job, I love my wife, I love my job…”
He chants to himself as he blinks and coughs, to no avail; he’s so blinded that he crashes into a display of coats, which in a domino-like effect crash down all the other displays of winter clothing on their way down, but Flip can’t stick around to apologize, the Santa is getting away.
“Out of my way – Ron!” Flip shouts as he pushes and shoves himself through the large swathes of people, Christmas music blaring bright and cheerfully as he runs and runs and runs, shouting out, “Ron if you can hear me a little help would be appreciated!”
The Santa isn’t making this easy for him, Flip curses, as he runs down the up escalator.
Following suit, there’s real screams now when the Santa pulls out a gun and starts blindly shooting behind himself at Flip, making everyone on the escalator, and everyone in that area of the mall for that matter, scatter. If Flip thought the crowds were bad, a mob was even worse, and soon everyone is running in every which way direction, as this Santa gets off the escalator and sprints down towards the food court.
Flip wonders why the place isn’t on a lockdown yet, wonders what the hell is taking backup so long to get there already. Didn’t this place have cops? Weren’t the mall cops good for literally anything? What a waste of his time, Flip thinks, as he runs runs runs with his gun in his hands, trying to hold steady as he aims to shoot, the robber in his sight, he can see him, he can practically smell him --
“I hate this, I hate this, I hate this – oh fuck me -- !” Flip collides hard with an unsuspecting dad who just happened to be grabbing lunch from the food court for his entire family.
“Watch where you’re fucking going pal!” The dad shouts.
All at once, a whole tray of pizza slices doused in red sauce and melted cheese, and four large cups of pepsi are flying through the air and landing all over Flip’s brand new shirt, the one that you had just given to him for Hanukkah. He wants to be livid, wants to choke this guy out but the robber is getting away, Flip’s losing visual on him, and after all the trouble, there’s no chance he’s letting him get away.
“You fucking watch it!” Flip scrambles up, which isn’t easy to do on freshly mopped linoleum floors covered in soda pop, his gun spiraling a couple feet in front of him that he lunges to pick up, muttering to himself, “Ruined my goddamn – ugh – fuck!”
He has to change, and he has to change quickly – scanning the nearest stores, the closest one in the mall that sells clothing. He runs over to it, already unbuttoning his ruined shirt, and grabs the first thing on the rack he sees, which happens to be the most hideous, tacky, terrible looking Christmas sweater.
Flip raises his eyes up to the ceiling, and can practically feel the universe laughing at him when he groans, “Oh you have got to be kidding me.”
There’s no time, he doesn’t have any other choice, so he yanks the ruined shirt over his head and throws the sweater on. It’s two sizes too small, and it’s itchy as all fucking hell, and of course, as if the situation couldn’t get any worse…the faux lights turn out to not be so faux after all, and they blink as he accidentally rips a tag off so not to trip any alarms.
Throwing money onto the counter as the employees stare at him like he’s a maniac and not just trying to do his fucking job, Flip’s chest heaves as he stands there, gun drawn, scanning the panicked swarms of people in front of him.
“Where did you go you motherfucker?” Flip growls, growing more and more pissed off by the minute.
A moment or two goes by, but then he spots him – the pet grooming salon.
Without any hesitation, Flip is chasing this man down with all his vigor, lungs pumping full of recycled mall air conditioning, blood pounding in his veins. The sooner he catches this guy and gets him cuffed, the sooner all this pandemonium will end.
“Hey!” He hears an authoritative shout from the other end of the mall, and lets out a sigh of relief.
The mall security has finally shown up, and he’s about ready to tell them that Santa is in the pet salon, when he notices they are not slowing down in their full force sprint towards him.
“Shit, shit shit shit,” Flip realizes they think he’s the maniac! “I’m a cop! It’s not me – I’m – oh for fuck’s sake.”
Flip realizes he doesn’t have the time to explain, so he does the exact opposite thing you’re supposed to do: run.
Into the pet salon Flip goes, hoping that if he can just grab the Santa it’ll all be explained, but there is no Santa to be found. Instead, Flip is met by a dozen dogs that have been let loose. Big dogs, like Dobermans and Rottweilers, and small dogs like Poodles and Pomeranians have all been released from their cages, and for whatever reason, are baring their teeth at him, and lunging after him as he runs the other way.
“Heel! Sit! Stay – ow!” Flip feels teeth sink into his ankles, and doesn’t bother looking back as he kicks away one of the smaller dogs in the pack that is chasing him.
He can see the Santa, and now, chased by dogs and mall cops, Flip chases him down for hopefully the last leg of this race. He can feel steam shooting out of his ears, he’s never going to leave home again he decides, never is going to step foot in this fucking mall again, as he’s chased.
Meanwhile, blissfully unaware over in the lingerie department of Macy’s, Ron Stallworth’s greatest dilemma is trying to choose between the red velvet bra and panty set, or the navy satin set. He’s been staring at the two sets for quite some time now, and is conscious of the fact that Flip must be waiting for him, so he calls over one of the employees for her opinion.
He explains that it’s for his girlfriend, and while red and blue are both colors she likes, he isn’t sure which would get the most use – when he sees a Santa Claus stumbling and tripping over himself, shoving people out of his way as he runs past the great big glass windows.
“Huh.” Ron frowns, putting the sets down and moving over to the windows to get a better look.
Ron hears the commotion before he sees it, but when he does see it – ‘it’ being his best friend bleeding, in a blinking fuzzy Christmas sweater, gun brandished, chased by dogs and security who are blowing their whistles and brandishing guns of their own – he grabs all his shit and makes leave.
“If you ladies will please excuse me – ” Ron gives a parting excuse to the employees, who only frown at him as he runs and runs and runs to catch up to, “Flip! Flip what the fuck is going on!”
“It’s about goddamn time!” Flip shouts, nearly red in the face from exertion and sheer unbridled rage as he points with his gun to the man in red a few yards ahead, “That Santa! Is! A! Maniac! I don’t know how many stores he’s stolen from, but at least from the jewelry store and is shooting at people – watch out!”
Suddenly, out of nowhere, half a dozen men throw large plastic ornaments the size of cars out onto the floor as a means to blockade the hall. They’re dressed in green, with red and white stockings and pointed hats that have jingle bells on the end, but these were no innocent visitors from the North Pole.
“Of fucking course he’s got elves.” Flip grunts as he tries to run around them, tries his best to avoid getting hit square in the chest with them as they bounce and create a rampaging path of destruction.
“I’ll handle the dogs and the elves, and the mall cops, you catch Santa.” Ron slows down enough, until he’s far enough away that Flip can’t hear him, his own feet still on auto-pilot as he hunts down the Santa.
And then – then!
As if by some miracle, the Santa trips, and he and his sack full of stolen goods all come crashing down to the linoleum floor. In slow motion, Flip jumps using all the strength he has left, hands extended to grab the Santa, and as he flies across the distance between their bodies, Flip swears he sees his life flash before his eyes.
Thudding to the floor, he manages to get the Santa in a chokehold, letting out a triumphant shout of victory.
“Got you!” He pins the man down, rolls him over onto his back so that he can pin his hands behind his back, Flip fishing for his handcuffs that he managed to keep in his back-pocket this whole time, “I got you you son of a bitch!”
Off to the side, a group of small children watch a grown man leap and tackle Santa Claus to the ground.
Little Stacey gasps in shock and horror, before her older brother Jacob can quickly cover her eyes with his own mittened hand. They, along with their friends – an assortment of ten to twelve year olds left unsupervised on Christmas Eve while their parents and gaurdians get gifts for in-laws they don’t like – immediately turn to one another, while Santa’s body jerks and writhes underneath the heavy knee of some strange man.
“What should we do?” Nicolas asks the leader of their group.
“Well there’s really only one thing we can do.” Dewey says with all the determination of a man about to walk into battle. The children exchange glances with resolution and with all the authority that an eighth-grader can muster, Dewey regards his friends, “All in favor of rescuing Santa and saving Christmas, say ‘aye’.”
“Aye!”
It is this emboldened shout of unity that draws Flip’s attention – before he is promptly charged by six small children who proceed to punch, and bite, and smack at him.
In the chaos, Santa manages to slip out of Flip’s grasp. Thankfully he’s still handcuffed and he’s dropped his gun, but the children don’t notice that. No, they’re too busy beating the shit out of Flip, who can’t bring himself to fight back against the angry fists of fury that are descending onto him.
“Get off of me! Get – I am a police fucking officer get off -- !” Flip manages to shake them away, and they stare up at him with wide eyes when he wipes the blood away from his nose at being slammed to the ground.
“Don’t you assholes have parents – oh forget it.” Flip doesn’t bother, caring so little about anything anymore.
He’s is almost defeated, almost, but Santa is handcuffed and limping, he can’t get too much farther, he’s so close – he’s right there –
“Oh shit!” Flip jumps back, as suddenly, out of nowhere, Ron in one of the security mall-carts comes darting from around the corner and t-bones the Santa from the side.
Santa’s body slides across the floor, and seconds later, Bridges, Trapp, Jimmy, and a dozen or so other familiar faces flood the large floor, in their blues and with their walkie talkies loud.
“Flip!” Bridges darts over to where Flip has practically collapsed onto the floor.
He’s directly underneath those ornaments, and he practically wills one of them to unlatch from their suspension and crush him to death.
“Oh my god, are you alright?” Bridges has the audacity to ask, looking Flip straight in the face.
His bleeding, swollen face.
There’s a moment or two where Flip can’t think of anything other than how badly he wants a fucking cigarette, but eventually he licks across his teeth, scratches the back of his neck.
“Honestly?” Flip muses, before replying in the most dry deadpan way he can muster, “I’ve never been better.”
Blood drips onto the blinking Christmas sweater, and with that, Bridges claps him on the back and nods.
“Go home. We’ll get your statement after the holiday weekend.” He says, and sweeter words have never been spoken. “Don’t worry about Ron, we’ll give him a lift home.”
Flip’s snowy home in the mountains has never, ever looked more beautiful, Flip can’t help but think. It was quiet, so quiet up here. Snow dusted itself along the length of the front porch, draped the roof and surrounding trees in a blanket of crisp clean fresh white. No dirt, no blood, no sweat – just white. It was purifying, to say the least.
But not so purifying as the front door opening and your stunning face lighting up to see him.
That is, until you notice him limping, notice him covered in blood, notice his hair destroyed and his face bruised. Then your smile melts into something closer to shock and terror.
“Phil! What the fuck happened to you?” You rush to him, trudging through snow that’s up to your calves. You’re not wearing shoes, and Flip can’t bear the thought of you getting too cold, so he hoists you up and holds you against his side, walking you back to the house.
“I…really…don’t want to talk about it.” Flip sighs, wanting nothing more than to crawl under the covers with you and never emerge.
“Holy shit, are you bleeding?” You push your hand up to his face and feel at his tender nose, making him wince.
“That sounds about right.” He mutters, slamming the door behind him with his foot when he finally crosses the threshold into the foyer of the house.
Flip puts you down and immediately shoves his entire face into your neck, trying hard not to cry. What a fucking day it had been, he can’t help but think as he lets the stress and frustration finally mount behind his eyes. His face hurts, everything about him hurts, his legs are exhausted, his back is fucking killing him, and worse of all, his ego is beyond bruised.
“I hate Christmas.” Flip hiccups, knowing that he’s smearing blood against your pretty robe. Now that he’s got you in his arms, he doesn’t want you to go away, doesn’t want you more than a foot away from him.
“I know sweetheart, I know. Come on let’s go take a shower.” You card your fingers through his hair, and lead him up to the bathroom.
In the light of the bathroom, you do your absolute damndest not to laugh. It’s not that you’re laughing at him, because you would never laugh at him of course, but you’ve never seen your husband look more angry in his entire life, and you’ve been there for a significant portion of it. You have a million questions that you know better than to bombard him with right now, knowing he’ll explain all in due time.
So instead, you peel away his layers until the both of you are naked. A Christmas sweater that blinks bright red and green is buried under blood-stained and ripped jeans, your robe, underwear and socks. Flip turns on the heat and waits for the water to not be so frigid, and in the meantime, you examine him.
“Were…did you get bit by a dog?” You frown as you see crescent bruises blooming underneath his skin. Thankfully, it looks like no actual puncture wounds – what a Christmas gift that would be, rabies.
“More like a pack.” Flip grumbles, making your eyebrows shoot up nearly to your hairline. You want to ask, but Flip dismisses it for now with a sigh and an, “It’s a long story.”
Finally the water seems to be good enough for him, and Flip leads you into the shower. At once, the water runs pink as it washes him clean of the day from hell. Your hands in his hair are heavenly, washing the muck and sweat and grime out of the locks, and Flip could practically cry.
“I know what you need.” You whisper, kissing at the side of his face that’s not tender.
Keeping heated eye contact, you slowly slowly slowly slink down to your knees. Water cascades down your shoulders as your hand reaches for Flip’s cock, as you pump it ever so carefully in even strokes until he’s fully hard.
Your tongue licks up a thick stripe of his shaft, and Flip has to lean fully against the wall so his legs don’t give out and he winds up in the ER with a concussion again. Your mouth swallows him down, feels the weight of his cock on your tongue, against the roof of your mouth, the back of your throat.
“Bed, now.” Flip stops you before you can get any further, and you pull off with a smile, glad to see that though he’s in a bad mood, he’s willing to let you help him feel better.
Barely drying off with a towel, Flip kisses and kisses and kisses you as you both stumble to your bed, falling down on top of the covers. You’re giggling against his lips just because you love him so much, but he’s not smiling. No, he’s still in a proper pissed off mood, and you’re glad to let him do what he will with you.
Flip’s cock throbs as it slides in real easy into your cunt, the wet heat of your body welcoming him on the first thrust. Your eyes fall shut as your back arches off the mattress from the feeling of being so filled so fast, the breath punching out of your lungs.
“God you’re wet.” He has to groan, swipes a few fingers over your clit just to massage it and get your legs shaking, your shoulders squirming for him, “What – were you jerkin’ off missing me? Thinkin’ about me? I was thinkin’ about you.”
The thought makes him break out into a sweat as he starts to thrust, his limbs aching and sore from all the running and bodily contact, but too desperate for you to give a fuck.
“Yeah, yes Flip – I missed you, missed your cock.” You whine, giving him permission to, “Give it to me, take it all out on me honey.”
The flood gates open, and Flip’s ramming into you hard and fast. He’s bouncing the mattress, slamming the headboard from it, from the grip on your hips as he fucks and fucks and fucks you. Spit strings down from his teeth as his jaw is clenched, savoring the feeling and chasing that feeling, of your beautiful body opening and squeezing around him.
“Fuck ketsl, fuck I – oh damn that feels good.” He grinds himself all the way up inside you, pushes you up the bed with the force of it. He grabs at your hair, yanks your head back so he can suck and kiss at your throat, can feel your fluttering pulse as you moan and sigh and gasp.
“Yeah? How good? Tell me.” Your hands don’t know where to go, you don’t want to accidentally touch a bruised spot, so instead they fist in the sheets as you push your hips up to let him rail into you from this new angle.
“I’m gonna knock you the fuck up, that’s how good it is, that’s how hard you make me ketsl, do that thing I like? You know the one.” Flip’s delirious, doesn’t know what he’s even saying, but you breathe out a harsh moan from the words, hands pushing your tits together.
“Like this?” Your voice wobbles from the fucking he gives you, breasts bouncing, nipples peeking through your spread fingers as you cup and hold them for him.
“Just like that – fuck, goddamn baby you’re so pretty, I could fuck this pussy all night long – ow!” Flip is about to lavish kisses onto your cleavage, when something twinges in his back, and his arms collapse underneath him and he falls square on top of your chest.
“Shit, Flip are you okay?” Your body tenses immediately, worried for him, the mood ruined.
“Yeah – yes, dammit,” Flip groans, never feeling more like an old middle aged man than he does right now.
“Okay maybe don’t fuck me all night long,” You chuckle, calming and soothing him with your hands in his hair, abandoning the hold on your breasts. Still, you’d hate for him to not even get to come after all of that, so you kiss the side of his tender nose and whisper, “Are you close?”
