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har-rison-s · 2 years

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mask & seek:6

batman x fem!reader

based on: Hello! May I request Battinson x SpiderWoman!Reader fic where she's from the MCU but then she ends up in Battinson's universe and meets him? Maybe he doesn't trust her at first but once she saves him from something, he relents then begins to trust her and maybe then a relationship ensues?? Thank you so much and have a great day!! ❤

a/n: hello! sorry to be gone for a few days, work and school are kicking my ass. hardly finished this chapter, and i hope i finished it good. christ, i'm nervous and scared because i feel that as soon as my story starts to gain popularity and attention, my writing for it becomes worse?? idk why but i certainly hope that's not the case, and i always give my all to each of my writings. also - thank you for the amazing, incredible feedback on this series. it means the world to me, i could not be happier with all you loving this story and my writing :')) thank you so so so so much, and happy reading!

main masterlist

bruce wayne masterlist

part five

part seven

warnings: descriptions of injuries, of fixing one; steamy times but not smut; injury getting worse; mentions of sexual experience; oh and the best one - silent pining :)

word count: 6.4k

song req: unseen tides by rachel portman

gif credit goes to creator / owner!!

gotham can take care of itself while y/n is bed-ridden, bruce had decided. perhaps it’s pink, heart-shaped glasses that he might be wearing, but for now, she is his number one priority, and the crimes in his beloved city don’t seem as important to prevent as it is to be by her side and help her progress. only a day has passed, and they’ve yet to know if she can walk—on her own or with help.

bruce is always ready to go by and far to please her desires, whether they’re talking food, entertainment, medical acquirements… he’s ready to pull whatever strings he can to get her what she wants and needs, and he’s succeeded thus far. she doesn’t have a specific taste in food or books or movies, and she also doesn’t want the guy to get everything that she likes, because it would just be too much asked of him. well, not to bruce. if he’d hear that argument, he would argue strongly against it. there’s never something he could do too much for her. what might seem too much for someone, is just barely enough in bruce’s eyes.

they both owe a debt to each other, but that debt is also constantly being paid between them both. they’re constantly exchanging favours to the point that their relationship is something more than partners or team members. it’s something more than friendship, too, but neither of them could put it into words if they were asked. an interesting relationship that exists on a set of unspoken ground rules, as well as their own trust and sometimes even hesitance for trust. truly indescribable.

neither of them have brought up those few fleeting kisses they shared that first evening she was conscious. they��re both too anxious to talk about them—they don’t want to make it awkward, don’t want to weird the other out, they don’t want to ruin its sacredness. both of them loved the kiss, and loved sharing it with precisely the other, and that kiss somehow means a lot to both of them. but they couldn’t talk about it if they tried.

in each silent look they give one another, there’s always questions in their eyes. what did the kiss mean? will it happen again? what did it mean to you? should it happen again? did you like it? do you like me? and all kinds of similar questions. both are adults, and yet are as shy and anxiety-ridden as teenagers.

there’s something hiding behind that truth. in some way, bruce still is a teenager, he has both the awkwardness and inexperience of a teenager. he also has the instincts and behavioural traits of that age group. mood swings, sexual urges, the-whole-world-is-against-me syndrome, no-one-understands-me syndrome, as well, and all kinds of others.

it is true, he hasn’t had any sexual experience apart from what he chooses to do by himself. whether that makes him more appealing or less so, he doesn’t know, and likes to think he doesn’t care. but it’s not true. since that kiss, he’s felt so nervous around her he can hardly say the most elementary words to her. can she tell he’s inexperienced? what does or would she think of him if that topic came up? would she still like him? would she still want to kiss him?

y/n herself, in truth, hasn’t had much experience, either. no one liked her in secondary or high school, or even college. and because she’s led this double life since sixteen years of age, it’s never been a prominent problem to get on or solve. and from the horrible things she’s seen happen to women and children, she’s quite sure nothing could make the topic of having any kind of sex safe or comfortable to her. sure, she’s thought about doing it with a couple people throughout her adult life, but all those times the thoughts seemed… forced. almost like she just had to have them, when in reality they’re not thoughts she’d want to have or has by default. and nothing happened out of them, anyway.

somehow bruce has changed that. especially now, when he’s comfortable enough to just hang around her in his trousers, wearing nothing more, those thoughts are all she has. she can only guess none of the people before were right for her and her comfort, while previously she thought something must have been wrong with her in the way she was wired. but now bruce has come along, made her see herself differently, and made her comfortable enough around him, and to be comfortable with herself.

she might even say he’s changed everything. due to alfred’s command not to make any moves for one more day, y/n is stuck in her half-sitting, half-laying down position, but bruce is always by her side to get anything done in her stead. at some point, she’s started to feel like a helpless little girl, and nearly gets angry at him for doing almost actually everything for her. but she tries to keep her anger inside, because it’s not bruce’s fault that she feels like this. it’s her own twisted brain.

they’ve spent so much time, and so intimately most of it, together that he’s learned to be able to tell when she wants to reach for some object or do something out of her recommended movements, and he’s there for the help. he can nearly sense every desire of hers to move. now that they’re laying across each other—y/n at the headboard of the bed with a book in hand and bruce leaning against the footboard of the bed with his notebook and a pen in hand—there’s complete calm between them. there’s silence in the room, but alfred’s playing his beloved classical music in a different part of the tower, and y/n and bruce both can hear it.

before she even parts her lips to say what she wants to, before she even finishes the sentence in her mind, bruce already tilts his head slightly to her and looks at her. their eyes connect, and y/n grins and shakes her head in disbelief. he’s like a security guard. “i swear, you’re picking up that instinct of mine,” she tells him quietly with a chuckle, and then closes her book, her thumb serving as a bookmark. bruce gives her a light smile and sits up.

“what is it?” he asks her, already knowing there’s a request coming his way. perhaps her spidey sense really is sticking to him. like the flu.

y/n picks at the edge of her book, “i just wanted to ask…” she starts to say quietly. bruce does the same thing with his notebook as she did with her book, only he uses his pen as the bookmark, his back brought forward to listen to her intently, “whether you want to come closer? lay next to me? if it’s alright.”

bruce gives her a wider smile, thinking i thought you’d never ask. but he doesn’t say anything, he just nods and crawls over the bed to lay next to her. since it’s a more comfortable position to write and draw in, he lays on his stomach right next to her and puts his notebook on one of the pillows before him before opening his pen again. y/n smiles at him fulfilling her request, and bruce watches her hide that smile behind her book. he grins and goes on filling the pages of his notebook, that grin staying in place all that while.

now that he’s close to her, she can feel the heat of his body practically radiating off of him in a half-yard radius. he’s like a heater all on his own, and since she’s been quite the immobile, therefore not providing any heat for her body herself, she appreciates that. his closeness to her, and the strange fact that men usually have a higher body temperature than women do. it’s a weird fact, but one she is much thankful for right now.

sometimes during the night, it gets too hot for her—to sleep under one blanket with bruce. and she can’t sleep when it’s that hot, so she unfortunately, much to her own and his dismay, has to ask him to slepe above the blanket. she wouldn’t want him sleeping on the sofa or in that beloved arm-chair next to the bed instead, even though that’s what he always offers to do. no, she always wants him here, next to her. it just so happens that it gets too hot during the night with his heating device of a body.

y/n has to admit she can’t focus on her book much anymore, even though it’s more interesting than anything she’s read before, while bruce is laying next to her with that sculpted back of his on full display. scars litter the skin on almost every inch of it, his back being an autobiography as much as his kevlar suit that she examined closely is. someone or something is behind each of the scars she sees, and now she’s more intrigued to find out who or what exactly it was.

she puts her book down at her side and turns her body slightly to the side to face bruce more properly. he turns his head at her immediately, the black strands of his hair making him look so much younger than he is from the angle she’s in right now. he watches as she reaches her hand out and once it’s out of view, he feels the gentle touch of her fingers on his back. he gives her weary eyes, but she looks back with soft ones, trying to tell him she’s not doing anything bad or intruding without actually saying it. a tiny smile also lingers on her lips, and he takes that into account, relaxing himself.

he feels her tracing over his scars and bumps, and for a second there, he gets really insecure. he looks down to his notebook, avoiding her eyes and the question she might ask at his strange behaviour, but then he reminds himself: it’s y/n. she’s seen practically the worst of his nights, they worst they can get. and he’s seen her nearly-fatal injury for a couple times now over the past few days, and she had no problem in it being seen by others. because she was holding bruce’s hand all the while, and, as she later assured him, he was with her for the entirety of it.

so nor does he have anything to be insecure about, he also doesn’t have to get unnecessarily nervous. that’s hard to fight, of course—anxiety. but she seems to be curing his one step at a time. and so he lets her touch his scar-ridden back with her soft, well-meaning hands, without any avoidance or hesitance. and bruce discovers he likes his back being touched. such a soothing manner that occasionally sends a shiver down his spine, and most of all—it’s y/n who is touching him. that’s a big factor on its own.

“you have so many of these,” y/n says in awe, speaking so quietly she nearly whispers the words, “how long have you been doing this?” she asks, and they both realise this question has never come up in their conversations before. all these four months, and though they’ve been curious about each other’s duration of this vigilante work, they’ve never asked each other this.

bruce flips through the pages of his notebook to get to the very first page, and he reads the date on it. “almost two years,” he tells her. y/n raises her eyebrows. she certainly expected a shorter time period.