“Yeah, sorry I’m sorry – ” Flip rolls you onto your side, eases back into you that way, where he doesn’t have to hold himself up.
“Don’t apologize, just come in me honey, come in me.” You encourage, knowing that he’ll get a good few orgasms out of you once he’s feeling a little better.
Flip nods and kisses you, wet and hot and sloppy as he thrusts a few more times, your legs corralled over his, until he grunts out long and low, spills into your pussy.
He rides that high, rides the feeling of your sweet lips on his, until all he can do is groan from being sore.
“I think I need to see a doctor.” Flip grumbles, sounding so dejected.
“Yeah I think so too handsome.” You give him an apologetic smile on behalf of the universe, and he sighs.
You’re an angel though, striking up a cigarette for him. Passing it to him, Flip pulls out of you with a wince and the two of you starfish out onto your backs, staring up at the ceiling of your bedroom. You let him have a few minutes of silence, but eventually the curiosity kills you and you have to ask,
“Hey, how come you were even in the mall to begin with?” Peering up at him through your lashes, wondering what the hell he had even gotten himself into, “I thought you were just popping into work for something.”
At that moment, the cold dread of realization crashes through Flip, and despite his injuries and general exhaustion, sits straight up in bed and gasps out, “Oh fuck!! I’m sorry ketsl I was going to surprise you with – ”
Just then, the doorbell rings, and the both of you frown at one another.
You weren’t expecting anyone to come over, even though it was Christmas Eve, you didn’t have any plans to celebrate anyway other than with some Chinese food takeout and a good movie. Considering the state that Flip is in, you go to reach for your robe, but Flip shakes his head and grabs for his instead.
“No, let me. You’re not dressed.” Flip says.
You love him enough not to point out that he isn’t dressed either, but Flip deserves to do what he wants after the day he’s had, you think.
Creeping down the stairs, Flip tries to look through the front window to see who it could be, but whether it’s the angle or something else, he can’t get a good visual. He pulls the robe sash tighter around his waist, looks through the peephole.
Strangely, there’s nothing there, no one to be seen. No car in his driveway, either.
How strange, Flip thinks, as he cracks the door open, wondering what the fuck else the day has in store for him.
Sitting right there on the front porch, is a small box. It’s wrapped in a golden ribbon, bearing the logo of Goldsmith’s Jewlery in a wax seal on the side. Frowning, Flip approaches it, picks it up. It feels like the right weight, but to be sure, he pulls open the ribbon and peeks inside.
Sure enough, resting atop the black velvet interior of the box are the diamond earrings that had started this whole mess.
Something about that, something about those earrings being there, makes Flip’s heart warm through. Even though it’s cold, he doesn’t feel the bite of the wind. All he can think about, is you, waiting for him upstairs in your bedroom. You, who care for him, who takes care of him, even on days when he doesn’t even want to take care of himself.
The earrings twinkle in the grey sunlight of the snowy day, and despite it all, Flip smiles to himself. What was another year of bullshit, really? He could go through anything, could do anything, as long as he had you by his side. Yes, Flip thinks, it’s all worth it, or at least it will be, when he sees your smile once again, when he gives you this little token of his appreciation, of his love.
And as he casts his gaze up to the sky, half expecting to see the real Santa Claus flying away in his sleigh, half expecting to see some friendly man smiling down at him behind a team of reindeer, Flip feels something that maybe…just maybe…might be akin to Christmas Spirit.
Until the moment passes, and he’s reminded of the day’s events by a twinge in his side from where he was donkey kicked by a twelve year old.
“Who the fuck am I kidding,” Flip scoffs to himself after a shake of his head, locking the door behind him, “Ba fuckin’ humbug, and a merry new year.”
#flip zimmerman#flip zimmerman/reader#flip zimmerman x reader#flip zimmerman/you#flip zimmerman x you#blackkklansman#adam driver fanfiction#adcu#flip zimmerman smut#flip zimmerman humor#flip zimmerman angst#my writing
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“choose your battles wisely”
Un-beta’d and written after surgery, so please take with a grain of salt. I’ll reblog with the AO3 link in the morning!
Rated T, ~4.1k. Fluffy, Hurt/Comfort
~~~
Jamie is an idiot.
Or, to be more specific, she is an absolute goddamn buffoon of the utmost clownery.
This is, more or less, Dani’s internal monologue as she follows the sound of pained grunts to a somewhat obscured section of the sprawling statue garden, where she comes across a rather disgruntled gardener lying flat on her back in the mud. Her oilskin hat has fallen to one side, and Jamie stares, bleary-eyed, at the grey England sky overhead. There is a decently sized marble sculpture on the ground beside her.
“You alright, there?” Dani calls, after only a brief moment of amused silence.
“Jesus!” Jamie swears, her entire body twitching, which causes her outburst to dissolve into a groan. “Christ, Poppins, wear a bloody bell,” she grumbles.
Dani rolls her eyes. “You alright?” she repeats, quieter this time.
“Oh, who, me? Yeah, ‘course. Just, you know, enjoying some ‘me time.’” She moves to raise her arm in a weak attempt at waving Dani off, but the limb makes it mere inches off the ground before flopping unceremoniously into the dirt. “Taking in the views...”
“Some view,” Dani notes, with a playful, sardonic lilt to her voice. A pause. “Owen made sandwiches if you’d like to come in for lunch.”
“Be right there,” Jamie replies halfheartedly. She does not stir, her gaze still fixed on the dreary cloud cover, a firm set to her jaw. “Don’t wait up.”
“We might as well walk back together.” Dani crosses her arms. “That is, assuming you’re almost done with your ‘me time.’”
“Almost done. Right. Yeah.”
Dani watches the deep inhale as Jamie steels herself, the muscles of Jamie’s stomach flexing with effort. With a sharp gasp, Jamie pushes herself onto her elbows, but she only lasts a quick second before she’s once again lying prone, muttered curses falling from her lips.
Dani winces sympathetically. “Oh, baby, don’t hurt yourself.”
“Bit late for that.”
“What did you do?” She kneels at Jamie’s side, moist soil dampening her jeans, and brushes wispy brown hairs from her face.
“Picked a fight with the wrong woman.” Jamie nods at the overturned statue. “Credit where credit’s due, she’s stronger than she looks. Heavier, too.”
“So, you decided you were going to move a marble statue, on your own, after a rainstorm, which resulted in you, what, throwing out your back?” Dani translates. “And you thought this was a good idea because…?”
“Never said it was a good idea.”
“And yet here we are.”
“Right, well,” Jamie sighs, “we’ve established I’m not the sharpest knife in the block.” Her eyes meet Dani’s, defeated. “If you would be so kind as to lend me a hand, I’d rather not like to die like this.”
“All you had to do was ask, sweetheart.” She thinks she catches a fleeting smile before it is replaced with a grimace.
Gingerly, Dani wedges her arm between Jamie’s shoulders and the earth below, murmuring gentle apologies at each indication of discomfort. She offers her other hand for Jamie to grab. Together, they work her into a sitting position. Jamie’s chest heaves, and her face is a ghostly shade of white.
They stay like that for a minute. While Jamie catches her breath, Dani’s fingers rub what she hopes are soothing circles into her back. How long has she been out here?
“Are you okay to walk?” Dani asks.
“Suppose we’ll find out,” Jamie says in a tone not at all reassuring.
Dani braces herself and takes both of Jamie’s hands in her own, digging her heels into the dirt. “One...two…”
On three, she pulls, and Jamie staggers to her feet, with Dani catching the majority of her weight as she topples forward and the air goes out of her.
“JesusshitfuckingChristfuckshittinghellgoddamnit-”
“Okay, you’re okay,” Dani says, trying to angle herself to best support the woman about to get herself excommunicated for blasphemy. She can feel the tension radiating off of Jamie in waves.
“I’m fine, I’m good,” Jamie promises, very much not fine and very much not good. “Nothing’s broken, I don’t think. Just, ah, a little crooked, s’all.” Her breathing is labored as they take a few tentative steps.
“Look, you just rest here, and I’ll run back and get Owen--”
“No, absolutely not,” Jamie cuts her off. “If that man finds out, I’ll never hear the end of it. Little shit still brings up the Rosebush Incident of Eighty-five whenever I break out the pruning shears.” Her arm drapes heavy around Dani’s neck as they round a corner.
“What--”
“Don’t,” Jamie wheezes, “ask.”
“You realize how dumb that is, right? And I’m definitely going to ask,” Dani says, guiding them toward the front door. Jamie stops short.
“Side door,” she explains, “servants’ hall. Won’t go past the kitchen. Can use one of the empty rooms until I sort myself out.”
“You might want to get your head checked if you think I’m leaving you alone like this.”
Dani readjusts her grip, while Jamie nimbly flips through a massive ring of keys Dani swears she’s never seen before, yet Jamie handles with the expertise of someone who does this daily. Which, Dani realizes, feeling rather stupid, she probably does.
“Fuck,” Jamie says under her breath as the door opens, revealing a hallway Dani has yet to explore. Dani sees the problem. She looks at Jamie. She looks at the narrow staircase. She evaluates her upper body strength.
Then, Jamie is making a rather undignified noise as Dani lifts her without warning, and Dani would be lying if she said the look on Jamie’s face isn’t extraordinarily satisfying. Something about seeing her stoic, mulish girlfriend, gone limp in her arms, looking at her, a little awestruck, well… it’s a sight Dani intends to cherish. And definitely not for the potential blackmail purposes.
Only after Dani gingerly deposits her on the blue quilt in Dani’s room does Jamie say, deadly serious, “We never speak of this again.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dani says, “take these.” She plops two pills and a cup of water in Jamie’s hand and disappears into the adjacent bathroom.
“That’s the spirit, Poppins,” she calls after her.
“Come on,” Dani says, reappearing in the doorway. “We need to get you out of these wet clothes before you catch a cold.”
“I’m fine,” Jamie scoffs, visibly shivering.
“The mud stain on my duvet says otherwise. Come on. Up you get. The bath is filling.”
“I can’t ask you to let me use your bath.”
“Good thing you’re not asking, then.”
The half-formed rebuke dies on Jamie’s lips, and she nods as if to say, touché, but Dani is certain she will not be hearing the end of this. She beckons Jamie up and pulls her into the other room, leaning her against the countertop. Without thinking, she begins undoing the buttons on Jamie’s top.
“Blimey,” Jamie remarks, not pushing Dani away, but stilling her movements.
Dani can feel the heat rise in her cheeks. She backpedals. “I, um, I didn’t-- I’m so sorry.”
Jamie just laughs, “Only teasing, love. But, ah, I can probably take it from here, yeah?”
“Um, yeah. I’ll just… be in the bedroom. If you need me.”
Dani slumps against the door as it closes behind her. The sound of the water running mimics the rush of blood in her ears. They’ve only been doing... whatever this is between them for a month. Not long at all. Certainly not long enough to be undressing her in the middle of the day with people in the house while she’s in pain. Dani hadn’t meant it in an erotic way but, Jesus, Dani, show some restraint.
She exhales. Right. Organize. Jamie will need a towel. She’ll need dry clothes. Maybe tea? A warm compress. Or ice? What do people put on sore muscles? A massage? Dani swallows thickly and shakes off the thought of Jamie’s smooth skin beneath her fingertips, tightness dissipating as Dani works the knots away. She absolutely does not imagine Jamie melting into the mattress or the moans that might escape through her lips, and she decidedly does not dwell upon the rare sight of Jamie, pliant and entirely relaxed.
Absolutely not. Shove that into a box and come back to it later. It’s worked well enough in the past.
Right then.
Dani sets about making the necessary rearrangements, shuffling her boots into the closet, digging out appropriately loose clothes for laying about, and swiping a plate of sandwiches from the kitchen, making some excuse about Jamie being too busy to come in, but she sends her thanks. Owen raises an eyebrow at this, but apparently does not feel the need to comment. Hannah, however, takes one look at Dani’s muddy knees and frowns.
“Miss Clayton, you had better not be tracking mud through my house.”
“Yes, Miss Clayton, or else you will have to mop up the mess just like Miles!” Flora states, intently focused on the cucumber and cream cheese sandwich on her plate.
“I told you it wasn’t me!” Miles objects loudly, his drinking glass making contact with the table with a bit more force than necessary.
“It’s in the past,” Dani dismisses, before the situation can get out of hand. She turns to Hannah, and, in her best I’m-setting-an-example-please-go-with-it voice, says, “Of course, Mrs. Grose, I made sure to wipe my feet at the door, but I will clean up any messes I made because it is very important that we all clean up our own messes.”
“Right you are, dear.”
“Could I get a cup of tea to take to Jamie as well? I’d make it but…”
“Say no more,” Owen rises from his seat at the table. “Wouldn’t want to poison poor Jamie, now would we?” Then, with a chuckle, “She’s got you properly whipped, hasn’t she? Trekking lunch out to whatever corner of the grounds she’s wound up in.”
“Why’s Jamie whipping Miss Clayton?” Flora pipes up.
Dani feels her face flush. “Oh, sweetie, she’s, um, that’s not--”
“What Owen means to say, is it’s very nice of Miss Clayton to deliver a meal to Jamie while she’s working,” Hannah says pointedly.
Owen coughs. “Ah, yeah, to-tea-lly leaf-ly of her to help out.”
“Hannah, I was thinking of taking my lunch with Jamie. Would you mind keeping an eye on these two for a little while?”
“Oh, I don’t know…” Hannah chaffs, “They’re an awful lot of trouble, these two.”
“You think,” Owen chimes in, “they’d behave if I told them I could use a hand baking biscuits this afternoon?”
“I suppose that might do it,” Hannah says, an expression of faux pensivity creasing her forehead. “What do you think, children?”
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Grose, that would be perfectly splendid!”
“Can we make snickerdoodles?”
“Don’t see why not,” Owen says. He hands a teacup to Dani. “Off with you. Go find your knight in mud and dungarees.”
Dani shoots them a grateful smile and heads back upstairs, delicately balancing the cup with the plate of food. She knocks thrice.
“Yeah.” Jamie’s voice comes muffled through the heavy wooden door as Dani cautiously turns the knob.
Dani lets out a moderately embarrassing squeak and immediately averts her eyes, intent on looking anywhere except at a very wet, towel-clad Jamie. “Oh, um, good. Y-you found the towel.”
“That I did. I, ah, wasn’t sure if these were for me,” she gestures to the neatly folded stack of clothes on the bed, “didn’t want to assume.”
“They’re, um, they’re for you.” There’s a fascinating crack in the floor Dani has never noticed before. It’s about four inches long and almost invisible.
“Hey, Dani, you can look.” Jamie sounds almost concerned. ‘S’okay. It’s not like you haven’t seen it all before.” She grins wryly.
“No, no, yeah, I know. It just, I don’t know, feels different when it’s not for that reason.”
“Dani Clayton, not a fan of casual nudity. Noted,” Jamie teases.
“I didn’t say I wasn’t a fan.” Dani places the tea and sandwiches on the bedside table, stepping into Jamie’s space.
“That so?”
“Mhm,” Dani hums, “and I’m going to stop this runaway train right here. You’re injured.”
Jamie huffs. “Bloody rude.”
“How’s your back?”
“Feels fine. Right as rain. I’ll just get dressed and go back out--”
“You most certainly will not. You are going to get dressed and get in this bed and you are going to rest.”
“But I’ve still got to finish in the statuary, and Hannah’s brought up a crack she wants me to fix, and--”
“--and all of those things can wait. I’ve taken care of enough idiotic teenage sports injuries to know that straining it will only make it worse. So, put these on, and get into bed.” She leaves no room for disagreement.
“I can’t believe you just used your teacher voice on me.”
“I can’t believe you’re being this obstinate.”
“I’m fine!”
“Why won’t you let me take care of you?” It is not aggressive. It comes out softly, a hint of confusion combined with an ounce of desperation.
Jamie freezes. “I don’t…”
“You only took a bath after I practically forced you--”
“I wouldn’t--”
“You could’ve really hurt yourself.”
“I know, but--”
“How long would you have laid out there in the mud before calling for help?”
“Dani,” Jamie interrupts, an appeasing thumb running along the inside of Dani’s wrist, “look, I just…” she sighs. “It’s not that easy.”
“It is, though,” Dani insists.
“No, love, it’s not. Not when you’ve been… well, not when you’re me.” She pauses, sits on the bed, and nudges Dani down next to her. “I don’t like feeling useless, s’all. People look at you, see you laying about, they see weakness. Someone to be pitied or someone to be taken advantage of. Just once is all it takes for them to get the idea you can’t stand on your own two feet.”
She seems a million miles away, a decade, even, and Dani waits. Jamie will continue if she wants to.
“I don’t like being pitied. And I know that’s not...that’s not what you’re trying to do.” She chooses her words carefully, as if walking through a minefield. Dani stands on the other side. “No need to give me the talk about everybody needing help. ‘Cause, in theory, yeah, that’s true, but when you’ve always been the one doing the helping... it… it’s not all that easy to be on the receiving end.” The last sentence is rushed, and Jamie finishes with a humorless snort of laughter. Her thumb has halted its caress of Dani’s skin.
Dani is silent for a moment. Coddling would be met with rejection. Not outright, no, but Dani knows better. Jamie has lain bare this piece of her soul, held out a fragment of her identity in tender hands, and trusts Dani to take it under her care, treasure it. Jamie had woven the tale of her life under the moonlight, and Dani has spent the past month trying to unravel the threads, to understand. Now, Jamie has given her a new string to follow, but she cannot pull too hard, lest it fall apart.
Dani speaks, quiet, but firm. “We’ll just have to practice then, won’t we.”
A flicker of confusion passes over Jamie’s face as she processes. Then, she softens. Her thumb resumes its rhythmic movement.
There will be other times, Dani has said, and I will stay and I will be here for you because you aren’t alone anymore.
And that seems to be enough.
Jamie exhales through her nose.
“Bit nippy in here. Might, ah, might want to put on some clothes.”
Right. Yes. Of course. Jamie is still in a towel. Gooseflesh has risen along her legs, and she shivers.
“Oh, oh, yeah,” Dani stammers, “I’ll just--” She mimes turning around and is met with a chuckle.
“You weren’t this shy the other night, if memory serves.”
“That,” Dani reiterates, “that was different.” She makes a show of fussing with the corner of the duvet, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles.
Jamie makes a noncommittal noise low in her throat. “I’m decent.”
Dani had picked the clothes, sure, but for a woman who prides herself on preparedness, actually seeing Jamie in Dani’s old elementary school t-shirt and loose-fitting, flannel trousers causes the circuits in her brain to fry.
“Your tea’s getting cold,” she says dumbly. “I didn’t make it,” she adds, noting Jamie’s look of skepticism. Apparently satisfied with that answer, Jamie sips at her beverage and slides under the covers, gesturing for Dani to join her. She shakes her head. “I still need to clean myself up. Hannah’s watching the kids for now, but I really should get back to them.”
“A tragedy of Shakespearen proportions.”
“You need anything else before I shower?”
“No, thank you, love.” Modest affection shines on Jamie’s face, and she speaks so genuinely Dani’s heart aches. She smiles.
“Get some rest, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jamie gives a mock salute, at which Dani can only roll her eyes before exiting into the bathroom with an extra towel and a change of clothes.
When she returns, wringing her hair out, she finds Jamie soundly asleep. The teacup has been placed on the table, next to the plate now missing a sandwich, and Jamie is curled on her side, puffing slow, measured breaths.
Chamomile tea. Who knew?
Dani makes sure to close the door quietly, and she does her best to herd the children away from that side of the house.
It’s about time for supper when Dani makes her way back to her room. When Jamie does not answer her knocks, Dani opens the door, praying the hinges will not squeak for once. Jamie is still nestled in Dani’s bed. She’s rolled over, though, facing the door, and Dani can see her bangs billowing slightly with every breath. Jamie’s nose twitches where the hair tickles it.
This isn’t the first time Dani has seen Jamie in her bed, and she certainly hopes it won’t be the last, but this, this casual intimacy, is something so precious to her. She wants it to last.
Dani perches on the edge of the mattress, reaching out to remove the offending strand of hair from Jamie’s face, and Jamie stirs.
“Hey,” Dani whispers, and Jamie cracks an eye. She presses a hand to her forehead. One of her shirtsleeves has fallen to the side, revealing pale collarbones.
“Hey.” Her voice is gravelly, sleep-laden, in a way that makes Dani’s stomach turn over itself. “Time s’it?”
“Around six, I think?” That grabs Jamie’s attention. Before Dani can stop her, she’s scrambling to sit up, completely forgetting that’s a terrible idea and acting surprised when she topples back onto the pillows with a grunt.
“Easy, easy…” Dani scolds sweetly, as Jamie gasps. “You’re okay. Just lay back. That’s it.”
“Christ.”
“Forgot why you ended up here in the first place, huh?”
“I can’t believe you let me sleep all day,” Jamie says, when the stab of pain fades. “Thought you’d at least wake me up after an hour or so. Had things to do.”
“We said they could wait.”
“You said they could wait.”
“You can’t seriously be mad at me for making you take care of yourself.”
“Feel like I wasted a day, s’all.”
“Well, you didn’t. Taking care of yourself is never a waste,” Dani says, effectively ending the argument. “Do you want to come down for dinner, or do you want me to bring it up to you?” Jamie opens her mouth, but Dani continues, “Before you answer, I want you to think about whether you’re making this decision based on what’s easiest for me, or what you actually feel capable of doing.”
Jamie’s brows raise. “Someone’s feeling bold this evening.”
Dani resists the urge to shirk away, to cave. She knows Jamie would drop it instantly, reassuring Dani that she hasn’t actually overstepped. Instead, Dani says, quietly, sincerely, “You don’t have to put your needs aside to make my life easier.” She considers, leans down so that she’s laying next to Jamie on the bed. “Besides, I like taking care of you.”
Jamie studies her. Whether she’s looking for the lie or for Dani to pull back and say, “just kidding!” Dani doesn’t know. Jamie presses a gentle kiss to her lips, a kiss that speaks the words she cannot. A kiss that says, I’m working on it.
Dani stays close when they break apart, their foreheads touching. “So, dinner?”
“Should probably make an appearance.”
Dani gives her a pointed look. “‘Should’ or ‘want to.’”
“Want to,” Jamie assures, amusement dancing in her eyes.
“You know,” Dani says, helping Jamie sit up slowly, “we should probably tell them how you hurt yourself, or they’ll assume it was from less, hm, virtuous activities.”
“Dirty bird.” Jamie swats her arm. “Owen, maybe, but not our good, Christian Hannah.”
“But do you really want to deal with the comments at the table?”
“Fine. We tell them I fell, and that’s it.”
“Right, so I shouldn’t mention your incredibly stupid idea to move a heavy marble statue without help?”
“Not ideally, no.”
Dani pouts. “Do I at least get to ask about the Rosebush Incident of Eighty-five?”
“You’re not gonna let that one go, are you?” Jamie sighs. “Fine. Ask Owen, then. Suppose you’ll find out about it eventually.” Dani places a gleeful kiss on her cheek.
“Come on, let’s get some food into you.”
The few hours of bedrest appear to have paid off, Dani thinks smugly, as Jamie is perfectly capable of walking herself down the hall. Jamie, however, seems to be rather content to use this as an excuse to lean into Dani, and Dani can’t say she minds all that much. She stands on her own as they near the kitchen and moves with only a slight limp and a wince Dani only catches because she’s looking for it.
At another time, she’ll wonder how often Jamie has hidden her pain.
“There she is!” Owen exclaims when they take their unassigned, assigned seats at the table.
“What happened, dear?” Hannah says simultaneously, as Owen does a double take, clearly trying to figure out what he’s missing. It dawns on him a moment later.
“Fell. ‘M fine,” Jamie shrugs.
“Must’ve been some fall,” Owen remarks, with a smirk that has Dani wary.
“Hm?” Jamie does not look up from the roll she’s buttering.
“You’re wearing Miss Clayton’s clothes,” Flora observes helpfully. Dani chokes on her water. Shit. How could she have missed that?
To her credit, Jamie continues without faltering. “Tripped, landed in a mud puddle, and I didn’t have a change of clothes in the truck. Miss Clayton was nice enough to loan me hers.”
Well, the first part, at least, is true. Dani pinches herself for not asking if Jamie had her own clothes to change into. Even if she does look divine in the free t-shirt they gave Dani when she started teaching.
Owen seems skeptical, but, blessedly, he drops the subject in favor of animatedly recounting the story of their baking adventures that afternoon.
Hannah catches them after dinner, just as Dani is preparing to send the children to bed. “Will you be staying the night, Jamie? In the unfortunate event your injury acts up, of course,” she says with a mirthful wink.
Jamie looks to Dani for an answer, her mouth moving but no words coming out.
“Yes,” Dani decides for them.
“I’m assuming I won’t need to make up the guest bedroom for you?”
“Oh, um, no, thanks. That won’t be necessary.” Dani isn’t sure why she’s blushing. It’s not as if the whole manor doesn’t know about them. They’d tried hiding at first, sneaking about and slipping into dark corners like teenagers. They were not very good at it.
Later, with Miles and Flora safely asleep and Owen and Hannah having taken their leave for the evening, Jamie returns to Dani’s bed, this time with Dani sliding in behind her. Dani nuzzles into her back, careful not to touch any sore areas.
“I know I was an idiot,” Jamie’s voice cuts nervously through the darkness, “but, ah, just wanted to say thanks. For caring about me. Not really...not really used to that.”
Dani can feel her entire body tense. She presses tender kisses along Jamie’s back. “Of course,” she murmurs, and she hopes her conviction comes across. “Always.” She hesitates. “You’re not wrong about being an idiot, though,” Dani giggles.
“You like it.” It’s not meant to be a question, though Jamie’s voice wavers.
“I do,” Dani confirms affectionately, “I do.”
Jamie relaxes against her.
#woohoo!#accidentally wrote like 3k more words than planned but its fine#pls enjoy jamie being a dumbass#and dani forcing her to accept affection#the haunting of bly manor#thobm#thobm jamie#jamie#damie#dani clayton#jamie x dani#dani x jamie#Hannah grose#Owen sharma#flora wingrave#miles wingrave#fic#writing#my writing#thobm fanfic#damie fanfic#jamie taylor#Danielle clayton#bly manor
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Fuck Off, Excuse Me! Part 4
Yea I still don’t know how this will end but I have a vague idea for the next few parts I guess? Emphasis on the vague. Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3 can be found here if anyone’s lost. Again not edited cause this is just a fic that I’m rolling along with
The next few days have been awkward to say the least, after explaining the whole situation to both Cate and Trent, Courtney does feel a little better now that she doesn’t have to keep this secret by herself. The problem is, all three of the people who know about Duncan have turned against her. Why oh why did she have to make friends and be related to hopeless romantics who buy into the soulmate bullshit. Sure she can admit she has a bond with the delinquent, but it doesn’t mean anything, besides she’s far too busy to deal with a stranger who only exists to annoy her. Maybe the whole soulmate thing means the person who will give you the biggest headache, she swears her mood worsens whenever he’s around. It’s like he completely ignores her concerns, continuing to push her boundaries, insisting they’re in it for the long run so she needs to relax and just let it be. No matter how much she pushes him away, he just finds a way to worm himself back into her space.
“Did you miss me Princess?”
“Can’t you go bother someone else? It’s bad enough I have to see you in class.”
“Alright, if that’s what you want. See ya.”
She’s completely caught off guard by the sudden change, he’s walking away without a backwards glance back. Not even caring to see if she would stop him, not that she would… this is exactly what she wants right? She nods to herself, yes this is what she’s been wanting, both of them to stay out of each other’s way. It’s nice that he’s finally listening, she much prefers to be apart from him, she’s just not quite used to it yet. That’s the only reason why she spends the rest of lunch break picking at her food instead of eating it.
Her mood worsens as the rest of the day goes on, he dodged her in the hall on their way to their respective classes. A surprise pop quiz in math that she wasn’t prepared for at all didn’t help, and now it’s time for history which means she’ll see Duncan again. She takes in a deep breath before entering the classroom, but when she takes her seat next to him, he doesn’t acknowledge her too absorbed in whoever he was texting. She frowns, an uneasy feeling sinks in when he makes no effort to say hello, she decides to break the ice and greet him first. All she receives is a polite hello then he goes back to focusing on his cellphone. She had hoped that once the lecture began, he would pay attention to the teacher, but he was still texting underneath the desk. To avoid getting him in trouble, she whispers for him to at least pretend to take notes.
“Duncan, stop texting and pay attention.”
“Relax Princess, I won’t get caught… are you worried I’ll get in trouble?”
“I don’t care what happens to you, but if you look bad then that will reflect poorly on me. I’m supposed to be keeping you on track.”
He rolls his eyes at her response, he does start scribbling some words down in his notebook otherwise he ignores her warnings. Curiosity gets the best of her as she wonders who he could possibly be talking to right now, so she tries to peek over, but he catches on, locking the screen before she can see any part of their conversation. His smug expression when he teases her about being jealous sets her off, she forgets to keep her voice low resulting in a scolding from their teacher. Duncan snickers which only serves to make her more annoyed, she forces herself to keep her eyes forward for the rest of class. Which would have worked if Duncan didn’t provoke her again.
“Don’t worry Courtney, you know I only have eyes for you.”
“You are unbelievably…”
This second outburst interrupts the lecture leaving the teacher no choice but to give both of them detention. Courtney would never act out on her own, so clearly the new student was the culprit, they both need to be reprimanded. Used to getting in trouble, Duncan shrugs it off, but Courtney goes into full panic mode. She’s never been sent to detention before, what if this goes on her record? She’s going to be ruined! She’s still hyperventilating when the bell rings signaling the end of school and the beginning of their detention. A hand on her shoulder radiating warmth calms her down, she looks up to see ice blue eyes filled with concern for her well-being. His voice is soft as he gently asks if she’s okay, her anxious thoughts start to disappear as soon as she feels his touch. She nods her head, he smiles telling her it would be alright, especially since this is her first offense. She feels a lot better when he places his hand over hers, their names on each other’s skin almost looks like it’s glowing except without the pain from last time.
“Trust me, I’m a pro when it comes to this, you have nothing to worry about Princess.”
“Great, my soulmate is a delinquent, exactly what I need right now.”
“Say that again.”
“What?”
“You called me your soulmate!”
“What? No I didn’t… I mean that… that was a mistake… I didn’t mean.”
“Face it Courtney, you like me.”
“I do not!”
“Then why were you trying to see who I was texting?”
“I-I was not! I could care less about whatever girl you’re texting…”
“What makes you think it’s a girl?”
“Isn’t it? You kept smiling.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“What!”
“Calm down Babe, it’s just Phia, she’s my best friend. You should meet her, I’m sure you two will get along!”
His reassurance puts a smile on her face, their hands are still joined as they walk through the mostly empty hall on their way to detention. Though before they enter the room she drops his hand, remembering they’re still in school where people could see them. The action makes Duncan frown, he thought they were finally getting somewhere. It seems she still cares too much about her reputation, he still has a long way to go before she admits there’s something between them. He’s going to need some backup.
#duncney#FOEM!#I kinda know the next chapter but then after that idk man#I really should be working on my WIPs but here we are
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Sunday Mornings 12/?
So this started out as a cute little fic of the boys being doggy daddies... and quickly it turned into phone sex. So... heed that warning.
If anyone has any prompt fills for this, let me know. I’m slowly running low on my own ideas for domestic bliss fic!
Gif by the lovely @manesalex
Week 12
The phone rings so early in the morning that it’s still dark outside. Of course the sound causes the three littlest ones on the bed to jolt awake and start barking. Michael groans, reaching out to grab his cell phone off of the nightstand without moving too much. He’s worried if he sits up that John will go tumbling off of his chest and to the floor. It wouldn’t be the first time. His smallest child really is an uncoordinated mess.
When Michael is able to pull his phone to his face, he smiles when he sees an incoming FaceTime call from Alex.
“You woke up the children,” he playfully admonishes Alex in lieu of a formal greeting. Alex has been away on a training for the last several days and isn’t due back home until Tuesday.