“wow,” she just says in response and continues tracing the various scars. the one closest to her, right under his right shoulder blade, picks her interest. it’s part of a whole group of scars around that area, and all of them look brutal. but she traces that one precisely, like a musician would read notes on sheets of music, “how did you get this one?” she gently asks in her marvel at the sight of it, and she looks to bruce. he’s almost tucked his chin over his shoulder to see it, and when he does, he rests his head on his folded arms before him. y/n can’t help but admire the look of his arm muscles, the way they tie with his shoulders and back, making her realise more and more how much everything in the human body is connected.

“the joker,” he tells her and their eyes connect. the what?, “at least that’s what the newspapers call him. it was the night i finally caught him and brought him to gordon, my friend in police,” bruce tells further, and she nods, remembering the guy’s name from when bruce first mentioned it a month before, “he has a knack for knives and other sharp, tiny objects.” y/n smiles at how bruce says the word ‘tiny’, in some way he makes himself sound tiny by saying it. “stuck them all up my back, because… it was just convenient and he wanted a good laugh,” bruce subtly shrugs and lays the side of his face fully across his crossed arms, and he looks up at y/n.

his tar black hair is falling into his eyes, and y/n smiles at that. she moves her other hand to those fallen strands and pushes them away from bruce’s face, trying to tuck them back in place, but they keep falling back away with each of her attempts. they both laugh at that circumstance, y/n feeling a bit hopeless that even she can’t move it into place. but it must be from the way bruce is laying down—his hair can’t deny gravity. it would be able to do that had he not showered the last couple days, the grease in unwashed hair usually keeps it in place in a very weird manner. but because he’s with her, and because alfred is checking up on them every once in a while, bruce has tended to a showering time-table, surprising even himself.

“he sounds intense,” y/n says in a voice nothing more than a whisper, her hand still on bruce’s hair. they’re looking closely into each other’s eyes, “and unwell.” she adds. bruce chuckles at that.

“he is,” bruce confirms, “serving multiple life sentences in arkham right now for what he did.” another word that sounds like one y/n should know, and yet she doesn’t. arkham. sounds pretty intimidating. “a serial killer who wants nothing more than to watch the world burn, as alfred said.” bruce tells her, and a light smile hangs on his lips. y/n nods. sounds like gotham is much more insane than new york, or the whole universe she’s from.

she remembers the russian lunatic who attacked tony stark. she also recalls helmut zemo, who just wanted to destroy the avengers from within. not to mention the big, angry purple titan who felt entitled to salvaging the world (spoiler: it didn’t work!) within his own terms. the world is full of crazy guys with the guts to change the world to their liking, and they seem to be concentrated in this one universe and city: gotham.

“how long ago was the joker business?” y/n asks, her hand still tracing over the scars soothingly. once again bruce can tell she’s not from here. joker business. she didn’t even say anything about arkham. both the joker and arkham are strangers to her, unknown to her, have not penetrated her library of knowledge and known information. somehow he really likes that. someone blind to this world of horrors he’s been living in since birth.

“a year,” bruce says, “around a year ago.” he says surely, but a heavy feeling sits on his words. y/n can read him so well. finally, she can do it.

“they took some time to heal, huh?” she asks him, her fingers now making figures across the skin on his back. triangles, squares, rings, even a pentagon. bruce nods. the scars don’t look easy to get over, judging partly by the fact that they’re still visible.

“took a lot of convincing from alfred to take a break for a while from…” he tilts his head from side to side playfully, “well, you know what.” bruce looks at y/n as he says this, and gives her a light grin. she returns the gesture, and nods, and keeps tracing the forms on his back. she can tell he likes it by the way his body responds to her touches. a shiver here and there, but over all a big agreement and welcoming of her touching and tracing his skin. he doesn’t turn away from her, he doesn’t twitch or get startled at any point. it means a great deal to her.

“you like that?” she asks him in a very quiet whisper. her eyes glance between bruce’s eyes and her hand tracing lines and figures on his back. bruce blinks at her with half-oblivious eyes, and their stares connect again in that sacred connection. “tracing lines and figures on your back?” she asks more precisely.

he does. he really does. it’s something new he’s just now discovered about himself, and it’s y/n who made him have that discovery. what a sacred thing. bruce nods, “yes,” he truthfully tells her in just as quiet a whisper as she spoke in. y/n smiles at him and continues tracing those lines, forms and scars on his skin, and nods in acknowledgement to his answer. who is bruce to not tell her the truth? what she’s doing feels heavenly, and if she knows the effect on him, she’s not going to stop doing it. unless she gets bored, of course. he knows her well.

and so she lays there, turned to bruce at the best of her abilities, tracing scars and figures into his skin like they’re sacred text. she can’t stop marvelling at him, at his scarrings, and the tales each one must tell. after his short story about the joker, she realises she’s very curious about each of the scars and their backstories. but she also likes the silence settled between her and bruce. and as much as he likes to boast about who he beat up, took on or whatever, she can tell he’d much rather just lay and let his back be softly touched. and bruce enjoys the silence, as well. he always does, with her.

bruce likes to watch her, also, while her fingers work the gentle magic. how both concentrated and focused her face is—how her lips slightly pull tighter against one another then, how her eyebrows ever so slightly draw closer to each other, and her eyes grow a bit darker. she is a sight for his sore, bag-adorned eyes, and he could stare at her forever. occasionally, she looks over at him, too, and on those occasions bruce gives her a light smile. their kisses exchanged more than a day ago, and her recently spoken words fresh in his mind.

she feels him looking at her all this time, and, for a person who really does not like her face out in the open or any attention on herself for that matter, she really enjoys him doing so. she guesses it’s bruce that makes the whole difference… he makes her feel really comfortable, more comfortable than, she guesses, anyone has before him in her life. and it’s an indescribable feeling. like weight falling off her shoulders, a feeling she’s never had before, really. there’s always been so much pressure and weight on her, nearly all her life. and he’s taking it away. how can he do that?

“don’t go falling asleep on me now,” y/n says to bruce a bit louder than she previously spoke, having noticed his droopy eyelids and his head occasionally dropping lower. he smiles at her faintly with his eyes closed, but then he opens them and smiles wider upon seeing her. she looks into his eyes, “come closer.” she requests in that same whisper as before, and who is bruce to deny her that pleasure? he supports his body on his elbows and pushes himself sideways, closer to where she helplessly lays, with her torso and head atop that pillow support system. she withdraws her hand from his back for the short time being, but when the hand returns, it’s no more just a finger or two. it’s her entire palm.

she lays it in the middle of his back, near the small of it, and looks at him again. their bodies and faces close as they’ve ever been, close as they were on that evening they kissed, and they’re looking into each other’s eyes that you might think if either of them looked away, it would mean death for either or both. like nothing good outside of the other’s captivating orbs exists, or ever could.

everything that they both feel at that moment is evident starkly in their eyes. nervousness, longing, yearning, adoration. they’re reaching for something, but not with physical hands. each other. the urge is to connect, to stick to one another limb by limb until they become one.

with that hand of hers on his back, bruce feels closer to her already. but it isn’t enough. so he scoots even closer to her and turns to lay on his side. y/n lays partly sideways, because her injury won’t permit her to turn completely, and only looks into the man’s eyes as he cautiously moves his hand towards her face. he’s nervous and dreading rejection, so he does cautiously and slowly.

his palm rests on the very side of her face, cupping her cheek gently, the pillow under his thumb colliding with her cheekbone. the thumb itself caressing her blushing cheek with a slow stroke, bruce looks into her eyes and searches them. for what? the truth, maybe. giving in, also. his orbs move nervously from one side to the other among the whiteness in his eyes that seems to match the paleness of his skin. his eyes, eyebrows and hair the very dark contrasts in his visual appearance.

“can i…” he begins and then trails off, not knowing really what to call that accidental incident they had on that evening before. to call it what it is—kissing—seems to bold now. bruce feels that if he might say that word out loud, an explosion might occur in the room. he gulps, still looking at her, and seeing that there’s awaiting in her eyes, “can i do it again?” he asks in a subtle manner, a whisper below a whisper.

y/n knows what he means. she wouldn’t dare call it what it is out loud, either. and she thought he’d never bring it up again, and that she should keep the memory and all her enticing thoughts about him just to herself forever. her face makes a very wide smile at first, at his question, so wide it nearly makes her shed tears. but then she gets herself under control, blinks a couple times to clear her vision and makes the smile grow smaller, until it’s just a very faint one on her lips. and then she gives bruce a nod in response. an eager one at first again, just like with the smiles, and then a less-eager and more confirming one.

bruce could write a whole notebook or two full of just thoughts about this very small, short moment between them both. more about her reaction, the emotions he saw on her face, in her eyes, the reaction he coaxed out of her. for him, it is an honour to be able to do so. and so he gives her the gentlest smile and a subtle nod, just to say he’s accepted her answer, before he leans his head closer to hers and does what he asked for her permission to do.

and when their lips are at last joined together again, both their eyes close on their own terms and the two people relax against one another. to the point they melt together in an intimate exchange. both of them thought they might never be able to do this again, unless a miracle happened. the miracle in question was bravery. bravery did appear in bruce, and now they’re both pleased again. more than pleased. ecstatic would be a better word to describe the feeling.

much like teenagers, they’re yearning to know what the other likes. as well as what the other feels like at certain moments, positions, situations. what would they think if this happened, if one did this thing or other? curiosity to know one another from start to beginning, to the very deepest of depths. and with each kiss, they think that curiosity will be fed. and after each kiss they discover that it isn’t fed just like that. and so they do something a little differently, and the cycle goes on repeat without end.