“Sorry,” Alex says, not looking sorry in the least. “I have to report in thirty minutes and I didn’t want to leave for work without seeing you guys.”
Michael smiles at that. Or, he would, but Peter, little shit that he is, climbs over his face in order to see his daddy properly.
“Hey baby!” Alex says, his entire face lighting up. “Are you being a good boy for your old man?”
Michael rolls his eyes and Peter literally sits on his face. He most certainly did not agree to being called ‘old man’ and every time he says as much to Alex, Alex makes sure to use it that much more. The fact that Peter is also a little shit is one hundred percent Alex’s influence.
Michael lets Peter say hi for a minute before he reaches up and grabs him, moving him to his chest so that Michael can breathe properly and Alex can see more than just Peter’s nose. Wendy and John squeeze themselves into the frame as well to say hello.
Alex spends a solid minute greeting each of them personally and Michael has to bite back a goofy smile at the way they all get excited to hear their name and attempt to reach Alex through the phone.
“So we’re letting the puppies sleep in our bed now?” Alex asks, amused once he’s done saying good morning to the littles.
“They missed you,” Michael says defensively, not bothering to mention that it is indeed Michael who misses Alex and he’s been letting the puppies sleep in the bed so it won’t feel so big and empty.
“That’s very sweet,” he says. “If they pee on the comforter I’m gonna be mad.”
He has a fair point. Which is why Michael had thought ahead and stripped the bed and replaced the linens with the cheap sheets they only ever use on laundry day.
“Aww, come on babe, you can’t be mad the dogs are in the bed. Look at our girl,” he says, flipping the camera around and pointing it at Bell, who is currently under the covers next to Michael with her head on Michael’s pillow, eyeing the entire thing skeptically, but not running away, which is progress.
“Oh my god, when did this happen?” Alex asks, his hands coming up to his mouth as his eyes water.
Bell has been home with them for three whole weeks and has spent most of her time under their bed. So much time, in fact, that Alex and Michael have taken turns hanging out under the bed with her so she wouldn’t be alone. She would only ever leave to go outside during the day. They’ve had to keep their master bedroom door open at night because the only time she’d venture into the kitchen to eat is during the middle of the night when the entire house is asleep.
“Two nights ago, I woke up to her crawling under the blanket from the foot of the bed. I was gonna text you, but I didn’t wanna jinx it,” he says. “She still goes under the bed when anyone knocks on the door, but otherwise this is her new spot.”
Michael flips the camera back around as Peter tries to lick the phone and Michael has to hold it above his head and out of reach.
“Well that’s certainly progress,” Alex says with a smile and Michael agrees.
Wendy barks at the blanket when Michael moves his foot and pounces at it and John stands up to egg her on.
“Jesus, it’s too early for this shit,” Michael says with a laugh even as he moves his foot around and watches Wendy jump around at the foot of the bed trying to attack whatever beast she assumes is under the sheet.
“I feel bad leaving you with all four of them yourself,” he says. “I know they’re a handful.”
A handful, they certainly are. But that’s not the reason that Michael is annoyed that Alex had to go away this week. Despite his loud protest for weeks about getting a dog, Michael is completely satisfied with their crazy brood.
“I feel worse about you being gone on a Sunday.” Michael pouts at the camera and Alex lets out a groan.
“I know, why do you think I called you so early?” he says. “I wanted to at least pretend that we woke up in bed together before I had to go through another one of these long ass days.”
Michael wants that too. It’s crazy, in a matter of weeks, Michael has completely forgotten how to sleep alone.
“Next time the stupid military decides to send you somewhere, I’m throwing the kids in the airstream and we are coming with you,” he says.
Alex’s soft smile tells him that he wants that too, even as he questions, “And give Bell a nervous breakdown? Wouldn’t that make us bad parents?”
“We’ll train her up,” Michael says, he’s about to say more, when John starts circling around, doing his potty dance.
“Nope!” Michael yells, grabbing John and shooting out of bed. He rushes to the back door, letting him out, before he can poop in the house. Unsurprisingly, his siblings run after him and head outside as well. Perfect. The kids are officially up, everyone’s out of bed except for Bell, and there’s no way Michael is getting back to sleep. It’s not even six in the morning.
He sighs, pulling the phone back up.
“Sorry,” Michael apologizes. “I should probably let you go or something.”
“Wait,” Alex calls out before he can hang up. Michael gives him a questioning look. “I just want to look at you for another minute.”
Michael blushes at that, stepping out onto the patio to take a seat at one of the chairs, watching the kids run around the yard, distracted for a few minutes.
“Is that all I am to you? A pretty face?” he asks in mock outrage.
“Basically.”
“I want to be loved for more than just my beauty you know,” he teases him.
“Oh, I appreciate your mind as well.” Alex’s eyes darken and he licks at his lower lip in the way that always turns Michael on. He reaches down to rub at himself through his sweatpants, and he doesn’t have to be able to see all of Alex… The look on his face tells him that he’s doing the same thing.
“My mind was it?” Michael asks, as he starts to get hard. He flips the camera so that Alex can see the tent in his pants.
“I hate you,” Alex groans and shifts around on the bed until he’s resting back against the pillows.
Michael can just picture him, laying out, feet on the mattress, knees spread, and touching himself. He glances around to make sure the puppies are still distracted before he slips his hand under the waistband to touch himself properly, letting out a moan as he does.
“Fuck, Michael.” Alex bites his lip and it does things to Michael.
“Yes please,” he says, not even embarrassed by how breathy it comes out. “Hurry before the kids want my attention again.”
Alex laughs, but angles his camera down so that Michael can see his hand pumping himself slowly under the thin sheet. Michael slows down his own pumping to match Alex’s pace, trying to picture it’s Alex beside him, touching him.
“You say the sexiest things,” Alex says.
“You love it.”
His breath catches as the sheet covering Alex drops and he can see him in all of his glory. Alex lets go of his dick to lick at his palm before returning back to touching himself. Michael practically whines. Alex paints a positively filthy picture and if he hadn’t upgraded both of their phones with some military grade encryption software he’d be worried… But they are safe and Michael can enjoy this moment with zero guilt.
“I love you,” Alex says.
Despite the fact that both of them are touching themselves, breathing heavily, and moaning loud enough for the neighbors to hear if they were awake, Michael positively melts at Alex’s words. Alex always makes sure that Michael never feels like they are just having sex. They make love every single time.
“I love you, too,” Michael whispers, slowing his pace so that he is able to get the words out without sounding like a damn porn star.
Alex changes the camera angle so that his entire face comes back into view and while Michael was enjoying watching Alex touch himself, he has to admit, he’d rather get off to this view instead. Alex is so fucking beautiful.
“I should be the one touching you right now,” he says, and it sounds sad.
Michael drops his grip on himself and sits up, watching Alex’s face carefully. Somehow, his tired eyes had missed it before, but he can see it now. The weight Alex is carrying in his shoulders. The stress around his eyes. Michael isn’t the only one feeling the distance between them. He wants to ask Alex about the training, but Michael already knows that whatever the military has Alex working on is classified and Alex isn’t allowed to say. And while Alex may disregard the military’s need for secrecy when it comes to anything alien related, he’s a stickler for it with everything else.
“You’ll be home in two days and then you can do all the touching you want,” Michael assures him.
Alex smiles, and though it doesn’t completely erase the stress, it’s something. “I’m gonna hold you to that.”
“You can hold me to more than that, Baby,” he says with a wink that has Alex laughing again.
“Are you gonna come with me or not?” Alex asks and Michael’s not a complete idiot. He flips the camera around, pulls his pants down, and gives Alex a show. After all, his soldier deserves to know what he’s coming back home to, does he not?
Tagged: @callieramics @redstalkingdeath
If anyone else would like to be tagged- let me know!
PS- if anyone wants to see the inspiration photos for Bell in this fic, here you go:
#roswell new mexico#roswell nm#malex fic#malex#alex manes#michael guerin#doggy daddies#domestic bliss#fic: sunday mornings
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on the house (chapter 2) - maple soy latte
Ship: Yagi Toshinori x reader
Rated: T+
Word Count: 2.4k
Summary: Toshinori finally introduces himself, and you fumble your way through a conversation. But maybe it's not one-sided?
Warnings: some language and mentions of sex
AN: still trying to vibe with this writing style, but i just wanna write this haha
OTH Masterlist
____________________
Yes, you had fumbled your entire conversation with the man with piercing eyes and sunflower hair. Yes, you had embarrassingly ranted to Suga after. Yes, you had overwatered a tea plant or two the first night because you were thinking about how his hair bloomed behind him so nicely. And you may have gotten an order or two wrong, but it doesn’t matter, you’re fine now. You can now amicably chat with the UA faculty and students who pop in without nervously looking for him, and other customers are just customers. No sense of attachment. You’re back to normal now.
However, the way Aiko’s palm hits her forehead after looking at the tea leaves you’ve brought for her today tells you otherwise.
“Y/N, you promised you were gonna bring the spices I needed. I’ve already got tea leaves here”, she groans, her horns shifting into a bright red out of frustration. You grimace at the thought of the bulk bags that were sitting on your counter at home. You had set them out as a reminder to bring them in today. Why had you brought more leaves instead?
You shut your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose. You had been thinking about that dumb, tall stranger and left the bags at home. You exhale and open your eyes, giving Aiko a pointed look.
“Alright, alright. It’s fine,” she chirps. “I’ll make do, boss. We shall experiment another day,” she mumbles in a far off tone. You offer her an apologetic grimace before making preparations to open the cafe. Now, you swear you’ll be fine.
____________________
The sky’s a warm, deep orange, rippled with pinks and yellows. You reach your arms above your head and stretch from behind the coffee bar, exhaustion beginning to creep up on you. But on the weekend you stay open late, and today was no exception. Your face screws up in what’s sure to be an unpleasant sight as you glance at the clock. The second Suga gives Hizashi Yamada his fried chicken sandwich, he’s out the door. And Aiko would be right behind him.
As the sun continues to dip down, the bell above your door rings and Aiko is practically buzzing.
“Hello, Sweet Bean!” A loud, clear voice rings out in the cafe. Hizashi Yamada, otherwise known as the Pro Hero Present Mic. He comes in every Friday before his radio show to get a caffeine boost and a hot sandwich made by Suga and only Suga. Why did he want a fried chicken sandwich of all things, you may never know. But Aiko, your excitable friend, had taken a shine to Yamada. They seemed to feed off of each other's energy.
You smile at Yamada as he bounds over to giggle at something with Aiko. When you turn your gaze forward, your mind goes blank. He’s back. The man who had been living in your thoughts the past two weeks was back. Your stomach is practically in your throat, but there’s a light at the end of this tunnel: redemption. The chance at a normal conversation, or maybe something even better. But for now, you turn to Yamada.
“Your usual sweet monstrosity, Yamada?” you ask playfully.
“You know it, baby girl,” he sings at you. “Y’know, I never go anywhere else but here. I swear nothing makes me feel as happy as the coffee you make.” You bark out a laugh as you flush. But this game isn’t over yet.
“Well, I’m sure I could do some other things that would make you happy too,” you purr and bat your eyelids. Aiko doubles over in laughter, and you hear Suga groan from the kitchen. Yamada gives you a nod of approval, and you grin.
You stick your tongue out at him before forcing yourself to look up at the other man. A pretty red color blooms all over his face, and he looks mildly uncomfortable at best. You take a sharp breath and steel yourself before leaning into your customer service voice.
“It’s nice to see you again. I never got your name,” you prompt, in what’s hopefully an innocent voice. His eyes widen slightly, and he sheepishly rubs the back of his head.
“Toshinori. Yagi Toshinori,” he rumbles. Toshinori. You tilt your head as his name bounces around in your head. Finally, a name to go with the face that’s been plaguing you.
“Oh, so you’ve been here before, Toshinori?” A mischievous smirk slips onto Yamada’s face. The blush on the man’s - on Toshinori’s - face deepens. His slouch dips even lower, and he shifts uncomfortably.
“Right, Aizawa brought me a few weeks ago.” Yamada’s eyes open in surprise as if he knows something no one else does. His lips pull into a smirk, and he turns to look you up and down in a new light. Your face burns and you shift your gaze towards the counter in front of you.
“Anyways,” Aiko chimes in to your relief, “Yamada, how are your students?” You let out a small breath as Yamada and Aiko begin to chatter away. A large, calloused hand enters your field of view, and you look up. Toshinori stands a little straighter, and there’s a gleam in his eye.
You stare at his hand dumbly before realizing what he meant. Wiping your palms on your apron, you accept his handshake before offering your name shyly. He grins lazily at you, and something warm bursts from your chest.
“Well, what do you recommend this time?” One of his eyebrows quirks up, as he waits for your response.
“Oh, well our weekend special is a maple soy latte!” Your voice feels too loud, too forced, and you wince. “But if you’re allergic to soy we’ve got plenty of other milk options. Or if you don’t like maple-” His small chuckle cuts you off, and you flush.
“I’ll try the special.” You nod and fidget with a stray coffee stirrer.
“And if you’re hungry,” you rush out, “Suga is a pretty decent cook, and our kitchen has a whole assortment of ingredients. I’m sure he’d be happy to make you anything.”
With perfect timing, Suga comes to the front to give Present Mic his neatly wrapped sandwich. He’s smiling, but he turns to face you, and Aiko snorts at how pained he looks. Ah right, they’re both about to leave. When you turn back to Toshinori, he’s got a knowing look on his face, and he lightly shakes his head.
“Thanks for the offer. I think I’ll be happy with just the drink.” You nod, and you swear Suga’s about to cry from relief.
“Alright, I’m gonna head out. Are you good here?” His offer is just a courtesy, and you roll your eyes.
“Get out of here, kiddo. And Aiko, you’re good too. I’ll clean and close up.” Suga’s face scrunches up unpleasantly at the nickname, but he’s gone almost immediately. Aiko nods, but tilts her up and taps her chin.
“I’m gonna go check on the tea blends, and then I’ll head out,” she says carefully. You nod, as she skips back to the kitchen. When you hand Yamada his double-shot caramel, mocha chip frappuccino, he practically swoons.
“Y/N, you absolute goddess. Truly, I have never had a sweeter drink from a sweeter lady,” he croons. You roll your eyes, but can’t help the warmth that rises to your cheeks.
“You have the palette of a child,” you deadpan, and Aiko lets out a resounding laugh from the kitchen.
“But you make it so well.”
“Only for you baby.” You wink at him before dropping the act. “Now pay up!” Once he’s got his receipt in his hand, you turn to quickly make Toshinori his drink. And it’s only when you set down the in-house mug in front of him that you realize your error.
“Oh wait, did you want this to-go? I can absolutely make you one to-go. I just have only been making these in-house today, and I just blanked. Sorry about that!” you apologize. He shakes his head at your offer.
“That’s fine, don't worry about it. I can drink it here. How much?” He looks at you intensely, and you flush, your stomach twisting into knots.
“Oh! It’s on the house.”
He reddens and looks away, and you can’t help but feel like this was maybe a mistake again. You can practically feel Aiko’s stare from the kitchen. Before you spiral and curl up into a ball, a loud yell snaps you back to reality.
“Hey! How come I never get anything on the house?” Yamada slurps at his drink as he waits for an answer. You turn to look at him and put your hands on your hips.
“First of all, you never bring in your rewards card. Second of all, we play your goddamn radio show every Friday night until we close. Because you asked me to. That’s gotta be worth something.” You raise a brow at him, and he tilts his head as he ponders your words.
“Alright, that’s fair enough for now, but this discussion isn’t over! I’ll see you next week Sweet Bean! And I’ll see you later, Toshinori!” he calls over his shoulder as he runs out the door. Aiko steps back into the storefront, and she’s looking at you funny, but she grants you the small mercy of not bringing anything up.
“Y/N, I’ve gotta head out too.” She says in a calm, far off tone, making your eyebrows crease, but you nod. She looks back at you as she goes to clock out, and you almost miss the small wink she gives you.
The door slams behind her, and you turn back to face Toshinori. Your eyes trace the lines of his face, and your stomach flips when he cocks his head to the side and stares right back at you.