their noses and foreheads bump together here and there, and it makes both of them chuckle airily when it happens. it’s lips on lips, kissing more and more heatedly with every next one, until it’s tongue against tongue, and then the first noises of pleasure appear between them, but none of them loud enough to echo around the room. not that it would matter for either of them, they’ve completely forgot about a world outside of themselves.

most of them are from y/n, and she doesn’t feel at all inclined to lessen them because she can tell bruce likes her making them. she guesses it’s a way through which he knows he’s doing something right. and honestly, he’s doing a lot of things right. one of his hands holding the side of her head, the other gently holding her side, since he’s nervous, doesn’t want to step over the line, and doesn’t want to hurt her, either.

it’s nearly painful for both of them how good all of this feels. like someone keeps digging a knife into their heart, but is also feeding them their favourite meals at once. it’s certainly strange, but something they both seem to like, too. it’s when bruce moves his lips from hers, and instead lays a kiss on her cheekbone, that she moans aloud for the first time. with his hand holding onto her face, he moves his thumb under her chin to lift it ever so slightly and kiss right under her cheekbone, and then just under her ear, and then down her neck along her artery.

one of her moans gets stuck in her throat at that, and y/n fears she won’t take another breath to save her lungs for the foreseeable future. but all is saved in the next second, and she gets over herself, as she grounds herself again and regains her breath, although made in gasps and pants. “you liked that?” bruce whispers to her, and y/n nods. bruce feels that response more than see sit, so he kisses over again just that one spot that drove her insane, to cause her pleasure, and coax that wonderful reaction from her that goes straight to the sensitive place in his body. had she not got her injury, he wouldn’t be able to control himself. he hardly can even now.

y/n places her other hand across bruce’s chest, and she admires it as she moves her palm across the endless rows of muscle and skin. god, she adores him. everything new that she learns about him, sees in him, is inviting her inside his world more and more, making him better than the best possible thing she has imagined about him. she can’t believe he’s real, and that he’s in her hold, and that he’s kissing her. bruce is kissing her.

though he’s touching her as well, she feels him rigid against herself. she guesses it’s been a long time since he last did something along the lines of this. but then again, that nervousness is different. the way he feels under her, against her, is the anxiety of an inexperienced person. she doesn’t know how she can tell, because she’s just the same as him. but perhaps that is the exact reason why. she knows how he feels, because she feels the exact same. they’re one and the same, again.

bruce’s hand only cautiously holding her side tells her enough. and so she gently takes it in between her own fingers and guides it under her shirt, where he can feel along her bare skin. for a second, he stalls, and looks into her eyes for confidence. she gives him a quick nod, lays his hand on her waist, and then kisses his lips again, so that he could be convinced without thinking twice about it. “you can touch me, bruce,” she whispers to him, “you can touch me.”

that’s practically all he needed to hear, though his nervousness does remain. it’s deeply-rooted within him, he’s afraid, with no way to get rid of. but he can touch her, she said so herself. so he moves even impossibly closer to her, that hand of hers still on his back, fingers digging into his thick skin here and there, when bruce touches or kisses her a particular way. her other hand, the one that guided his to her waist, is cradling the back of bruce’s head and cording through his night-black hair strands. he loves when she does that.

bruce lets his curious hands venture up towards her breasts, and he handles one of them through her bra. y/n moans immediately and her grip on bruce’s hair tightens. “fuck,” bruce nearly combusts, and from the wave of electricity washing through his body, he rests his head in the crook of her neck, his warm skin against hers. as soon as his trance is somewhat gone, he begins kissing on the other side of her neck, kissing and lapping at her soft skin that he can’t get enough of. both his hands are now under her shirt, fondling her breasts to the best of his knowledge and abilities. he’s never done this before, he doesn’t really know what to do. all that he knows is that he has his instincts, and that there are certain movements that make her feel good.

“yes, bruce,” y/n manages to squeak out between her moans and panting breaths. her hand is nearly uncontrollable in bruce’s hair, she is nearly yanking it every time he presses just the correct buttons in her. without asking permission now—he really has become braver and bolder since her quiet assurance that he can touch her—he pulls the same shirt he put on her just yesterday up and over her head, disrupting their physical bond just for a few seconds. but as soon as it’s off, they’re joined again, and bruce moves his lips from her cheeks and neck down to between her breasts.

y/n moves her body to lay on her back again, and bruce follows her along. he settles a leg on each of her sides, towering above her in every sense of the word, and leans down to her barely-covered chest again. her hands free, resting by her head, she squirms under bruce’s most pleasant assault on her skin. he kisses her breasts, he kisses the skin above, below and between them, and occasionally he laps at it like a kitten would lap milk. like he’s hungry for her, like she was his only bowl of water on a deserted island. her eyes are screwing shut, she throws out moan after moan, and they all work for bruce’s own pleasure, too.

but from all her squirming and writhing, her side starts to hurt. very subtly at first, so subtly that she barely notices, but as bruce and herself get more and more heated, the pain grows from subtle to very apparent and then to intolerable. it is at this point that y/n cries out again, but bruce can tell it’s not because of him. he stops immediately, sobering up in a split-second, and looks at her from slightly above. he sees tears running down her cheeks, her face holding an over-all painful expression, and his heart nearly dies in his chest.

bruce moves immediately off her, and sits next to her instead. she’s not saying a word to him, and he finally remembers what might be wrong. he looks down at her left side, and sees that the injury looks more red than it did this morning. bruce panics, his breath catching in his throat, and he moves his hands around in an awkward, not-knowing-what-to-do manner. alfred isn’t here, and it would be very awkward to call on him now, though that idea does flash in bruce’s mind.

he would mostly be embarrassed for himself and y/n to explain why her wound started hurting and turning redder. and as much as he hates feeling shame himself, it would be worse for her. so he just struts the few steps over to the trolley with all the pills and medical instruments on it and searches for—painkillers! painkillers are what she needs. he keeps hearing her quiet sobs and cries while he looks for the pill-type ones, because god knows alfred has all kinds of liquid ones that should be injected through a catheter. but bruce knows his skills at inserting a needle, and they’re practically non-existent. but they’re even more so when he’s stressed and under pressure.

finally, he finds the box of pills, and then fetches the glass of water on the nightstand, and sits next to y/n again. bruce pushes three pills out of the folium line and places them in y/n’s shaking hand. he knows three might be a lot even for her, and that it’s likely they’ll send her into an immediate sleep, but her pain is internal more than external, and so three will be a good amount, “here.” he tells her quietly, but loud enough so she could hear above her own cries. y/n takes the pills and looks at bruce with tear-filled eyes, a sight which breaks his heart.

“hurts,” she whines to him before downing the pills. bruce is quick to hand her the glass of water to help get the three little painkillers down.

“i know, baby, i know,” he tells her in a rush, only afterwards registering what exact words he used. now, y/n may be in a lot of pain and upset with herself, but those words reach her ears and nearly make her spit the water out. baby? bruce looks at her with the same lost expression she has on her face, but then she takes another swig of her water like nothing happened. and so he follows that example along, looking away and moving his hands nervously up and down his thighs.

y/n gulps and lays back against her pillow support system, panting and sniffling here and there, trying to level with the pain. in a few seconds, bruce doesn’t feel embarrassed anymore, and he turns to look at her. at the sight of her, that oh-so-painful sight of her, his hand instinctively reaches out and rests on her thigh. just for comfort. she turns her head to the side to look at him. but then she shakes her head and hides her face with her hands.

“shit, i’m sorry, i didn’t—” she doesn’t know exactly what to say, and she shakes her head again, “i had no idea that would happen, i’m sorry.” she takes her hands away and looks at bruce. he sees her eyes filling with tears again, and her lip starting to quiver. bruce squeezes her thigh in what he hopes is a comforting way and shrugs.

“there’s no way you could have,” he assures her, “and don’t be sorry.”

“no, i am—” she begins, “i know you…” want me, “wanted—want—to…” she can’t seem to finish any thought that she starts. her head shakes again and she even breathes a sad chuckle, “you know. and i did—do—too. but…” she looks away from him, disbelief in her eyes that wander across the room. bruce leans in closer to her.

“it’s not your fault,” he tells her with a gentle shake of his head. y/n looks back at him. and she just stares at him for a minute, for as long as he lets her do it. searching his eyes for something, anything—what?! she shakes her head once again.

“i don’t know what we’re doing here,” she tells him honestly. and at first, those words hurt bruce, “i’ve never done… anything before, really. but i’m liking it so far—though that is an understatement.” y/n confesses. “but i think we’re gonna have to wait however long for my damn side to heal.” she gets angry at herself, and it makes bruce chuckle because he finds her so adorable. he lays a kiss on her forehead, which pleasantly surprises y/n and makes her cheeks blush. she nearly gasps at the affectionate gesture.

“i don’t know, either,” he tells her in a whisper, “but i like it, too.” he says. the question of really? forms in her mind and is evident in her eyes to bruce, and he immediately nods. “and i want it,” he admits and leans his head down to her neck again, kissing it softly, “i want you.” now that is a game changer. to say you instead of it really turns everything around, and makes everything clearer for the both of them. he wants her? he really does? does he want her as much as she wants him? should she even ask that? “so much that i can wait.” bruce assures and pulls back to see her.

“you will?” y/n asks with a smile and tears in her eyes. bruce nods and gives her a warm smile. y/n’s smile grows in size and more tears fill her eyes. she’s so emotional again, she can’t stand that. but she rests her forehead against bruce’s and closes her tear-filled eyes, letting the tears fall from them as she sighs out in relief.

“i never want to hurt you,” bruce tells her in a whisper no one else would be able to hear, and that confession makes tears run to y/n’s eyes again. she bites her lower lip in a smile she makes, all the while doubting that this man is real. how can he? he’s got the characteristics of the perfect man, but they don’t exist. and least of all, here in gotham. but it’s clear that he’s proved her wrong a lot of things. about herself, about him. the list keeps growing, and y/n is glad that it does.

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nicknellie · 3 years

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Anonymous requested: Alex has a really bad day. His anxiety playing up and just things generally going wrong. It’s the end of the day Willie and Alex are having a sleepover and are in bed. Alex breaks down and Willie comforts him.

Okay, I love this so much, thank you for sending it! I really hope I did it justice, I always enjoy writing Alex’s anxiety and supportive Willie. Sorry it’s taken me so long to get around to writing it, life got in the way. Thank you for the request, anon!

TW: anxiety, homophobia

All the Love in the World

From the moment he woke up, Alex knew that it wasn’t going to be a good day. He knew it because he could barely find the strength to open his eyes and when he eventually managed it he wanted nothing more than to close them again, curl in on himself and stay there in bed unmoving for the rest of the day. He knew it because he was exhausted like he hadn’t slept in days, his mind racing to catch up with his body but not quite making it. He knew it because he felt sick to the stomach and his head was buzzing with indescribable tension and nerves.

Alex had days like this sometimes. Days that just didn’t feel worth it. Why should he get out of bed and get on with his day if his head was spinning, his eyes watering, his breathing hitched, his hands shaking? It was a day where his anxiety was needlessly heightened, overpowering from the moment he woke up, a dull ache in the pit of his stomach reminding him to worry. Reminding him that anything and everything had the potential to go wrong. Reminding him that it would feel like his fault.

On days like this, Alex just wanted to stay in bed. He hardly felt like he could move, let alone carry on with his day like there was nothing wrong, suffer through talking to people and put on a brave face. He wanted desperately to pull the bedcovers up over his head and lie there in the dark with nothing but his own company, but he knew he couldn’t. If he tried, his parents would come upstairs and force him out of bed anyway. They’d make him go to school, ignore all the warning signs, tell him to get on with it.

So, with more effort than it should have been, Alex dragged himself from the bed, rubbed his tired eyes, and made himself get on with it.

He opened up his chest of drawers to find something to wear but was quickly reminded that he’d forgotten to do his laundry. He cursed himself, remembering that his mother had told him to bring his clothes down the night before and he hadn’t done it. His alarm clock told him that he definitely didn’t have enough time to put on a wash – he’d have to wear clothes that hadn’t been washed.

Reluctantly, he fished yesterday’s t-shirt and a pair of jeans from his wash-basket. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world, he knew that; he’d only worn each thing once, they weren’t stained or dirty and they didn’t smell bad. He knew that nobody would even bat an eyelid. But the feeling of putting on the slightly crinkled clothes, cold against his skin, made him cringe. It was like he could feel the dirt against his skin, though he knew there wouldn’t be any. There was something painfully uncomfortable about it but he didn’t have a choice.

Feeling itchy all over, an uncomfortable humming sensation spreading through every inch of his body, he opened his bedroom door and he made himself get on with it.

Breakfast was waiting for him in the kitchen, as where the rest of his family. Alex sat down and poured himself a bowl of cereal, his father skimming a newspaper to his right, his mother frying something on the hob, and his little sister Lily wearing more of her cereal than eating it.

“Morning, Alex,” his father said, peering at Alex over the top of his glasses. “You’re up late. What took you so long?”

“Don’t know,” Alex mumbled with a shrug. He kept his eyes on his food, not wanting to engage. If he bothered trying to talk to his parents today he knew it wouldn’t end well.

“What was that?” his father pressed, slapping his hand where it rested against the table. Alex winced and withdrew it into his lap. “Speak up.”

“I just woke up late,” Alex said. He hoped it would be enough to shut his father up, but he knew that was wishful thinking for a day like today.

“Don’t you take that tone with your father,” his mother scolded, not bothering to look at him as she did so. “It’s not his fault that you can’t pull yourself together in the morning. That’s on you, Alex.”

Just like everything else, he thought to himself. It wasn’t a surprise that his parents were being so hard on him – that was pretty much routine by now – and on a normal day he could cope with it. But today didn’t feel like a normal day. Today felt like he could feel everything too much and was completely numb at the same time, like he had a million thoughts whirring through his head but his mind was totally empty, like he was going to cry but didn’t have enough of himself present to make any tears flow. So he just ignored it all because what else could he do?

“You should start running in the mornings, Alex,” his father suggested, folding his newspaper and setting it down, crossing his arms over his chest. Alex could feel his stony eyes boring into his head, but he still didn’t look up. “If you want to keep your place on the cross-country team then you need to start putting some actual effort in. Although I’m surprised they still want someone like you on the team anyway.”

Alex felt tears well up in his eyes. He couldn’t do this today. He couldn’t.

He said nothing, but clearly his dad wasn’t happy with that. “God’s sake, Alex, you’re really going to cry at that? What is this, some pathetic attempt to convince us you really are what you say you are? You think acting like a prissy little girl is going to make us think you’re queer? Christ Almighty, Alex, you’re not. My son is not gay. Man up. You’ll never get anywhere in life if you’re a goddamn emotional wreck.”

He wiped at his eyes, hoping it was discreet, knowing it wasn’t. A quiet sob escaped him but it sounded loud as a scream in the tense silence of the kitchen. He heard his mother tut, his father scrape his chair back and stand up, and even Lily’s giggles subsided as she realised that her big brother was crying.

“I wish I didn’t have to call you my son,” his father said. The disdain in his voice rattled around in Alex’s head, echoing over and over like some cruel broken record. A moment later, the door slammed and Alex was left alone with his mother and sister.

“You know not to upset him, Alex,” his mother told him. “He’s very stressed with work at the moment, he doesn’t need you and your nonsense adding to it.”

“Sorry,” Alex said, voice hoarse. His mother didn’t reply.

He opened his eyes – he didn’t know when he’d closed them, but the light in the kitchen was far too bright when he opened them again and he fought the urge to shut them – and looked out of the kitchen window. It was pouring with rain outside, wind heaving trees this way and that, the clothes hanging on the washing line at risk of blowing away.

“Can I have a lift to school please?” Alex asked. “It’s raining.”

Alex’s mother peered out the window herself, groaned at the drenched laundry on the washing line, then turned back to Alex with a sour look on her face. “If you’d got up on time then maybe I could have taken you. But no – your father’s got to work and I’ve got to get Lily ready for school. Make your own way there.”

“It’s hell out there,” Alex protested weakly.

His mother picked Lily up from her chair, the five-year-old covered in Coco Pops and with a huge smile on her face, looking so unlike her bitter mother that it was hard to believe they were related at all.

“You’ll be fine,” his mother said. “You’re going to hell anyway.”

Without another word, his mother left the room, Lily waving at Alex over her shoulder. Alex hung his head, rubbing his knuckles against his temples, trying to ground himself, trying to think. Maybe he could get a lift from one of his friends, he considered. But his house wasn’t on the way to school for any of them and he didn’t want to annoy them by making them go out of their way to get him. Besides, they’d probably just tell him to walk. It wasn’t like the school was that far away, it was only a little rain. He wasn’t that pathetic, he could handle getting a bit wet. What did it matter?

He shook his head to clear his addled thoughts, finished getting ready for school, found an old coat and headed out into the rain. He just made himself get on with it.

Even though the walk to school was short, it wasn’t made easy by the rain. It blurred most of his vision, soaked any part of him that wasn’t covered by the coat – within three minutes his jeans were plastered to his legs and his face was numb with cold. At one point, a car drove past his and sent an icy puddle spraying up at him like a tidal wave. He spat rainwater out onto the pavement and wished for the rain to subside, just for a little bit. Of course, it didn’t.

When he finally arrived at school, he pulled his coat off and shook out his wet hair like a dog. A group of girls beside him shrieked as the water splashed them, but he didn’t have the energy to apologise. He just made his way to his locker, trying to move quickly as if that would make the day go faster, get it all out of the way.

He arrived at his locker and saw Luke waiting for him there, a bright smile on his face that disappeared as soon as he saw the state Alex was in.

“Bro, you’re a mess,” he said as soon as Alex was close enough to hear him.

“Thanks,” he deadpanned.

“Did you walk here? Dude, it’s practically a storm out there.”

Alex shrugged, trying to play it off like he didn’t care. “So? A little water won’t hurt me.”

“You’re shivering,” Luke pointed out. “And you’re soaked. Dude, you can’t go around in wet clothes all day, you’ll get sick. And you’re a nightmare when you’re sick.”

“It’s fine,” Alex said dismissively. “I might have some sweatpants in my PE kit. I’ll wear those.”

“Why did you walk anyway?” Luke asked, leaning against the locker beside him.

“My parents couldn’t take me.”

Luke’s expression morphed into something Alex was too tired to identify. There was confusion in there, concern, maybe a bit of anger. None of it made sense to Alex though, so he opened up his locker so he’d have somewhere else to look.

“I would have taken you,” Luke said, clapping Alex on the back. The touch made his skin crawl and he squeezed his eyes shut to try and dispel the grim feeling that had settled between his shoulder blades. “You should’ve just called.”