“Enjoy your drink!” you blurt out. “I’ll be in the kitchen starting to clean up if you need anything.” He nods before taking his drink to a free table. There are only a few other regulars in the cafe, so you figure you’d be safe to do the dishes and put some things away.
About thirty minutes later, you step back into the front, expecting everyone to be gone. To your surprise, Toshinori is still there. His cup’s empty, and he’s reading over a few papers that he had with him.
You watch him from behind the counter. He’s deeply focused on whatever he’s reading, and the way his face twists makes you smile. He’s sharp, all angles and hard lines. You barely know this man, but fuck, you were infatuated. You bite the inside of your cheek as you make a spur of the moment decision.
“Mind if I join you?” Toshinori’s head snaps up to see you standing in front of him, and his eyes widen, but he gestures to the seat across from him.
“Not at all.”
You smile graciously and pull the chair out. His eyes try to refocus on his paper, but they continuously flutter up to your face, as if checking to make sure you're still there. You lean forward and rest your head in your palm.
“What are you doing?” you murmur. The tips of his ears heat up, and you know then and there, that you’re going to eat him alive.
“Just some paperwork. Nothing too interesting.” You hum at his words. He sounds honest enough, but something in his eye tells you to not believe him.
“Do you work with Aizawa and Yamada?” He nods and one of his hands moves to scratch the back of his head.
“Yes, though I feel they’re more suited to teaching.” His voice is distant, and worry pulls his face tight. You tap your fingers against your face, as you think of what to say.
“I know I don’t know you all too well,” you murmur, “but don’t be so hard on yourself.” You purse your lips in thought. You had never seen him before. Was he even a Pro? Wasn’t that a requirement to teach at UA? Or maybe it wasn’t? Is that why he’s worried?
“The way I see it, as long as you’re doing your best, watching out for your students, and looking for ways to improve, you shouldn’t stress too much. As long as you choose to do the next right thing, one step at a time, I think you can get through anything. Even teaching the next generation of heroes,” you conclude.
Your eyes drift back down to Toshinori, and you flush at how intently he’s looking at you. He’s mirrored your position, resting his face in one palm, while his other hand is on the table, dangerously close to yours. “But, like, what do I know? I’m not a hero, and I don’t teach,” you backtrack in a panic.
His gaze is too, well, too something. It stirs up a swirl of emotions and thoughts in you, and butterflies fly free in your stomach. You tilt your head down, looking at the proximity between your hands. You swallow past the lump in your throat; you're particularly struck by how large and rough his hands are. His fingers are thick and long, and your blood heats up. He’s lean and gangly, all sharp angles and intense looks, but your thoughts drift to darker places against your will.
You do everything in your power to not squeeze your thighs together. When you look up at him, your eyes are half-lidded, and you can’t help but lick your lips. You don’t miss the way his eyes jump down to watch the action. The cafe is way too warm now; you feel like you're on fire.
“Good evening listeners!” You flinch as a loud, familiar voice blares through the sound system of the cafe. Looking down at your arms, you realize you’re faintly glowing. You slam the metaphorical brakes on your quirk, and the cafe feels bearable again.
“I’m Present Mic, and this is Put Your Hands Up On The Radio!” You roll your eyes before pinching the bridge of your nose.
“Well, Toshinori. I don’t think you’ll be able to get work done here in peace.” He hums in agreement, nose scrunching as Yamada chatters away. “And it’s been a long day, so I may just close early tonight,” you softly say, mostly to yourself. Toshinori nods anyways, and he slowly moves to pack his things up.
You shakily rise and smooth down your apron. You quickly turn around and get to work bussing the tables from previous customers. The entire time, you feel a white-hot gaze on your back, making your hands fumble. After dumping the dishes in the sink and promising to do them tomorrow, you move back to the front to put away the chairs. Toshinori’s still there, but he rises when he sees you working.
“Would you like any help?” You look over at him, eyeing him up and down before nodding.
“Sure, but don’t feel pressured to help. I can get it done.” He chuckles lightly, and your stomach flips.
“I don’t doubt that.”
With his help, you finish quickly. He watches you silently as you run around turning things off and locking doors. Once you have your things, you meet him at the front of the store. He holds the door open for you, and you thank him shyly, trying to not think of the things you want to do to him. As you fumble with the lock, he looks around the street.
“Do you want me to walk you home?” Putting your keys in your pocket, you smile softly before shaking your head.
“Oh, no it's okay. I’ll be fine. I live just a few blocks that way.” You jerk your head behind you in emphasis. He nods but continues to just look at you. Warmth seeps into the pit of your stomach, and the tension is tangible. He runs a hand through his hair, and you admire the way the yellow strands pop right back up again.
“Well, have a good night,” he rumbles. Part of you wants to drag him home with you, and your gaze snaps back to his hands. Arousal pools in the pit of your stomach, but you force your eyes to move up and look him in his eyes.
“You too.” Your voice is soft, and you feel an overwhelming sense of fondness and want growing rapidly in your chest. You turn to start walking, but before you take a step, you pause and turn around.
“Toshinori?” He cocks his head to the side, waiting for you to continue. “You know, you don’t have to come with Aizawa or Yamada? You’re welcome whenever.” The blush that had been adorning his face all night returns, and he nods at your words. You give him a small wave, before turning to walk to your apartment, doing your best to ignore the throbbing in between your legs.
____________________
When Toshinori makes it home, he exhales. That was … different. But it wasn’t bad. He kicks off his shoes and rubs his face. He could maybe do this. Maybe. Aizawa and Yamada, and plenty of his students at that, liked you well enough. When Yamada had mentioned he was going, he had practically jumped at the opportunity. Aizawa shot Yamada a look, one that Toshinori pretended to not see.
So what? You intrigue him, and he finds you attractive. His face heats up at the thought, and he exhales shakily.
But a thousand questions plagued his mind. Would you be okay seeing a Pro Hero? Fuck, is he going to have to tell you he’s All Might? How would you even react? Would you get disappointed? Is there a chance you’re already seeing someone? He pales at the thought. Were you even interested? There’s a chance he’s misreading all the signals.
But he saw how you looked at his hands, the way your eyes trail over his face, he felt the tension that wouldn’t dissipate no matter how much he wanted it to. But it’s hard to believe anyone, let alone you would be interested in him while he looks like this.
He sinks down into his mattress and runs a hand through his hair. It’s impossible to know the answers to anything. And worrying about them isn’t going to accomplish anything. So he lets them slip from his mind. Turning his thoughts to other things. But as sleep overtakes him, there’s only one thing he’s sure of.
He should’ve walked you home.
#yagi toshinori#yagi toshinori x reader#yagi toshinori x you#toshinori yagi x you#toshinori yagi x reader#toshinori x reader#toshinori x you#on the house#my writing#bnha x reader#bnha fanfiction#bnha x you#toshinori content#💫.yagi
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Pastries and Other Sweet Things
For the @rtwritingcommunity‘s Secret Springfairy prompt! When I find out my recipient’s tumblr, I will make sure to tag them here. Until then - I hope you enjoy, Rowen! :)
TW: domestic abuse mentions, food/body shaming
WC: 4180
Prompt: Jeremwood bakery AU — oh god, Jeremy just has the BIGGEST crush on the guy with the sweet tooth that comes in every damn day. It’s a shame Ryan only seems to have eyes for the desserts.
-
Life was normally pretty easy running a bakery, most of the time. Jeremy rarely had to deal with unruly customers or people who didn’t pay. His bakery was located on the corner of Earl and Somerset, near the grocery store, and he had a pretty normal stream of regulars that would come in and out. The worst of his problems boiled down to quietly ushering sobbing customers out when his bakery was the chosen spot for a breakup. But a cookie and a smile normally helped soothe the worst of broken hearts.
He thought so, anyways.
Today was a day like any other. He made himself busy behind the counter, done serving the lunch rush looking for his sandwiches made on his fresh-baked bread, when the bell over the door rang. Expecting just any customer, he looks up with a smile, wiping his hands on his apron and moving to the cash register to take the order.
When he saw the man, though, his heart dropped out of his chest and down towards his shoes. Holy shit. He’d never seen this man before. He would fucking know if this specimen came into his store before now. With dusty blond hair, a dad bod that was just on the right side of chiseled, and a dumb ass backwards cap on his head, the man was attractive in a way that meant he had no idea, which was genuinely all sorts of appealing for Jeremy, who was used to dating men (and women) who knew they were attractive and boasted about it constantly.
He shoves back memories of his last messy breakup and grins brightly at the new customer, happy they were - for now - alone. “Hey,” he hums. “How can I help?”
“Hi,” the man says back and Jeremy’s toes curl in his shoes at that delightful baritone. “Are those cannolis?”
“Fresh baked,” Jeremy chuckles. “I grew up in Boston and learned from the best. These rival Mikes, if you can fuckin’ believe that.” Shit. He needed to remember not to swear in front of customers, but the man just made him feel at ease. Thankfully, it made the blond smile back. “Don’t know what Mikes’ is, but I’ll try one for sure, thanks.”
Jeremy nods breathlessly at that smile and grabs a cannoli, placing it on the top of the counter. “Is this for here or are you taking it out with you?”
The man frowns, glancing at his watch, and swears a bit. “Fuck, I promised my boyfriend I’d meet him outside his work in ten. Can I get another to go?”
Boyfriend. Well, that took the wind out of his sails. Jeremy tried not to show the disappointment that curled in his stomach at the statement. Of course a hottie like that had a boyfriend - although, he had to admit, boyfriend wasn’t a bad first sign. And relationships didn’t last forever, right...?
Fuck, Dooley, you were getting desperate. He needed to find someone soon or he was going to start stalking his customers and that would be a workplace violation if he ever fuckin’ saw one. He forces the grin back on his face. “Sure. Your boy have any special tastes in cannoli?”
“Plain.” The man didn’t even seem to be looking at him now. Instead, he was glancing at his phone in a semi-nervous fashion, seeming much more agitated since he realized he may be late. “Can you move quick? I don’t want to keep him waiting.”
Jeremy raises his eyebrow but doesn’t protest, placing both cannolis in a single box and wrapping it with his special ribbon. “For the both of you,” he purrs a bit as he hands the bag over. The man smiles a bit distractedly. “Thanks.”
“For sure. That will be $7 with tax.” The man digs a five and two ones out of his wallet and hands it over and for a moment their hands brush as Jeremy goes to take the cash. The customer looks a bit startled and glances up, making real eye contact with Jeremy for what seemed like the first time. He swallows, eyes flicking up and down Jeremy’s form, and Jeremy forces himself not to grin. Ah. So, some interest then.
“Thanks - uh - ,” he says again, a bit more strained, looking for a nametag.
“Jeremy,” he supplies readily. “And it’s my pleasure. I bake all of these myself.”
“Do you?” the man blurts. “They look delicious. I - uh - gotta go, but thanks Jeremy.”
The way his name sounded in the other man’s mouth was positively delightful and Jeremy had to force himself from reacting. Get a grip, genius. He just smirks back a bit. “Hope you enjoy and spread the word if you like them.”
The other lingers a bit in the doorway as if he wants to stay, but he just nods and slips out, seeming like he takes Jeremy’s light with him. Jeremy slumps against the counter, humming softly to himself as he plays back the memory.
--
As does all good things when they’re not nurtured, the memories of the mysterious customer fades from Jeremy’s mind over the next few days in the bustle of the weekend rush. He doesn’t give another thought to the man other than a vague warmth until suddenly, he’s back.
He slips in again with the Monday lunch rush and Jeremy doesn’t even notice him until he’s back up at the counter. “Hi,” he says again, but this time he seems a bit more agitated than before. Jeremy doesn’t push, too thrilled to see him again. He beams at the other man on the other side of the counter. “I remember you!” he says - hoping that wasn’t uncomfortable. “Back for more cannolis? I told you that they were the best in this city.”
The blond huffs out a bit of a breathy laugh and Jeremy takes that as his own personal victory. “Yeah. My boyfriend loves them. He - uh - requested I grab two more on my way over to meet him for lunch.”
“That so?” Jeremy asks as he starts to pack two up, not exactly liking how the word ‘requested’ hung in the air. “You eat with him every day?”
“Yeah,” the man says distantly, poking at the counter as he stares at all the sweet treats. “It’s not so far of a walk. We meet up and eat in the little park outside his office when the weather is nice.”
“That’s nice,” Jeremy says, figuring he may as well be supportive. The man was adorable, the way he looked so earnestly at the sweets, the almost childlike passion in his eyes. “I heard it’s romantic if you like - Lady and Tramp the cannoli. One on each end.” He smirks a bit.
“Oh, I don’t eat much,” the other says a bit distractedly. “John says I need to watch my weight. Doesn’t want me developing a dad bod.” He pops up to look at Jeremy and chuckles a bit as if the statement didn’t ring terribly in Jeremy’s ears. He pats his belly. “We’re getting there. But fuck, your cookies do look beautiful.”
“Taste better than they look,” Jeremy says quietly, giving the other a concerned look he can’t hide. The other seemed so .... kind. Funny, gentle, and amazingly beautiful. To think that his boyfriend wasn’t letting him have a fucking cannoli made Jeremy’s blood boil. But he doesn’t say anything. He worked at the damn bakery. Who was he to get involved?
He rings up the cannoli, the guy hands over his $7, and gives him an earnest look. “Thanks. My name is Ryan by the way. I think I’ll be back.” He shoots Jeremy an actual smile, nodding at him a bit, and disappears out the door.
Turning back to the line of some of his more regular customers - one of them smirking at the hearts in Jeremy’s eyes - he tries not to think about Ryan, his beautiful customer, and the potentially problematic confessions he gave over a counter to a stranger.
--
Ryan starts to make regular, daily appearances during the rest of the work week. Jeremy’s crush doesn’t get any better. If anything, he finds himself falling deeper and deeper for the man and the cannoli, counting down the minutes until 1:15pm when Ryan arrives, sometimes breathless from his run over here.
He finds out Ryan likes Diet Coke and always has one fresh pulled from the fridge. When it’s slow, they get into more teasing arguments over the counter. Jeremy tries to convince him that it’s the Diet Coke that’s going to kill him over the sweets and he should try coffee or tea or something, Ryan joking back that it was a brown-liquid-filled grave that was awaiting him and he was okay with that.
Jeremy never once sees Ryan eat one of his baked goods over that week, but doesn’t press. What can he do? Despite their borderline flirting, he knows Ryan has a boyfriend. One he likes quite a lot, despite the disturbing things Jeremy heard on that second meeting. Ryan will sometimes mention this ‘John’ in passing when they are talking - interestingly, more often when they’re edging closer and closer to actually flirting.
He takes this as his cue to back off. He’s not going to be a dick.
However, the meetings with Ryan are the bright spot in his otherwise boring days. He loves learning everything he can about the other in the few minutes he has with him. He starts wrapping up the two cannoli early so he can have a bit more time to just talk to Ryan, to see him smile and the corners of his eyes wrinkle.
He can’t stop thinking about his lips. How his body must look under all those clothes. Late at night, when he closes up the shop and disappears to the apartment upstairs, he lays on his couch and tries to fill his thoughts with anyone other than the blond asshole who had utterly consumed his thoughts with this stupid ass crush.
It would be creepy, he tells himself, if he acted on this fixation. But he doesn’t, other than casual flirting that he stops when and if he sees Ryan getting uncomfortable. It’s just a crush and it feels nice to be in love for once. It’s been a while since he’s crushed on anyone, for it to be anything other than a night of hot lust and an empty bed in the morning.
Jeremy can’t help but admit to himself he wants something real. He’s not going to get that with Ryan, certainly, but he can nurture something like a middle school crush if it doesn’t do any harm and makes him feel nice and giddy when the other walks in.
--
That Friday at 1pm, Jeremy’s just finishing wrapping up the cannolis when the bell rings over his shop door. He looks up and sees the familiar sandy hair and grins brightly again. “Ryan! Welcome back.” Except, this time, Ryan’s not alone. A man follows. Bigger, built more like a traditional football player. Muscles. While he doesn’t have height on Ryan, who was a taller man himself, he does have a build of a man who wasn’t easy to oppose. A man who was used to getting his way. Attractive, if you were into the big muscly types. Jeremy, who prides himself on being pretty jacked himself, wasn’t into that.