“My house isn’t on the way for you,” Alex pointed out.

“So? You know I would have come for you, Alex, don’t be dumb.”

Alex’s heart sank. Was that what he was? Did Luke really think he was dumb for not calling him? Though Alex was starting to feel a little stupid himself. What had he been thinking? Had he really let his stupid anxieties get to him so much that he’d misjudged his friends so harshly? Maybe he was as stupid as Luke said.

“Alex,” Luke said softly, pulling him back down to Earth. “Don’t get lost in your own head, buddy. Okay? Just go and get changed. You’re fine. I’ll see you in class, bro.”

He headed to the changing rooms, not really paying attention to anything going on around him and hardly remembering the journey once he got there. Hurriedly, he pulled his waterlogged jeans off and tried to brush any lingering water off his legs, but it was impossible. He settled for being a little bit damp and pulled the joggers on. They were a thousand times more comfortable than the jeans, the first bit of good luck he’d had since he woke up. As he left the room, he shoved his hands into his pockets, and felt something in one of them.

It was a small scrap of paper. He didn’t remember putting anything in his pockets, so he pulled it out to inspect it. He recognised the handwriting immediately and for the first time that day a smile tugged at his lips.

I love you!

Willie’s messy scrawl filled most of the page, surrounded by tiny love hearts. He must have slipped it into Alex’s pocket the last time he’d been wearing these joggers. It made Alex’s heart flip, remembering that Willie was somewhere in the school and this note was proof that he loved him. Somewhere nearby, Willie was wandering the halls (or more likely skating through them and being sent to Principal Lessa for it yet again) and Alex would get to see him soon. That, he knew, would brighten even his darkest days.

For a moment or two he let himself be happy. He’d see Willie and everything would feel fine. Willie had that effect on Alex – just one moment together could force any worry out of his mind.

But then he realised that it was a Friday. The one day of the week where his timetable clashed so awfully with Willie’s that they had literally no chance to see each other. They didn’t share a breaktime, they didn’t share lunch, there was no chance they’d even pass each other in the halls. Any hope Alex had held dissipated like air from a burst balloon. He was back to feeling like today just wasn’t worth it.

Without thinking, he pulled his phone out and quickly texted Willie, asking if he could sleep at his house that night. It would be good for a lot of reasons – he would have to spend the evening with his parents, he’d get to hold Willie for as long as he wanted to, and all the day’s stresses would finally leave him and he’d be free. All he had to do was get through the day.

Willie replied quickly, saying of course Alex could sleep over, he’d be looking forward to it. It was something to be happy about, Alex knew. Something for him to look forward to, to be excited by. But his anxiety got to it before his excitement could – what if Willie forgot, what if he changed his mind, what if Alex was somehow made to go home instead? All of a sudden his mind was buzzing again, a thousand possibilities being hauled through one by one, each less likely but more troubling than the last.

Just as he started considering the possibility that Willie had only said yes as some cruel joke, that their whole relationship was built just to embarrass Alex, he knew he had to stop. He knew he had to force himself to concentrate on something else, ignore every curse his brain threw at him. The school bell rang, signalling the first lesson, and Alex made himself get on with it.

School was decidedly not good. In his first lesson, Alex was surprised by a maths exam he’d completely forgotten to study for. His head was swimming the whole time and he only answered four of the questions, leaving the rest blank or filled with scribbles and half-finished equations. In his second lesson, the teacher asked for homework to be handed in, and Alex realised he’d left his on his desk in his bedroom. The teacher threatened him with detention which made Alex’s heart beat so rapidly that he could feel the blood pulsing in his neck. The only reason he got out of it was because it was the first time he’d ever left his homework and luckily the teacher was feeling kind.

But his third lesson was the worst. He arrived with most of the class long before the teacher, and all the other students were so loud. They were laughing and shouting and throwing things around, making so much noise that Alex wanted to clamp his hands over his ears and shut his eyes and stop moving. It was physically painful and he couldn’t take it. Before the teacher had even arrived, Alex was out of his seat and heading as fast as he could to the toilets.

He locked himself in a cubicle, leaned back against the wall and slid down to the floor, hands covering his eyes. His breathing came out in ragged strips, burning his chest. Hot tears were leaking down his cheeks and every time he wiped one away three more replaced it. He couldn’t feel his legs, if he had tried to stand up he knew they wouldn’t have held him. His hands were shaking so violently that he had to press them harder against his face to still them, knowing he’d probably leave a mark. Every time he moved felt like an excruciating amount of effort.

It felt like it would go on forever.

By the time he regained feeling in his legs, his hands stopped shaking, his eyes weren’t watering and his breathing was even, he had missed the entirety of his lesson. He forced himself up from the floor, feeling disgusting as he realised that the floor of a school toilet was probably one of the most unhygienic places on Earth. But he checked himself in the mirror one last time, ignored the receding blotches on his face, and headed to lunch.

The rest of the day passed largely without incident. He wasn’t hungry, so spent most of lunch pushing food around his plate. Julie, Reggie, and Luke gently encouraged him to try and eat something, but they left it alone when he told them he couldn’t. His final lessons dragged on and on, but he comforted himself with the knowledge that soon it would be just him and Willie and he could forget the dreadful day he’d had.

He met Willie at the entrance of the school after his final lesson. The rain had cleared and there was a tiny hint of the sun peeking through the clouds, glinting on the wet pavement. Alex’s heart swelled when he saw Willie waiting for him, skateboard in hand, hair tucked under his helmet, beaming. He walked over to him and didn’t bother saying anything before pulling Willie into the tightest hug he could.

Willie chuckled in his ear, gripping him with just as much force. “Miss me, hotdog?”

Alex could only nod, burying his face into Willie’s hair.

He felt Willie press a gentle kiss to his neck. “I missed you too. But I’m here now. Just us two.”

“Just us two,” Alex echoed.

The further away they walked from the school, the more Alex’s heart lifted. Hand in hand with Willie, he listened to him talk about his day, ranting about the cool stuff he’d learnt in history and showing him photos of the latest project he was working on in his art class.

“Recognise this guy?” Willie asked, swiping onto a picture of a portrait. The guy in the picture was laughing, his head tipped back and his eyes closed, blond hair fallen over his face. The background was dark, dotted with twinkling lights in every colour of the rainbow. Alex felt himself smile, in awe of Willie’s talent, loving him more every second.

“That’s me,” Alex said quietly.

He knew exactly what picture Willie had used as a reference. It had been taken when the two of them had gone to a carnival for the night – Alex had been laughing at Willie, who had somehow managed to get candyfloss all over his face while eating it. The portrait version captured the pure elation and giddiness Alex had been feeling at the time perfectly, better than the actual photograph had managed. He had no idea how Willie could paint the way he did, like the paintbrush was an extension of his arm, natural and easy.

There were no words to describe the way Willie made Alex feel, so he settled for, “I love you.”

Willie blushed daintily and squeezed Alex’s hand, tucking his phone back into his pocket. “I love you too.”

They arrived at Willie’s house soon enough. Luckily for Alex, he kept plenty of clothes at Willie’s as well as a toothbrush and a pair of drumsticks, so he didn’t have to go home and grab anything before coming. The two of them changed into more comfortable clothes (and if Alex stole one of Willie’s hoodies rather than simply using one of the three he kept there, that was his own business) before deciding to be lazy and tuck themselves into Willie’s bed together rather than heading all the way back downstairs.

Alex had planned to try and be fun that evening, for Willie’s sake. He didn’t want to be boring and quiet, letting his bad day get to him when he was with Willie. He wanted to have fun and be fun, not the moping emotional wreck he felt like. But it was easier said than done. Sure, being with Willie had already cheered him up immensely, but when he finally got to rest for a moment he thought he might break. The weight of the day caught up with him, every crushing thing his parents had said, every bitingly cold raindrop, every loud noise in the class he’d skipped. He felt as tired as he had that morning when he’d pulled himself from the bed.

He couldn’t make himself be fun that day.

“What are you thinking about?” Willie asked, running a hand through Alex’s hair. The touch was soothing and soft – it tore down the final remnants of Alex’s resolve.

He cuddled up close to Willie, laid his head on his shoulder, and he cried.

Willie didn’t say anything. He just looped his arms around Alex’s back and held him close. He gently stroked Alex’s hair, rubbed small circles on his back, pressed the occasional soft kiss to the top of his head. That was what Alex loved about Willie – there was never any pressure, Willie would let Alex do what he needed to in his own time. If he needed to cry his eyes out for some impossible amount of time, Willie would let him and he would hold him while it happened.

Eventually he calmed down enough to speak. Releasing the tears had left a hollow feeling in his stomach (though that might have had something to do with the fact he hadn’t eaten since breakfast). He felt guilty, selfish, like he should have just bitten his tongue and kept his emotions inside.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked, throat dry.

“You don’t need to apologise,” Willie told him reassuringly. “I don’t mind. I just want to be here for you.”

“You don’t want me to explain?” Alex asked. Usually when he broke this way people demanded an explanation from him, made him tell them everything he was thinking, forced him to move too quickly and too far. But Willie, of course, was different.

“Only if you want to,” Willie said. Alex propped his chin on Willie’s shoulder, angled so that he could look him in the eye. All he saw was honesty, adoration, care… things he wasn’t used to seeing when he was in such a state. But he knew he could always count on Willie to show him exactly what he needed.

He took a deep breath and slowly he told Willie everything. He told him how he’d felt awful since the moment he had woken up, how his parents had only made it worse, how the rain had dampened his mood, how he’d found Willie’s note but been crushed when he realised he wouldn’t see him. He told him about the failed test, the missed homework, the panic attack in his third lesson, eating nothing at lunch and how he was dreading the next time he had to go home.

And all the while, Willie just listened. He never interrupted, never offered an unhelpful opinion, never told Alex he was being silly. He just listened until Alex was finished.

“Look at me, Alex,” he said then, voice low. Alex did as he said. “None of this is your fault. Please tell me you know that.”

Tears brimmed in his eyes again, but still Alex nodded. He hadn’t known it before, but he believed everything Willie said. It Willie claimed it wasn’t Alex’s fault, then it wasn’t his fault.

“Your bad days will come and go,” he continued, wiping a stray tear away from Alex’s cheek. “But they’ll always be followed by good ones sooner or later. You can stay here with me for as long as you need to and I promise I’ll try and make every day as good as it can possibly be for you. You are loved, Alex.”

Alex sniffled weakly. “I know.”

“Maybe today did suck,” Willie said, “but look at where you are. You made it through. You got through this awful day. You’re still here, Alex, you’re still fighting. You did that all by yourself – I wish you hadn’t had to do it alone, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there, but you did it. I’m so proud of you. You made it, that’s what matters. You made it and I love you.”

Though he didn’t feel like he had a lot of strength left, Alex leaned up and kissed Willie’s cheek gently. He didn’t feel like he could speak, so that was his thank-you. Willie beamed at it, and Alex felt his spirits lift. He laid his head back down on Willie’s shoulder and nestled further into the bed.

“I mean it, Alex,” Willie whispered. “I’m proud that I get to call you my boyfriend.”

Alex had no idea how to reply, so he didn’t. He knew Willie knew that he loved him in return. That night, the two of them fell asleep to the sound of each other’s breathing, wrapped in one another’s arms, holding each other with all the love in the world.

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strangerobin · 2 years

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Rue: Chapter 10 (Jasper Hale Imagine)

Guess who's back ;)

Or: Baseball and confrontations and whatnots

“Why are we here again?”

The storm was rolling in from the west, the wind screeching and the thunder was close to deafening. Adeline lowered her gaze from the darkening sky to survey her surrounding again, the entire Cullen clan were here; and they were in a wide field deep in the mountains, a rudimentary diamond was drawn on the ground to resemble-

“Well, it’s baseball! It’s the all American pastime!” Was Emmett’s deafening bellow right beside her, excitement practically vibrating off his body, and he looked at Adeline as if he was unable to comprehend just why she was so unwilling to be part of the game.

“Jesus Christ! At least give a girl some warning!” Adeline couldn’t help rolling her eyes at the giant.

“Relax.” In return, Emmett only gave her a goodnatured slap on the back. “It’d be fun. You can even pick which team you want to be on! Wait, or have you never even played baseball before?”

Annoyed, Adeline went to kick the big oaf in the shin and grouched. “I have! So stop being obnoxious!”

Turning around, she buried her face into her hands and groaned. Just what had she gotten herself into?! She had only wanted to kill some time; the days had seemed to drag on and on and it irked her to no end whenever she saw Jasper loitering around. Recalling that day when she had woken to find Jasper walking in on her napping at the cliff side, it filled her heart with an indescribable heaviness; so heavy it weighed on her like an anchor, while she was a raft in the raging sea, fighting to keep her head afloat. He had been nonchalant and casual about it but somehow she felt exposed, vulnerable even, as if he had glimpsed into one of her deepest darkest secret.

It didn’t help that she had dreamt of him.

It only made it worse.

Adeline couldn’t help it, she couldn’t even look the man in the eye without having an internal crisis or the urge to run in the exact opposite direction.

Running, it really was the only thing she was ever good at.

But as she turned her attention back to the rest of the clan, the game was already about to begin, what was left was choosing your own team. And it sure as hell won’t be her being stuck with Mr Moody and Mr Angsty. She narrowed her eyes before edging closer to Bella and clutched at her sleeves in big exaggerated motion and leaning forward to speak into Bella’s ear as if in secrecy.

“Bella. Protect me from your evil eavesdropping husband, will you?” Adeline’s loud voice was audible throughout the entire field.

Bella eyes widened for a fraction before almost doubling down in laughter. “Of course!” She smiled brightly before smirking at her husband. Adeline received Edward’s deadly stare with a sweet innocent smile.

In the end the group was split into two teams. Renesmee and Esme would be the umpires, Adeline would be team with Carlisle, Emmett and Bella while the rest would be on the other.

Adeline watched on as Carlisle went for his first hit with Alice being the pitcher.

“What’s the point if she can predict the future?” Adeline raised an eyebrow at Emmett in question. “I mean, she knows how to play to win doesn’t she?”

“Well not necessarily. Sometimes her sights change accordingly and unexpectedly. And, drumroll please - we have you!”

“Me?” She pointed at herself in surprise.

“Yes you! You’re our wild card now! Alice can’t see, not when you’re involved. So with you on our team, we’re bound to win for once.”

“Interesting observation.” Adeline murmured, eyeing Alice again with newfound interest.

And then the game began.

For all her whining and complaining, Adeline actually found herself enjoying it.

Even as she stood in position, watching Alice keenly, holding her breath, the ball thrown in the most elaborate pitching position she had ever seen. Her senses were tingling.

Now-!

She hit the ball with all her might feeling it ricochet against the metal bat before throwing it and started her run. Her heart was pumping furiously in her chest, the last of the winter chill cutting into her face, her limbs were stretched in the best way; and she had never felt so alive for a very long time. She spared a glance at the boys off to chase her ball, but her hair kept flapping into her eyes and she had to look away. Second plate then third; her eyes were solely trained on the fourth- home.

The whoosh around her ears were almost deafening.

“She’s in!!!”

And she was home.

Adeline had barely gotten herself up before she was lifted up by a pair of strong arms and given a bear hug.

“You did it new girl!”

And just for that moment, the excitement was infectious and she found herself yelping and jumping along.

“Oh my God! We did it old boy! We’re one point in!” Adeline clapped at Emmett good-naturedly and grinned at Carlise before turning around to hug Renesmee and Bella who were cheering her on along. “I’ve never had so much fun in a while.” She explained when they finally calmed down; choosing to ignore the pointed look Jasper threw her as she hung around Emmett’s side.

From there on, she tracked the ball much more closely, letting out little sighs and exclamations here and there.

After the first round, albeit with more than a little luck, they had managed to secure quite some points to make a significant lead. And if they managed to play it right- which was not to say she welcomed the idea of her being pitcher.

Rolling her eyes again at the giant who had forced her into her current predicament, Adeline readied herself for her next pitch.

The game hadn’t been entirely in vain; she had kept an eye on the other Cullens. Just… to make sure who she was not to cross in case anything happened.

Edward was the fastest, there was no doubt in it. While Emmett might be strong, he was certainly competitive, but when you aim to win, you become careless. Rosalie was neither strong nor fast, but for what she lacked, she compensated with a ruthlessness and decidedness. Bella was, sadly, the most lacking in skills. But then Adeline supposed she was too much of a gentle being to be rough housing with the boys.

Jasper though, Jasper was on another level. Adeline finally understood why she had lost to Jasper in that clearing.

He was speed combined with strength, as well as cunningness. He was basically the ultimate package, the perfect example of a predator at the top of the chain.

Even as he stood, mere meters from her position as the pitcher, iron bat in hand; Adeline couldn’t help appraising the man in front of her, sizing up those muscular arms, the scars littered over his exposed neck, the confident countenance he held. She licked her lips and gulped nervously, barely able to hold eye contact with the man for longer than a glance. He was dangerous, it was almost… attractive.

Adeline shifted her grip on the ball, pulse thundering in her ears, palms sweaty. Briefly considering her options, she realised with a start that there was no way around it, no matter how well she played her shot, Jasper would win this strike.

Jasper always wins.

When the party finally broke for a long needed break, Adeline’s team was only leading by a close margin. She had lost all three strikes to the man somehow and all her previous enthusiasm was gone, doused by a bucket of cold water.

She desperately needed to clear her head.

Muttering a quick apology to Emmett and Bella with a hurried smile, Adeline ducked under the canopy of firs. Up ahead there was a sharp dive, the landmass morphing to form a large ravine. Trudging slowly downwards towards the rocky bank where the remnants of a shallow creek was bubbling, Adeline brought a hand to rub at her face and heaved a long sigh, exhaustion overtaking her body, a chill seeping out from deep within her bones. She folded into herself, arms clutching tightly around her thin frame to gather whatever warmth was left. What was she feeling? Defeat? Disappointment? Discontent at losing?

No that wasn’t it. It was something… something more latent.

Something shiny caught her eye and Adeline crouched down to pick at the light buried amongst the leaves, deftly she retrieved a silver dog tag. Rubbing the dirt away from the surface, she blew on it and tried to read the engravings on the tag.

LJ Smith.

She almost missed the crunch of leaves behind her.

Almost.

“What is it that you want Jasper?” She didn’t even need to turn around to know who it was.

“What’s that?” The man behind her gestured to the silver tag she was holding.

“Someone must have left it behind.” Adeline shrugged, pretending to be nonchalant.

But he was sharper.