Must be John.
Jeremy forces himself to settle down and treat John like any other customer, even though the few things he had heard about the man over the course of their warm counter conversations weren’t at all pleasant.
“Hey Jeremy,” Ryan says, smiling a bit, but Jeremy can instantly tell it doesn’t reach his eyes. Which were slightly red. Was he rubbing at them, or was it the remnants of tears he sees? Ryan doesn’t seem like the guy who would cry easily. He’s got his jacket on. He doesn’t normally wear his jacket. Jeremy doesn’t want to follow that road to its inevitable conclusion.
He doesn’t push. What can he say? In the end, he’s a fucking store clerk. His crush doesn’t mean he can try to invade this guys’ life.
“We want the two cannolis,” John says, stepping somewhat in front of Ryan and glaring at Jeremy like he wanted to intimidate him. But Jeremy fought for fun. He grew up in Boston. He wasn’t going to let this guy intimidate him. So he stands tall, meeting his gaze easily, and takes the pre-prepared box with the dumb red ribbon he had carefully wrapped around it, sliding it over.
John takes the box wordlessly, glancing at it. He pulls the ribbon off and drops it on the floor without breaking eye contact with Jeremy and steps on it, putting the cannolis on the counter by the cash register.
Ryan steps forward. “John, don’t be a fucking dick, Jeremy’s got nothing to do with this.”
“He’s got everything to do with this,” John growls. “Shut up.”
Ryan falls silent. Jeremy hates it. He hates it with every fiber of his being. The way Ryan, with his bright eyes and soft smile, the way he seemed to give up to the other with the look of constant frustration. His eyes flick over to Jeremy and the other meets them.
Something in Jeremy’s stomach flips. So, the attraction was mutual. All the days Jeremy thought that maybe the flirting was reciprocal even though Ryan spent most of the time salivating over the pastries were validated. Ryan liked him. And John wasn’t happy about it.
“You’re hitting on my fuckin’ boyfriend,” John says lowly, looking over the counter at Jeremy. His eyes narrow and he slams the box of cannolis down, crushing them. “I thought these were a gift, for me, from a loving boyfriend, but instead they were a pity gift from a slut who just wanted to make moon eyes at the whore behind the pastry counter.”
He whips around to glare at Ryan, who set his jaw in a furious way. “Don’t say that. Just because I was done with you being a possessive piece of shit doesn’t mean that I was fucking thinking about cheating on you.” Ryan takes a step forward.
It happens quickly after that. Jeremy, with a lot of knowledge of street fighting, sees the spring uncoil in John’s shoulder two milliseconds before the fist crashes into the side of Ryan’s face, sending the man sprawling sideways. “You’re a slut!” John snarls, stalking forward.
Jeremy both praises and curses the fact that the shop was empty at this point - maybe other people would have stopped it from escalating this far - but he couldn’t do anything about it now. He leaps over the counter and springs over, grabbing John’s arm before he could hit Ryan again, who was sitting up with fire in his own eyes. “You fucking ass!”
“Don’t talk back to me!” John howls, moving to hit again. But he must be used to dealing with weaker men than Ryan and Jeremy. Jeremy doesn’t know how long Ryan had been dealing with this man hitting him, yelling at him, calling him names, but finally it looked like he had enough. Originally, he was going to jump in to defend Ryan from any further attacks, trying to stop any more damage to his store than what was already caused by the fight, but Ryan didn’t seem to need help.
“Get the fuck out of here!” Ryan snarls, shoving John viciously and sending the other stumbling backwards. John seemed to realize he was cornered between two people who didn’t seem to like him all that much and he stumbles towards the door with an angry look.
“Fine,” he snaps. “I don’t want a whore as a boyfriend anyways.”
Ryan just flicks him off and balls his fists as the other turns and leaves them alone. There’s a beat of just breathing as Ryan watches his now ex-boyfriend stalk down the street, back towards his work and out of Ryan’s life. For now, at least.
Then he turns and glances at one of the splintered chairs, which had cracked as Ryan fell on it with the punch. The shifted tables. And ultimately, the smushed box of cannoli. “....fuck, Jeremy... I’m - I’m so sorry, I never could have...”
“Shhh,” Jeremy says quickly, moving over to him and boldly taking his hand, glancing up to the face of the other man, who - with the fading adrenaline - now looked stressed. “Stay here.”
He moves to flick the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’ and Ryan gives him a confused look. “I can help you clean...”
“You need that face looked at,” Jeremy breaks in. “I’ve taken a lump or two in my day and unless you get ice on it now, you’re gonna have a hell of a shiner. Sit.” He pushes Ryan into one of his chairs. “I’ll be right with you, okay?”
Ryan - bewildered and settling into a bit of a panicked breakdown - just nods.
Jeremy hates seeing him like this, but was just happy John was seemingly out of the picture. He rattles down his mental list of what to do after a fight, having been in a lot of them in his college and high school days. He trashes the broken chair, rearranges the furniture, sweeps the dirt from the footsteps off the floor, and fixes disturbed centerpieces on his few tables before moving back over to Ryan, crouching so he can look him in the eyes.
The blond is forcing himself to breathe quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose in order to focus, but looks up when Jeremy bends down in front of him. “Hey,” he says weakly. “I can fuck off, I’m sorry - can I give you money for the chair... for the inconvenience to your shop...?”
“Fuck that,” Jeremy says, startling Ryan enough that he actually focuses for the first time on Jeremy, blinking. “I’m sor--”
“Stop apologizing,” Jeremy cuts him off. “I’m fucking impressed, dude. That guy has obviously been a source of mental shit in your life for a long time and you were ready to kick his ass even though he just laid you out. That takes balls. It was honestly really hot.” He smiles a bit, his cheeks turning red as Ryan’s ears burn the same crimson.
“Come upstairs to my apartment,” Jeremy coaxes. “No strings attached and I swear to god, I’m not going to do anything other than to just get you some ice and a more comfortable place to relax.”
Ryan bites his lip for a moment and then smiles back despite how it pulls on the already-forming shiner near his eye. He stands and takes Jeremy’s hand.
--
As the clock strikes five, Ryan is still in Jeremy’s small apartment. He’s wrapped in a quilt, a bag of frozen peas on his face. Jeremy sits next to him but far enough apart that it wasn’t weird.
Conversation had varied. Jeremy had called the police, informing them of a domestic abuse altercation that happened at his shop, giving them John’s description. They promised to keep additional cruisers in the area, just in case.
They had just sat for a while, Jeremy’s tv flickering across an episode of The Office, a show they had talked about over one of their weekly meetings. Ryan still seemed shaken. Understandable. From what Jeremy could glean and learned over their week, Ryan lived with John from only a few months into their relationship. It was a good one at first - John had a good job and liked to take Ryan out; they had fun together. But Ryan was quickly taught the rules of this relationship and by the time he knew them for real, he was in too deep to climb out without a catalyst like what had just happened.
Jeremy got it. And didn’t press. Although, he couldn’t help but think of the fact that the current man of his desires was sitting on the couch he had once laid on while fantasizing about him only a few days beforehand.
Finally, Ryan spoke up. “Thanks,” he says quietly, pushing the quilt down and adjusting his seat a bit. “Seriously. I couldn’t have asked anyone to do what you did.”
“What? Stand there like an ass while he hit you and then offer you ice? That’s not exactly heroic.”
“Open your house for me. And don’t lie, you were ready to leap in there.”
Jeremy shrugs. “I guess so. Fighting is nothing new for me.”
“And yet you opened a bakery?”
“I’m full of surprises,” Jeremy flirted and then bit his lip. “I - I just flirt. Listen, Ryan, I’ll be blunt. I like you. A lot. I’m not asking for anything, I know you literally are currently dealing with a messy-ass breakup, but... I’ll be the whore behind the counter if you wanted me to be.”
There’s a silence. Ryan stares at him for a long moment. Jeremy just sits there, hands folded in his lap so he doesn’t rip the shit out of his fingers picking the skin from anxiety.
Then Ryan surges forward, grabbing Jeremy’s shirt, and before Jeremy can do or say anything, they’re kissing fervently. Not used to being manhandled, Jeremy goes to grab Ryan’s hands and direct the kiss, but he knows this is just as much Ryan’s show of dominance and authority after what had been done to him, so he lets the other do what he wants.
And it’s good. Fuck, it’s so good, a kiss fueled not only by lust and curiosity but also a crush that had been nurtured for days, stirring something down in his gut and making it burn, a kiss fueled by the desperation of a man who hadn’t kissed anything he wanted to kiss in months.
When Ryan’s tongue slips into Jeremy’s mouth, he lets it, making a breathless little moan that causes Ryan to miss a beat as he reacts. It’s messy and sloppy and fast, no one knows what they’re doing, but if this is what Ryan thinks he needs, Jeremy is not going to say no.
Ryan pulls away before Jeremy’s able to start rutting against him, probably for the best - sex wasn’t what was needed right now even though Jeremy was rock hard and thinking solely of the way Ryan tasted. They pull apart, lips red and gasping a bit, and then stare, again.
When Ryan licks his lips, Jeremy’s eyes track his tongue, forcing himself to try to stay calm. “Uh....,” Ryan says weakly.
“That was .... really, really good,” Jeremy breathes, looking at him for a bit of a smile. “I can die happy with that kiss. Jesus, man. Your tongue though.”
“I’ve got many talents,” Ryan snorts breathlessly. And then the tension breaks as they’re both laughing, starting quietly before chuckling before laughing uproariously as the tension seems to leak off of Ryan’s limbs.
“I don’t know if I can do anything ... I dunno, serious,” Ryan says when they stop laughing. “But ... if you can wait...”
“I’ll wait,” Jeremy shrugs. “Hell, it’s not like I have a lot of options, nor want any other after that kiss. You take the time you need. And if you ever want to come back for more kisses - no strings attached - I’ll be ready for you. And whatever you want to give.”
“Maybe I am a slut,” Ryan chuckles, and Jeremy shrugs. “There are worse things to be.”
Ryan shrugs and smirks. “Hey. If I date the baker, does that mean I can eat anything that is on those shelves?” His eyes dance with mirth.
Jeremy fakes rolling his eyes. “I see! Just using me for my sweets.” He scoffs for a moment before surging forward to steal another breathless kiss, lingering on those soft lips. “Too bad I like your dad bod so much.”
He moves towards the apartment door to run down to the shop to grab him something. When he looks back, Ryan is still wrapped in his quilt, sitting on his couch, looking for all the world like he belonged there.
He may not have the relationship he wanted. It would be a rocky road before Ryan felt comfortable again with anything that required actual serious commitment, and Jeremy did respect that. Hell, he’d find it insane if Ryan didn’t want to take it really slow after what he just witnessed.
But he had his sweet kiss, more flavorful than his best cherry tart and even more red, and that memory would linger in his mind forever more. And the promise of even more sweet kisses and memories to be made, should he have the patience to wait for them.
No one would call Jeremy Dooley a patient man. But he could - and would - learn.
If only for the hungry, sweet-loving demon in the next room.
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Do you accept beau/bright queen prompts? Otherwise for the number thing #3 “It’s three in the morning.” :)
ooh i haven’t done consecuted au in ages! fair warning, i don’t have a concept in mind to fulfill this prompt so imma just,, write & hope that it comes to me
//
They bring Beau back to the Xhorhaus and care for her as best they can, a restoration when they think it might help but mostly salted stew and a cold cloth draped over her neck. They replace it when it quickly becomes drenched in the sweat that pours off her and Beau is left feeling half-melted, like a wax statue, as the sweat and water droplets sit in a tepid film over her entire body. She feels herself sloughing away piece by piece in small and then larger sections; it’s not real—Beau is as hale and whole as ever—but there is something working at her mind that regects who she is, burns and melts away at this form with her weak eyes that cannot catch the moons light, the long arms and unfamiliar hands. The multitudes of selves within Beau clamour to claim sections of her, of themselves in her form, and at one point, when Beau looks down at her hands and finds she does not know them, she moves to the stairs that glide up to the second floor and she lays on the cool grey stone.
The ceiling of the entrance—hall? not quite—of their gifted house is high here. It rises to the second floor along with the staircase and above the doorway is a large circular window of fogged glass that fills most of that space. Beau stares up at it and shivers with fever and clench-jawed dismay; nothing that is happening to her feels good or normal or makes any kind of sense.
She remembers a party. Here in this room. This house they’ve had all of a month. This house that stands barren and watched, with her and her empire compatriots. This house that has never seen a guest while they have been in it—she remembers it filled with people and the chime of laughter and quiet conversation. Beau doesn’t remember herself, but she remembers this.
A party, back when the threat of war did not loom overhead. There were many of those times but the memories seem to be less immediate than those of Beau’s many deaths—a knife, plunged into—
She snaps her eyes back to the window.
Circular fogged glass.
‘Do you think it’s supposed to look like the moon?’ Lee asks her. She looks bored; she always looks bored at events like this.
Surathai flicks her eyes to the window. ‘Hmm.’
Lee scowls. Drinks deeply of the goblet in her hand.
‘Have I offended?’ Surathai asks, tone smooth and empty of apology or any of her own upset. And she is upset. Why? The thought shakes through her like the ringing of a bell and Surathai shivers with it. For a moment, she could swear that sweat dripped in a column down her neck, her spine. But the night is cool and she had not been permitted to wear her armour; her fine long tunic is untouched by sweat.
‘Have I offended,’ Lee repeats, the tone mocking.
Surathai arches a brow. It will make Lee furious. Why? That whisper comes again, and not far behind, like heavy blunt fingers poking and prodding, Who is she? What is this party?
Surathai glances about the space. She misses the way Lee scowls toward her as she scans the space: the Den umavi are clustered together like gossiping hens deeper into the house, their consorts either at their shoulders or, if they’re particularly lax, a step back from that most holy of spaces.
Lee tries shift deeper into the house without her, flanking through the east wing, a spacious library that corners onto the small dining hall.
Surathai wasn’t reborn yesterday. She follows easily. Each time Lee tries to ditch her, Surathai adjusts.
‘The more I must pay attention to you,’ she says, stepping into the space by Lee’s shoulder after the young woman had managed to put an entire door between them, ‘the less attention I have for would-be assassins.’
Lee scoffs.
‘Leylas,’
‘Shouldn’t you be calling me Your Majesty,’ Lee cuts her off, and the words sound bitter as she spits them toward her. ‘If you’re so intent on playing as my guard dog, at least do it properly.’
Surathai blinks. ‘Is that why you’re upset?’
Lee looks up from the spread—delicious, fresh, a real effort from the new Den—and for the first time this evening her lips soften from the flat obsidian slash they have been.
‘It’s a party, Sura. You’re my betrothed. You’re supposed to be on my arm, not at my shoulder.’
‘Oh.’
‘Oh,’ Lee repeats, but this time her mocking is far more gentle. Teasing, really. ‘You didn’t know?’
‘Was I supposed to?’
‘You’re not exactly dressed to fight assassins,’
‘I would make do.’
‘It’s a very expensive fabric.’
Surathai plucks at her tunic with a slow of mild distaste. ‘You do not need to buy me expensive items. Especially not clothing.’
‘I’m the Queen, nothing is expensive for me,’ Lee says with a wave of her hand. She laughs then, not quietly, and waves her hand far more imperiously when varied heads turn to look at the Queen and her Consort half-hidden in the next room. Lee waits until everyone averts their eyes. Then, ‘I’m joking, Sura. Don’t look so foul with me.’
‘Our people have need of that coin,’
‘I know, my love.’ The endearment slips out, the way so many secrets and memories do between them.
They’ve said those words many lifetimes over; they still bring a bruising flush to Surathai’s cheeks.
‘Hmph,’ she says.
Lee ducks her head.
No longer upset, Lee loses the sharp bearing with which she had cut through this party so easily before. She is caught in many a discussion with many a boring individual and as the night wears on, so too does the party on Lee’s patience.
Surathai steps in before Lee’s new tongue can get her in trouble with an old friend. She wraps her fingers around Lee’s wrist and pretends to not be surprised when Lee rests a good portion of her weight comfortably into her.