“I saw you leaving.” He tone was even, and yet it felt like an accusation at her all the same. She whirled around to face the man she had once called her beloved, the same person who she felt more distant than ever in this fucking moment. So close they could almost touch, and yet so painfully away.

“What’s wrong? You know you can tell me-”

“I would, but there’s nothing wrong. Really.”

He looked searchingly before sighing bitterly. “You still don’t trust me.”

“What, no- this has nothing to do with anything!” Adeline spluttered, throwing her hands in the air.

“I can feel you.” Jasper smiled self-depreciatingly. “You had fun back there. Before you had to play against me, you were starting to have fun, weren’t you? But you can’t even look me in the eye the moment I-”

“Why do you have to be so fucking persistent?” Her lips trembled at the outburst. “Fine. I’m terrified! I’m terrified of you. Are you happy now?”

It came out in the spur of the moment, this confession. And the moment it came out of her mouth, Adeline regretted it instantaneously. It was evident that it was nothing Jasper had anticipated. She had to look away to avoid meeting those tawny eyes, out of fear she would see something that would break her resolve.

“Why?”

Adeline had to smother the urge to cry out in frustration then and there. Of all the things he could ask!

“Just- Because!” She gestured wildly, looking frantically at anything but Jasper.

Because I’m drowning in you. She realised with a start, the realisation dawning of her. And I’m terrified that… I might just let myself drown. Willingly.

Were the confessions on the tip of her tongue, all of which she swallowed back with a gulp.

“Because you’re an apex predator and you lie and you scheme. So… I can’t trust you.”

She knew how to strike where it hurt the most.

Adeline finally allowed her gaze to settle on Jasper, and watched the mask on his stoic face crack, if just for a second.

“Look I’m sorr-”

There was a loud crack at the bottom of the ravine. And Jasper was instantly by her side, a protective arm in front of her.

“Did you hear that?”

It was from the bottom of the ravine.

“You don’t think…” Adeline held up the dog tag again, the implication heavy in the air.

Jasper nodded once, before stepping down slope with Adeline following close behind.

A large boulder was at the bank of the small creek, there splattered on its smooth surface was a blotch of fresh blood, scattered around it was more. As they followed the trail of blood, the stench was also getting stronger.

Adeline didn’t miss the way Jasper’s shoulders tensed, or the way he froze when they came upon the injured man shivering in the hollow of the ferns.

The first thing Adeline noticed was the open fracture over his left tibia, the sharp fragment sticking out at an angle. He was hyperventilating, his chest rising up and down awkwardly, and when Adeline rushed forward to check him for any other injuries, she noted the bruises littered all over his abdomen.

“I fell.” The man was barely conscious and could only wheeze out a single audible answer.

Realising the severity of the situation, Adeline turned back to where Jasper was still standing at a distance away.

“We need to get Carlisle and get him to a hospital! I think he’s broken a few ribs and might have caused a pneumothorax, and the bruises on his tummy, I’m worried about internal lacerations and haemorrhage. We need to get him into an operating theatre immediately!”

There was no reply.

“Jasper? Jasper!”

Jasper’s jaws were set, fists tightly clenched on his sides, shaking madly and she noted how he gulped, his Adam’s apple bopping up and down, his eyes hadn’t even shifted from the man for the last minute or so.

For the first time since being around him, Adeline felt genuine fear coursing through her veins. She turned towards the man again, making the connection.

Blood and thirst. Bloodlust.

He was trying with all his might to restrain himself. But how long before his resolve broke, before he attacked the injured man. He would attack her too then, if she stood in his way, or worse, drain her. It wasn’t unheard of before, half breds made exceptionally tasty meals. She wouldn’t be able to fight him, that was illustrated time and again. She was the weaker, in an unbiased fight, she would always lose.

Her self-preserving instinct screamed in her ears: run, leave the man to his fate, now’s the time to run-

But she couldn’t leave him like that.

He would blame himself for the rest of his life. Another spot on his conscience. He might not have realised, but she had studied him too. Had noted the foul mood slipping on occasionally, the self-deprecating smiles, the pained expressions, haunted looks.

Things she recognised from herself.

Run you stupid girl. Do you understand what kind of mess you’re getting yourself into?

It was a split second decision.

You’ll never be able to leave him.

In that moment, he needed her more than she needed her escape.

Adeline got up slowly, heart hammering in her chest, the fear was making her nauseous, but she paid no heed. She needed to get through to him, to get him to calm down, distract him long enough to leave. Stepping closer cautiously so as not to awaken the predator within the man, Adeline finally got in front of Jasper, blocking his visual field.

“Hey Jasper, it’s me. It’s Adeline.” She coaxed gently. At first he showed no recognition of her, teeth bared at her with a feral growl. Adeline forced herself to stay calm and repeated his name like a mantra. “Its me Jasper, your Adeline.”

Gradually, almost too slowly, Jasper shifted his gaze onto her, eyes as black as coals. But one groan from the man behind and he was immediately distracted. Her heart stopped with it at the same time. Taking in another shaky breath, she returned all her attention only on the man just inches in front of her now, Adeline gingerly reached out her hands towards Jasper, gently settling them on both of his shoulders first, grounding him to her presence first, before gently, tracing a hand up to hold his face.

“Jasper. Look at me, listen to me, just focus on my voice.”

His attention was on her again, leaning into her palm, he folded forward so that their faces were inches apart only, taking in her scent.

“There you go. You’ve done well, Just feel me here, this moment, with you…” She continued softly. “I know you feel the thirst, and I know it hurts like the hell, the pain… but remember this isn’t you. I know you don’t want to hurt him.”

Jasper finally closed his eyes, seemingly recollecting himself in that moment.

“I don’t know how Adeline…”

“You can do this…" She could almost feel the ghost of his sigh on her lips, and she licked her lips again. She hadn’t been in such proximity with anyone in forever.

“I believe you.” She breathed. “I know you can do it. You can control yourself.”

“What if I can’t?”

“Look at me.” She willed him to look at her, bore her gaze into his. Holding her hand out for him to take, he reluctantly allowed her to entwine their fingers together. "I’m here and I won’t let you… Do you trust me?”

“Aren’t you afraid I’m going to attack you first? You do smell… divine…” There was that playful undertone she had missed.

“I trust you.” She murmured, not missing the way his shoulders stiffened for a split second before relaxing.

Jasper closed his eyes and rested against her forehead, taking deep breaths as if to calm himself.

In that moment, there was a connection, an exchange of sorts; and Adeline fancied that for a while, Jasper had laid his heart bare for her to see.

Now you’re trapped forever.

“Ok.” Still taking in another breath, he nodded with resolve. “I can do this.”

She smiled for the first time, a tired relieved smile, and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Go get Carlise and get the car ready.”

She knew he wanted to linger on the moment just for another second, but the injured man wouldn’t heal himself, so she gave him a push. His hand lingering on hers briefly before turning the other way to alert the others.

Adeline took a deep breath to quell her treacherous heart before turning on her heels, steeling her nerves and approached the man again.

Carlise was by her at an instant with Edward surprisingly, by which she had already exposed and meticulously assessed the man’s injuries, and had fashioned a tourniquet to tie around his legs to stop the bleeding from the fracture site

“He has an open fracture over his left tibia, a flail chest and I suspect, a right pneumothorax. And the bruises over his abdomen, I’m worried about internal bleeding.” She reported to the doctor, her hands never once stopping in her work.

“We need to decompress the pneumo first then send him to the hospital immediately. Edward hand me a 14 gauge needle, its right inside the first aid kit. Adeline hold his head and neck.” Carlise was already percussing along the injured man’s chest, locating the right intercostal space and disinfecting it with an alcohol swab.

“I’m not sure if there’s any potential spinal fracture, I wasn’t confident enough to check…” Adeline blabbered on.

“It’s alright Adeline, you’ve done great enough. Now hold him tight.” Carlise murmured as he delivered the needle into the mid intercostal space, and Adeline let out the breath she had been holding unconsciously as the air gushed out from the needle.

“You did it Adeline Ruelle.” Edward drawled sarcastically, dropping down next to her on one of those ugly plastic hospital chairs. “You saved a man from his premature death.”

“Oh go fuck off somewhere else Edward Cullen.” Adeline shifted uncomfortably in her dingy seat, rubbing her tired face, the exhaustion creeping over her again. Everything was too bright, too sterile, she hated hospitals, always had. They reminded her of war, of pandemics, of death. “The man’s not even out of OT yet.”

She was surprised when a coffee was shoved into her hands, by none other than Edward himself.

“Take it. God knows why you love this thing without sugar or milk is beyond me.”

Holding the plastic cup in her hands, Adeline savoured the warmth radiating from her cup of liquid caffeine and took a sip, the taste of cheap coffee invading her tongue, badly roasted, for what it lacked in aroma it compensated with bitterness. It really was just cheap coffee, but she appreciated the sentiment all the same.

“Thanks." She murmured, before taking another gulp of the scalding beverage. Hunching forward, Adeline turned towards Edward and gestured towards the theatre just few feet away. “You reckon our man of the woods will make it out alive?”

Edward merely met her with a side glance before producing his phone from his backpocket. “So… according to Alice, Mr Smith will be up and about, hiking those trails again in a year or so-”

“Reckless.”

“And he’ll continue with coming second runner up for some cross country running competition in a few years time.”

“Interesting predictions.”

Edward simply shrugged and settled himself back onto his chair. An awkward silence ensued, with Adeline sipping on her bitter coffee, and Edward scrolling mindlessly through his phone. Until the man cleared his throat to draw Adeline’s attention.