‘It’s a party tonight, Taskhand,’ Surathai chides. She is allowed to chide. Her only concern is the Queen and does not have to pretend otherwise, unlike her betrothed. ‘Forgive us but we haven’t had an opportunity to dance...’
‘Of course.’ The Taskhand bows, excuses himself.
Lee shifts, sets her chin on Surathai’s shoulder. ‘Bodyguard or betrothed, whichever, don’t let anyone talk to me for—the rest of the night.’ A great yawn cracks her jaw.
‘Shall I glare at them?’ Surathai asks, voice soft, cajoling.
‘Oh yes. You glare so nicely.’
‘Mm. I do try.’
Lee chuckles. Shifts closer still, winding her arms around Surathai’s middle in a loose hug. Sura returns the gesture slowly and begins to sway to the gentle music that drifts through all of this house.
‘What time is it?’
‘Late. Early, really.’ Sura glances to one of her disguised guards, flashes a question. When they respond, she tells Lee, ‘Three in the morning.’
Lee groans. ‘My feet are killing me.’
Surathai hums. Is doubly relieved that she had passed over the death trap shoes that had been delivered with the outfit. Her own boots could carry her halfway to Asarius Settlement before she started to blister.
‘Shall I carry you home?’
Lee’s arms cinch tighter. She turns, nose brushing against the sensation skin of Surathai’s neck. ‘Would you?’ she asks. Breathes. The question tickles against her skin on that quiet exhale; Surathai shivers.
‘Of course.’
‘Because I am your Queen?’ Lee asks. She tucks her face more fully into Surathai’s neck so that her expression cannot be seen no matter how Sura tries; her tone is entirely empty save for the note of the question.
Sura hesitates. She isn’t sure precisely what Lee wants from her; her fallback then, the oath she had sworn two-fold upon her sword, and the promise of her rebirth itself. Dedication to her Queen, and all else that follows—honesty, forthrightness, protection. Love had not entered that vow on any iteration; that was sworn later, that third oath, upon her knees once more.
‘Because you are my queen, and my wife-to-be, and my wife-who-was, and the woman I choose life after life.’ Lee hums. Surathai frowns. Had that not been the right answer? She searches her mind for what is missing and can think only that she would like for Lee to laugh. ‘I like carrying you,’ she blurts, feeling abruptly and stingingly her young age at the clumsy words.
She gets her wish though. Lee laughs suddenly, pulls back—not out of her hold, but enough that she can see Sura’s face.
‘Is that so?’
‘Well—I’m—‘
‘Strong.’ Lee drags a nail down one of Sura’s arms, over the dip and trip of her muscles. ‘I‘ve noticed.’
‘I wasn’t. Last time.’
‘Hmm.’
‘You like?’ Sura asks, clumsy pre-century flirting clogging her thoughts and tongue. She flexes. She hopes this isn’t the life Leylas decides actually this version of my wife is far too awkward.
//
Beau comes awake at the sensation of a cold hand on her head. Blinks up into blue.
‘Jes?’
Her friend smiles, relief clear across her face. ‘Beau! You’re awake! Oh my gosh, Beau, I’ve been so worried, you were on the stairs and you were, like, just staring at the roof and Fjord said maybe you had been paralysed or, or, your mind was gone because you couldn’t hear us and that wasn’t a fun time at all but then you started talking and Caleb said it was Undercommon?’ Jester says all in a rush.
Beau hears most of it. She understands most of what she hears.
‘It’s getting worse, Beau,’ Jester tells her.
‘I know.’
‘I think it’s time.’
‘I dont—I don’t want—‘
‘I know,’ she agrees, and winds cold fingers into Beau’s.
The shock of it is nice, like cold water on a hot day. Refreshing. Beau clutches at Jester’s hand, tries not to feel like the other girl has seen too much of her, seen her sick and shivering and way too fucking weak, tries not to feel like so much grime at the bottom of the bucket.
‘I know it’s scary, Beau, and you probably don’t want people in your mind,’
Beau agrees with a grunt.
‘But we don’t know how to help you and—‘ Jester catches her bottom lip between sharp teeth, worries at it. Her brows push together and up, the picture of concern. ‘You’re in pain, Beau. We don’t want—I don’t want you in pain anymore. It’s awful, it’s just awful.’
She blinks up at her best friend. ‘Feels—like my head is all - crammed full.’
‘Memories?’
‘Mm. Yeah.’
‘Does it hurt?’
The heat begins to ebb and fade, lulling her and sapping with it her energy. Beau feels heavy, her tongue dry and thick in her mouth. ‘Only when I die,’ she says unthinkingly.
Jester gasps. Squeezes her hands tighter. ‘Beau...’
‘Ask ‘em if it’ll help? I wanna—finish this. Stupid. To put it off. Stupid.’
‘No, no.’ Jester brushes her fingers over Beau’s clammy forehead. ‘Not stupid. You’re just—stubborn.’
Through her slow-blinking eyes, Beau sees Jester smile and it’s one of the loveliest things she’s seen in all her lives. She thinks she says as much. Maybe she doesn’t. She sleeps.
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Level Up, Chapter Four (Branjie) - Holtzmanns
(read on ao3) (word count: 5551)
Vanessa shrugs, but there’s a smile on her face, a light in her eyes. “How ‘bout you share these donut holes with me, then? Dibs on the jelly filled.” She reaches in, pops one in her mouth, and Brooke feels the way her own mouth pulls into a smile without even meaning to.
“I’m more of a chocolate glazed girl, myself.”
AN: Thank you guys so much for the support on this fic. It makes me so happy, and honestly just makes me want to write even more. I’m so glad it’s being enjoyed so far, and hopefully this chapter will be as well. Let me know what you think! Thank you writ as always for betaing, ily <33
There are more similarities between running and boxing than one would expect.
The way that Brooke’s feet hit the pavement and take her farther and farther, more than she expects herself to be able to go is just like the way she’d push herself in matches to land one extra hit, to keep fighting for a little bit more. Or the way that Brooke’s body feels lighter, freer when she gets into the zone, where the way her lungs burn and her legs are lead suddenly doesn’t matter anymore, because she doesn’t feel it. It matches the way she’d feel in the ring, where her body would be one step ahead of her mind, already knowing what to do without her having to think about it. The way that sweat drips down her temples and back in exactly the same way as she tries to remain light on her feet, not giving into the heaviness that’s always present, threatening to pull her body down.
And when she cools down, when her lungs pull in the air that they’ve been craving and her brain starts to come back into itself as she walks, it reminds her of that post match adrenaline that used to linger as she’d slowly become more aware of her surroundings, and out of the fight or flight mindset that would lead her to the win. Running isn’t exactly the same, but it’s close enough, because it pushes her a little bit past the level that she can handle, makes her go for more, just the way that boxing did.
But running is different too, because Brooke’s not confined to a ring anymore, but rather gets to explore the streets lining the city, past taxis and cyclists and pedestrians and honking cars that are just a little too loud. Running also lets her follow new routes - well, sort of, because she always ends her cooldowns in the same place every time.
The bell that clinks when Brooke pushes open the door to Nina’s Diner always makes Brooke grin, because it parallels the bright and airiness of the restaurant inside. The soft pastel colours, the little booths, the cheery music overhead. Nina herself, who waves from the table that she’s currently serving before waltzing over to the booth that Brooke’s taken a seat in with a grin.
“Is today the day you’re gonna order the pancakes?” Nina holds out a menu, twirling it in her fingers, and Brooke can’t help out but let out a little laugh.
“I admire your dedication to your cause, I really do. Not today, though.” Brooke points to the yogurt parfait on the very back of the menu in front of her, and Nina’s resulting pout is almost enough to make her change her mind. Almost.
“C’mon! They’re so good, I promise. They fill you up and make you all warm inside and happy too.” Nina points to the picture on the menu. The pancakes with ice cream on the side and chocolate chips on the dish do look good, they really do.
“If I have one of those right now after just exercising, I think I’m gonna puke.” Brooke shrugs her shoulders, but reaches out, pats Nina’s hand. “Guess I’ll have to come by at another time in the day then, won’t I?”
Nina lightly swats her shoulder with the menu. “You always say that, and I’ve yet to see it. Never hurts to leave your sweaty gym, y’know.”
“I’m here now, aren’t I?” Brooke gives her a look, but can only hold her serious face for so long, before the two of them crack up. “How’s business, Nina?”
“Not bad.” Nina peeks around the tables surreptitiously, making sure that no one needs her, before sliding onto the seats across from Brooke. “The summer season always helps. Especially now that we’ve started making those giant milkshakes.”
Nina tilts her head towards a table behind them, and Brooke’s eyebrows raise at the giant chocolate milkshake in front of the two patrons, filled to the brim and topped with sprinkles, more ice cream, and even a mini donut.
“Serious question. Has anyone ever overdosed on sugar in your diner? Because I feel like that may happen sometime soon.”
Brooke’s deadpan tone makes Nina crack up, let out a little snort. “It’s romantic and all that. Sharing a milkshake with someone. You need to bring a girl around sometime and try it.”
“Please.” Brooke gives Nina a look, who holds up her hands in surrender.
“I’m just saying. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you pine over someone. You should get back out there.”
“As if I was ever ‘out there’ in the first place.”
Who wants a giant milkshake, anyway? Sure, if she’d have someone to share it with-
Nah. Brooke’s not sure if she’d survive that much sugar. Though the donut on top does look kinda good. It’s a chocolate glazed one too, which is Brooke’s favourite. Maybe she’ll treat herself to just the donut itself after her next run.
Brooke doesn’t have to pine for sugar for too long, though, not when she heads to the gym, intent on getting some work done while the late afternoon classes take place and runs smack dab into Vanessa, who nearly drops the container in her hands.
“So I tried to bake something, but I’m not exactly a good baker, y’know? I made cookies but they got all burned, and Alexis tried one and said it tasted like shit, so I said fuck it and just went to Krispy Kreme and got some-”
“Timbits!” Brooke can’t help the excited squeal that leaves her mouth, because it’s been awhile since she’s had some.
Vanessa, however, looks confused. “The fuck is a timbit? These are donut holes or something. But, anyway. For you.”
Vanessa holds out the box, looking a little sheepish, and Brooke, for once, feels like she doesn’t have anything to volley back at her.
“Why? I mean, thank you, but - you didn’t have to, what’d you get me timbits for?” Brooke opens the box, and there’s honey glazed and jelly filled and…chocolate glazed.
Excellent.
“I felt kinda bad after yesterday. Didn’t mean to pry. I mean, I kinda did, but you’re right, you’re not a coach anyway…”
Brooke can feel the way her cheeks heat up, the sinking feeling in her chest because Vanessa hadn’t done anything wrong, really, she’d been curious and sure, Brooke had been in a shitty mood, but she shouldn’t have taken it out on her. She has to resist the urge to reach out, touch Vanessa’s shoulder. “No, god, that was all on me. Shit. I was the one who snapped when I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry for it. You didn’t owe me anything, I should be the one getting you some snacks or something.”
Vanessa shrugs, but there’s a smile on her face, a light in her eyes. “How ‘bout you share these donut holes with me, then? Dibs on the jelly filled.” She reaches in, pops one in her mouth, and Brooke feels the way her own mouth pulls into a smile without even meaning to.
“I’m more of a chocolate glazed girl, myself.”
It’s hard to work when the box of timbits is sitting on Brooke’s desk, and the sight of it makes her heart feel a little bit lighter, a little happier. Because Vanessa went out and did that, brought her a snack when Brooke hadn’t exactly been nice to her. But Vanessa isn’t holding it against her now, and it solidifies, to Brooke, that she’s going to try a little harder. Be a bit more forgiving, a bit more open.
Maybe bring Vanessa a snack of her own sometime.
Brooke rolls out her neck as the evening wears on, closing the tabs on her computer when the clock hits nine. She’s not that tired, not really, but sitting hunched over at a desk has never been her strong suit. There’s a reason she keeps a spare set of workout clothes in her office, after all.
The gym is mostly empty, from what Brooke can see - the last class of the night had ended at eight, and she’d already waved goodbye to the evening’s instructors on their way out. Except Brooke’s sure that she can still hear scuffling noises behind the bags hanging in the far corner of the gym, almost as if someone’s still here-
And of course it’s Vanessa, light on her toes and letting out little whoosh noises every time she punches the air, holds her hands up in front of her face against an imaginary opponent. Brooke pauses, watching how fast Vanessa moves, how comfortable she looks despite the sweat dripping down her face, the echo that her scuffing shoes causes around the otherwise quiet gym.
Brooke watches as Vanessa pauses, bends over, hands on her knees as she catches her breath before slowly standing back up, wiping the sweat on her brow with the back of her forearm. Brooke stops leaning against the punching bag she’s been standing close to and watching from, takes a step closer instead.
“Try adding a hook right after your cross. It’s sometimes enough to catch opponents off guard.”
Vanessa nearly jumps a foot in the air, and Brooke wants to crack up, really, when Vanessa turns to her as white as a ghost.
“Jesus Christ. Are you tryna give me cardiac arrest or something? Cause my untimely death at the ripe old age of twenty six?” Vanessa puts a gloved hand over her heart, and Brooke raises an eyebrow, watches the way Vanessa is still trying to catch her breath. “What are you doing here so late, anyway?”
Brooke snorts. “Have you forgotten that I own this place?”
“Ain’t you got places to be other than this gym, though? You got any hobbies?” Vanessa takes a swig from her water bottle and Brooke makes a face, because she’s definitely not going to answer that one.
“What are you doing here so late? Didn’t your class end forty five minutes ago?”
“Yeah, but then I was too slow in one of the sparring matches and felt one step behind the entire time and was off my game and just needed a little more practice, y’know? Before I went home.” Vanessa shrugs. “‘Sides, I don’t have work ‘til twelve tomorrow, anyway. We gonna sleep in.”
Brooke pauses, looks at Vanessa. Really looks at her. The sweat soaked baby hairs framing her temples, the way her chest is still rising and falling from the exertion. The fire in her eyes that practically screams that she has something to prove - or rather, feels like she has to. It’s pure hunger, pure ambition, maybe a little unchecked and running rampant, but Brooke recognizes it clear as day. Because it’s how she used to be as a boxer, too.
There were days when Brooke would stay late into the evening at the gym, get there early in the morning. Train, train, train until her mind became a blank slate, until she wasn’t thinking of anything else anymore. Brooke had become so good at taking the desire, the need to win, and channeling it into a headspace where she actually could. Mind you, it was her dad who helped her with that-
But it’s not her anymore. Though maybe, just maybe, now it’s Vanessa.
Vanessa, who takes another swig from her water bottle before dropping it back on the ground and stretching out her arms. “What’d you say to try again? A hook right after…?”
“After you throw a cross. Follow it with a hook with the same hand, because that’s not going to be as expected. Helps if you throw both with your non dominant one too, just gotta work on making it as precise.” Brooke demonstrates with her ungloved hands, slowing down the movements and she doesn’t miss how intently Vanessa is watching, how her head tilts when she’s focusing.
“Alright.” Vanessa attempts the moves, making a face as she does. “Like this?”
“Try and extend your reach with your shoulder a little bit more. Mind if I…?” Brooke reaches out, tentatively, and Vanessa nods, so she moves Vanessa’s shoulders slightly, positioning her arm.
Vanessa’s muscles tense under Brooke’s touch, the tendons and veins that become more and more defined by the day. Brooke tries to ignore the goosebumps that rise on her own skin, when Vanessa’s is so hot to the touch.
“There you go. See how it gets you the point in a way that’s a little bit cleaner?” Brooke doesn’t want to let go of Vanessa, really, her hand hovering above her shoulder, not quite pulling back just yet.
Vanessa pulls back before trying again, and Brooke can see how she slows down, consciously works on her movements. Brooke can almost see the cogs turning in her head, the dots that connect the moves with their execution and purpose beginning to join in her brain. It’s a feeling that Brooke remembers well - that phase before an action becomes muscle memory, when the brain works overtime to make it sink in. When the true learning happens as the foundations are laid for a strong technique to be built.
“Huh. Never thought of it this way.” Vanessa pivots, extending her reach in the way that Brooke’s shown her a few more times, speeding up before throwing the combination another time. She grins up at Brooke, and Brooke has to ignore how Vanessa’s light makes her feel like she’s glowing a little from the inside, too. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a good teacher?”
“Considering I’m not a coach, no.” Brooke pairs her wry tone with a shrug, ignoring how it makes Vanessa’s brow furrow.
“Okay, not a coach. Grab some punch mitts and let me practice these combinations a little more, yeah?” Vanessa gestures to the storage cupboard, where all the padding and punching bags and supplies are kept.
Brooke lets out a snort but heads to the cupboard nonetheless, grabbing a set of mitts for Vanessa to do the drills against, because let’s be real - what does she even have to lose?
Especially when Vanessa’s gloves are already up, protecting her face, and she’s already light on her feet, ready to go. It feels natural, easy for Brooke to hold up the mitts for Vanessa, let her have a go at them, because Vanessa’s energy is contagious, somehow - the determination and grit and spirit behind her narrowed eyes means that she isn’t giving up anytime soon.
Brooke pushes Vanessa a little as she throws combinations in her direction - moving the mitts slightly, swiping them in Vanessa’s direction so that she has to duck. Vanessa retaliates just in time, matching her tit for tat as she does, and so Brooke keeps going. And going. And going.
Until the sound of a ringtone makes both of them jump, and Vanessa’s phone on the bench lights up the mostly dark gym.
“Shit. What time is it?” Vanessa lets out a huff as she fumbles with her gloves, trying and failing to pull them off.
Brooke scoops up the phone in her hand, swipes to answer before holding it up to Vanessa’s ear. Vanessa’s eyebrows raise in surprise, and she’s about to say something before the voice on the other end begins to prattle on.
“Yeah, whatever, I got caught up - no, dinner wasn’t my responsibility today, what are you talking about? Didn’t you want to order from that barbecue place with Rob? What do you mean you were waiting for me? I’m not dating the both of y’all!” Vanessa scowls when the line clicks on the other end, and Brooke pulls the phone back, watches as Vanessa finally pulls a glove off.
“Stupid fucking sisters. Mine ain’t even got half a brain.” Vanessa fiddles with her other glove and Brooke can’t help but reach out for it, undo the straps for her.
“Not even half, huh?” Brooke’s smile is wry as she puts Vanessa’s gloves on the ground, starting to undo the wraps next.
“Maybe a third of one. Pro tip? Don’t live with your sister. You’ll want to rip her head off.”
“Mine has a bunch of toddlers, so that’s unlikely to happen in the future.” Brooke passes the wraps to Vanessa, feeling the way her brush up against Vanessa’s palms, and the way it makes Vanessa stutter a little in her movements.
“I gotta head home and square up with her a little, but…” Vanessa pauses, and Brooke notices how warm her eyes are, the way there’s a slight smile on her face amidst the slight reddening of her cheeks. “Thanks for practicing with me. Taking your own time out. That was nice of you.”
“Honestly? I had a pretty good time.”
It’s true, because the way Vanessa had kept going, pushed herself just a little more than Brooke thought she’d be able to, not letting herself give in, had been refreshing. Exciting to watch. Because Vanessa’s so new but has the raw skills that can’t be taught - the perseverance, the determination, the need to prove herself that shines out of her as clear as day. Brooke can already see how much Vanessa’s improved since the very first class she’d had, and she has a feeling that Vanessa’s nowhere near peaking. That she’ll have exponential room to grow, if she lets herself do so.
But it had also been nice to just spend time with Vanessa. Hear more of her corny jokes in between drills, give her high fives when she’d done well, even teased her a little bit. Sue her, Brooke likes her company. Vanessa’s fun. And if Brooke ever has a chance to do this again with her? She’ll take it.
Vanessa’s not too sure about this yogurt and granola thing.
Sure, Vanessa had been interested when Brooke had brought some one afternoon for a late morning breakfast in a cute little tupperware container, and Brooke had been nice enough to text her the recipe, but now that Vanessa’s making it?
She misses her morning bagel.
But Brooke had mentioned that yogurt is a light enough breakfast for a morning training session, not feeling too heavy in the stomach while sparring, and Vanessa’s inclined to believe her. So, she’s willing to give it a try.
Especially now that Vanessa’s been spending more and more time at the gym, more often than not with Brooke. It had started almost accidentally, at first - an evening here, a weekend afternoon there. Times where Brooke had picked up punch mitts, or gloves of her own and practiced with Vanessa a little, dropping little tips and hints that Vanessa immediately filed away in her brain for safekeeping.
It’s a Saturday morning and Vanessa knows that Brooke’s going to be at the gym, as she always is. Vanessa also knows that Brooke’s going to drop her work in the office as soon as she gets there, already in her athleisure, and is going to join her, despite her protests of I’m not a coach, y’know . But Brooke likes it just as much, Vanessa can tell. Being able to push Vanessa, challenge her, giving her things to work towards. Vanessa always notices the way Brooke’s eyes sparkle with pride when she lands a particularly good hit, or pulls off a complicated combination right after Brooke’s explained it.
So, Vanessa supposes, these sessions have become a bit of a thing with the two of them. Periods of time where they’re across from each other with boxing mitts and padding and gloves between them, where she gets to focus on Brooke and Brooke focuses on her and there’s not much talking when they’re sparring, really, but Vanessa has never felt more connected to someone. Not as she begins to learn about how Brooke moves, how her eyes always flick a certain way before she’s about to execute something risky. Or how Brooke always gets a little smile on her face when Vanessa lands a blow against her that would win her a point in a real match, the pride in her eyes still there even as she brings her gloves back up in front of her face as they continue.
The extra practice has shaped Vanessa into a better fighter, undeniably. Enough that she’s becoming more and more comfortable in the ring, and the one to beat in her actual boxing classes. Enough that she’s willing to come into the gym even during times where she doesn’t have to, just for the purpose of working on her skills, continuing to climb.
The fact that Brooke will be there, too? Icing on the cake.
Vanessa makes a face as she mixes the yogurt and granola and fruit with her spoon, the mixture not looking all that appetizing. But she’s willing to try it, because why not?
The spoon is halfway to her mouth when Alexis rushes into the kitchen, flinging the doors of the fridge open. Vanessa raises a brow when she notices that Alexis has a full face on, that she’s wearing decent clothing and really, who does that at nine a.m. on a Saturday morning? Especially Alexis, who usually sleeps in on the weekends to at least eleven?
“You’re up early.” The words come out a little bit muffled through Vanessa’s bites of her yogurt, which she has to admit, is kind of delicious.
Alexis lets out a noncommittal hum, pulling out an apple from the fridge. “Oh, y’know. Plans.”
“Plans? What kinda plans?” Any plans that can get Alexis out of bed and into a pair of skinny jeans on a Saturday morning? Must be important plans.
“Nothing. Why you so nosy, anyway?” Alexis fiddles with the coffee maker, and Vanessa can’t see her face, which only serves to make her more suspicious.
Alexis is hiding something from her. Vanessa knows her sister well enough to tell.
Vanessa narrows her eyes. “You up to something. Your poker face is shit.”
“Don’t you have better things to do than give me the third degree?” Alexis turns around, but Vanessa can see the way she’s fiddling with the apple in her hand, the way her foot is tapping.
Vanessa’s eyes widen when the thought pops into her head. “Wait, you’re not cheating on Rob, are you? What the fuck, Alexis?”
“What? No!” Alexis sputters, shooting her a look. “I’m not fucking cheating on my boyfriend. Jesus.”
“Fine. You better be telling the truth.” Vanessa sniffs, taking another bite of her yogurt.
For Alexis’ sake, Vanessa hopes she’s right, because she likes Rob. There could be worse future brother in laws to contend with.
Alexis is muttering to herself as she heads to the bathroom, and Vanessa doesn’t feel bad for prying, really, not when she’s her sister. And especially when Alexis still hasn’t told her what she’s up to.
Vanessa finishes her granola faster than she expects, and is about to stand up, wash the dishes so she can head out for the gym, when Alexis’ phone lights up on the table with notifications. Now, Vanessa’s not a nosy one, but Alexis is her sister, and maybe it won’t hurt to take a little look-
Dad: see you soon, mija!
Dad: I’ll be there in about twenty.
Wait. Dad?
Vanessa’s heart feels like it’s climbing higher and higher in her chest, about to explode because that can’t be their dad. It can’t be.
Alexis wouldn’t do that. Not after all the shit he did to their mom when they were kids and they’re so much better off without him and-
“See you later. I’m out.” Alexis swipes her now darkened phone from the table, shrugging on a jacket and Vanessa can’t even get a word out before Alexis slams the door, not when the words are caught in her throat with thorns on their sides.
Alexis is meeting up with their dad. She’s thinking about forgiving him, of all things, hell, maybe she already has. But it’s stupid, he doesn’t deserve it, and why would she even talk to him in the first place? Why would she let him in?
Vanessa has to clench her fists to resist the urge to slam one into the table, break something because Alexis is ruining everything, practically spitting on their mom and on Vanessa too and she knows that violence doesn’t solve shit necessarily, but fuck.
Vanessa flexes her fingers, packing up her gym bag as fast as she can because although she’s going to get to the gym a little bit earlier than usual, she fucking needs it.
Riding on the subway and changing into her workout clothes and pulling on her gloves all feel like a blur, as if all of Vanessa’s senses have been placed behind a glass wall that muffle her thoughts. The flaming anger still burns under the surface but doesn’t quite melt through or break the glass, instead bubbling more and more inside her until she gets to throw her first punch against the bag in front of her.
Hitting the bag doesn’t solve or fix any of Vanessa’s problems, it never does. But it lets the anger (and the disappointment, and the hurt) flow out of her veins and break into pieces against the bag, as if each hit is a way to quell the feeling of her chest twisting in on itself. Because when she’s hitting the bag she doesn’t have to think, and she isn’t reminded of all the old memories and feelings and longings that her past self used to have for things that she would never get. She can focus on the thunk from the bag upon impact, the way that the chains that hang it from the ceiling rattle a little bit after every single punch. Vanessa can almost feel the blood that pumps through her veins and arteries and how it lights her muscles and tendons on fire, pushing her farther than her body can normally take.
When Vanessa gets into a groove it’s almost as if the rest of her environment fades away, from the ceiling fan to the floor under her feet to the sounds of traffic from the road outside. It also means that any disruption to her concentration is jarring, as if a bucket of water’s been dumped on her head. And when two hands grip the punching bag on either side to steady it, Vanessa can’t help but jump.
“The fuck?”
“Do you have a personal grudge against this bag, or something? You’re beating it right up.” Brooke’s head pops out from the other side of the bag and Vanessa lets out an exhale, because truthfully, she’d forgotten for a second that Brooke had been planning to come to the gym today, too.
“Isn’t that the point?” Vanessa wipes the sweat gathering by her temples with her forearm.
“Only if it stole your last paycheck or boyfriend or something.” Brooke tightens her grip on the bag. “Let me hold it steady for you.”
“Thanks.” Vanessa grunts out, trying to let the environment around her fade away so that she can get into the right headspace, hit the bag the way that she so badly needs right now.
Brooke’s steadying hands are helpful because the bag has less recoil, and it allows Vanessa to turn off her mind and let her body take over, her arms following the muscle memory that’s been etched into them since her very first class. Instead of an ache there’s adrenaline in her muscles that builds and builds, the type that would manifest as jitteriness if she didn’t have a method of channeling it. But the bag is there, and Brooke is there, and Vanessa’s going to keep hitting it until she has absolutely no strength left in her-
“Let’s grab the punch mitts. Practice some drills.”
“Huh?” Vanessa blinks, trying to catch her breath when Brooke sticks her head around from behind the punching bag, gesturing towards the equipment cupboard.
“We can work on timing and technique both. Never hurts.”
Vanessa wipes the sweat from her brow as Brooke picks up a pair of mitts, holding them up at eye level. She needs to refocus, think about the moves she wants to execute, different ways of getting a good hit against the mitts. The thunk of her gloves against the punching mitts isn’t as satisfying as it is on the bag, but it’s just as intense because Brooke is moving her hands, swiping in Vanessa’s direction too, and she needs to focus on not only her own movements, but Brooke’s too.
“Hey!” Vanessa lets out a grumble when Brooke swipes a mitt near her face, lifting her own hands a second too late, and Brooke shrugs.
“Gotta be faster when protecting yourself. Pay attention. Your opponent’s moves won’t stop because you need to think for a second.”
“I know that. Jesus.” Vanessa lets out a breath, lifting her arms up once more to shield her face.
Vanessa’s not sloppy, she knows that - she’ll just protect herself better next time. First she needs to focus on hitting the mitts again, getting her fists to where they need to be for maximum impact, but it’s hard when Brooke moves one of her hands at the last second and Vanessa misses, nearly tripping forwards. Brooke’s hands on her biceps aren’t steadying they way they’re meant to be, but rather a reminder to Vanessa that she’s missed again, that she’s usually better than this and doesn’t fall for stupid shit from her opponents, but her brain is spinning too fast, not letting her refocus, not letting her think.
Brooke takes a step back, holding her gloves up once more. “C’mon. Try again, you can do it.”
Vanessa knows she can, that’s the thing.
She’s not someone who makes stupid mistakes that any athlete would be able to avoid, and she just needs to get back into the zone, use her brain while trusting what her fists want to do. But it’s hard when she’s missing Brooke’s gloves, not hitting combinations the way she’s used to because Brooke’s moving a little too fast, or maybe Vanessa’s a little too slow, but it’s not working and she can feel the frustration that keeps building and building and threatens to boil over. Vanessa knows that if this were an actual match she’d probably be down and out, having lost because of her careless mistakes but she needs to win, needs to start doing better. Right now. She needs to win because that’s what she’s supposed to do, she’s not supposed to miss or fall for Brooke’s feints like she’s a rookie. Because she’s not one.
Not really.
Vanessa’s better. She knows she is. She has to be.
But it feels as if Brooke’s one step of her for each punch, each block and it doesn’t make sense because they’re just practicing and Brooke hasn’t even broken a sweat yet and why does Vanessa feel like she’s losing her mind and faith in her nonexistent boxing abilities?
One of Vanessa’s hits misses again and it allows Brooke to land yet another one of her own that Vanessa should be able to block, usually can block. She can’t help but let out a frustrated growl, taking a step back from Brooke and the punching mitts, and the tears prickling at the corner of her eyes are completely irrelevant.
“You okay, V?” Brooke pauses and Vanessa nods her head, lifting her gloves back up because nothing’s wrong. Nothing.
“I’m fine, let’s keep going, I need to practice-”
Brooke fixes Vanessa with a gaze that makes her want to scowl, take a step back. “Hold on. You’re not fully in it right now, your eyes are all over the place. Let’s stop for a second.”
“I don’t need to.” Vanessa doesn’t. What she needs right now is to push through and focus her brain, get herself back in the headspace that’ll allow her to do better, and she can get there. She knows it. “Let’s go again.”
But Brooke takes a step back and then another, and drops her mitts from in front of her. “Nope.”
Vanessa has to resist the urge to stomp a foot, let out a grumble, despite how much she desperately wants to. “Fine. I’ll just practice without you, then.”
And who’s to say that Vanessa won’t? The gym has plenty of available punching bags and lots of free space and she can just go over drills on her own, maybe it’ll go even better and she won’t be in her head anymore. Except that Brooke is taking off the punching mitts on her hands, tilting her head towards the door and Vanessa falters, because of course Brooke is calling her on her bluff.
She doesn’t mind practicing alone, but not when Brooke is looking at her like that with disappointment and concern in her eyes that Vanessa wants nothing to do with. She doesn’t need it. But as much as she tries to tell herself that she still feels the anger in her deflate, the need to prove herself falter for a second when Brooke reaches the gym’s front door.
“Fresh air. Just for five minutes, then we’ll be back.”
And somehow, it’s enough for Vanessa to reach for her gloves and wraps to undo them, and follow her.
#rpdr fanfiction#brooke lynn hytes#vanessa vanjie mateo#branjie#lesbian au#boxing au#level up#holtzmanns
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