“What?"

“You know, I wasn’t talking about his injuries.”

“Ok?”

“You saved the man from Jasper, you saved Jasper from himself.”

Adeline froze up at the mention of Jasper’s name, trying her hardest to act nonchalant. The fact was, she hadn't let her thoughts stray back to him. The injured man had been a welcomed distraction. She didn't want to process just what had transpired in the woods. Her heart wasn't ready for it; her heart was probably never ready for it. “Anyone would’ve done that.”

Edward was still studying her, goddamnit was he reading her mind again?!

“But not anyone would’ve succeeded.”

“What are you implying?” Her grip on the feeble plastic cup tightened, and the remainder of the coffee sloshed dangerously within its confines.

“Careful, you don’t want to spill it.” Handing her a piece tissue towel seemingly out of nowhere. He continued calmly as if they were merely discussing the weather. “I’m not insinuating anything, if you’re wondering.” He seemed to had more to add but shook his head in the last minute. “Though I’m curious, why did you do it?”

Adeline struggled to formulate a suitable answer.

“Hey there kids. I see you’ve been having some rest.” And there Carlisle was, walking towards the duo dressed in scrubs, fresh out of OT.

Saved by the bell.

“How’s the man?” Adeline shot up from her perch on the plastic chair.

“We just went through a laparotomy, he has three fractured ribs on his left and two over his right; lacerated his spleen and punctured his lungs. So we had to remove his spleen; now the orthopaedics are repairing his fracture, but from what I gather, he might just come out of this alright.”

“Oh thank God.”

Carlisle smiled gently down at her, like a father proud of his daughter’s achievements.

“You were fantastic out there, your scope of knowledge was-”

“I had some training done before.” Adeline shuffled and smiled awkwardly. She was not used to compliments, that and maintaining appearances and friends and small talks. She had been alone for far too long to remember how to act in these circumstances. No doubt picking up on her unwillingness to delve into her past, Carlisle merely smiled in his usual gentle way and pressed no further.

“I see. Well, why don’t you run along and go home shower. There’s blood on your shirt. I don’t think its salvageable but you certainly can do with some rest.”

“Oh, it’s alright. Mr Moody here bought me coffee here so I’ll be fine-”

Adeline gestured at the plastic cup in her hand, only for Edward to drop another bombshell the next minute.

“Jasper said he’ll be here in 5, he can pick Adeline up and drive her home.”

“What?!”

“Come on, let’s get you out to the parking lot. Say bye to Carlisle now.”

Clutching her by the shoulder with a firm grip, he carefully steered her down the hospital corridor after saying their byes.

“I liked you better when you talked less.” Adeline muttered, shooting Edward a glare.

“Well, I’ll take it as a compliment.”

“Why are you suddenly being so nice to me now? I thought you hated my guts?”

“I still do.” The man admitted without so much as a blink. “But I’ve seen the way you calmed him down and I know that means something.”

“Do you?” Adeline raised an eyebrow quizzically.

“Not even Alice could’ve done it.”

“...Alice?”

“It’s… What my point is for all the time I’ve known Jasper, we’ve never once been able to calm him down like that. You’re different.”

“Really I don’t see how this has anything-”

“He still loves you. After all these years.”

Adeline stopped in her tracks.

“And I’m willing to bet my money on where your heart lies-”

“You don’t know me!”

Edward turned calmly towards her frozen form.

“Don’t I? Don’t lie to yourself Adeline Ruelle.”

“Oh don’t go holier than thou on me, Edward Cullen” Closing the distance between them, an accusing finger pointed at him, Adeline seethed through clenched teeth. “You’re a bloody eavesdropper, that’s what you are.”

“That may be so. But then why did you stop him? There in the clearing.”

Backed into a corner, figuratively, Adeline could only put on a brave face and glared.

“You had every chance to run but you chose to save him. Ask yourself this, don’t lie to yourself for once, why?”

Locked in an impasse, neither spoke. Edward pinned her in her place with his scrutinising gaze, waiting for an answer Adeline refused to give. Sensing her resolve, he finally sighed and looked away. “In all honesty. I’m glad you were there. If you hadn’t stopped him, it would’ve been disastrous.”

When she continued to stay mum, Edward continued on with his one-sided conversation.

“I can’t help it if your thoughts keeps screaming into mine, or Jasper’s. And I don’t want to get involved into your lovers’ spat, so for the sake of my sanity, will the two of you please talk it out already?”

Adeline had to laugh at that.

“So what is this? Is this some sort of permission you’re giving me now? Please just kiss and makeup with my brother already!”

“That’s not what I’m saying, you know you have a way of twisting everyone’s words when you need to, it’s like you’re doing your best to piss off the entire world.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment.”

“Look, I told Jasper this once and I’ll say it again.” Edward gave another sigh and pressed his palm against his forehead. “Every relationship requires the participation of both parties. A soulmate bond doesn't automatically mean endgame. At the end of the day, it's just a bond. It ties the two of you together in this life, but if you don’t reciprocate it, there’s nothing he can do either.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She hated how her laugh felt so forced, so shrill. And Edward, he only looked her in the eye and pushed her out through the automatic doors. She thought she saw a hint of newfound tenderness in his topaz eyes.

“Then you’re an even bigger fool than I thought you were.”

She didn’t really hate him she guess.

“Do what's right Adeline, don’t make it become a bigger regret than it already is."

She was going to protest again, but she saw the Tesla rolling in the lot, and all her protests died in her throat and she swallowed harshly. She had half a mind to just turn around and run back to Edward and beg him to just hide her or something but all the man did was smirk before stepping back into the hospital lobby.

“Well thanks for joining my ted talk Adeline Ruelle, now go catch your ride home and talk.”

It was too late to run anyways. Jasper had already seen her and so all she could do was raise her hand in an awkward wave and try to put an end to those butterflies in her stomach.

#jasper hale x reader #jasper hale x oc #jasper hale imagine #twilight angst #twilight imagine #jasperhale

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venteamocha · 3 years

Text

I've seen @nellplays talk about the @attollo game, and I've had it in my to-play list for SO LONG and I'm finally playing it and I decided to do a live post because I never have and I want to and I hope it will be fun to read.

Main review:

Very well written and beautifully descriptive. I could SMELL those locations and for some of them it was more pleasant than others.

Someone brought up that it was confusing a while back and the only thing I found confusing was some of the time shifts. For some reason I thought we were in the same time period when we got the candy and it went to the sibling, I thought we'd just left the shop and gone back and the trip had just been skipped, and then suddenly we were back in the shop and it was clarified that the sibling stuff was in the past. I'm adhd though, so attention is an issue and this could be a me thing?

My MC:

And now the babbling!

Prologue

An Iron FOREST!? That is BADASS!! Okay there are no other options. Do the trees bleed rust when it rains?? Do they rust??

THE MAYOR HAD IT BUILT?? On the one hand he did a cool thing but on the other this guy immediately made me think Anish Kapoor with his big metal bean.

Ah yeah mayor is fantasy Bezos and his Amazon doesn't deliver.

Take the road less travelled by, maybe I can get this guy killed the way I'd die if this were me.

WHAT.... is your name? WHAT... is your favourite color?

We're going to Wonderland!!

Chapter 1

"Naturally, your car had been working until you actually needed it." OH GOD WHAT A MOOD.

I never had a tire iron. I'm a clown. 🤡😆

"America's equivalent to the CAA" 😆 A fellow Canadian, eh???

The vantablack joke!! When will our hero Stewart Semple save us?

My super size drink is my ridiculous trenti drink from Starbucks with almost enough sugary caffeine and milk to drown an infant in.

T o u c h t h e s l i m e. What's the worst that can happen? You get a weird disease that makes your hand fall off? You'll have a great story to tell!

Ahh yes my purpose. My destiny. Eating slime off a fantasy 7/11 ice box. I hear it calling to me and the sound is like the screech of a sugar high toddler in a McDonalds.

Teenager: I've been stoned before but this person is on stuff I can only dream of. Minimum wage won't be enough for me to save them from themself.

Maltazers! Cryptocurrency! This fantasy 7/11 has it all!

I took it because I'm a bad person. Wait, no! I'm sticking it to the man!! Yeah!! Fuck 7/11 and their week old hot dogs!! This is why I crave ice box slime!!

"Indescribable fear of the rolling stones" JSDHDJS let this be about the band

I have some Canadian Tire money wedged in my purse 😔

All convenience stores are liminal spaces imo

If I get a sudden urge to lick this 7/11's toilet I will get very sick but I'll do it because I'm a monster.

A GLORY HOLE FDJDDUJSKSAAOAJ

NO I REJECT THESE CHOICES I'M TAKING A PEN AND WRITING A NEW ONE ON MY PHONE SCREEN MYSELF-

OH GOD IT'S A VOID HOLE IT'S A CTHULHU GLORY HOLE THIS 7/11 IS FOR MONSTER FUCKERS

"The hole releases its grip on you" I'm gonna have this phrase pop up in the depths of my brainmeats someday and it will make me twitch like a chihuahua

The insane void hole not only dropped me on a Florida beach, it also broke my phone? Man, fuck these eldritch abominations.

Back to the city before I really do get eaten by Cthulhu or something similar.

*You have acquired a knife and are now officially a thief*

Toto, we ain't in Kansas anymore.

Sysba 😳

Ice boxes are gonna be poor Quinn's (my mc) trauma, I can tell.

H-humans became angler fish... I...

Flock of birds?? My face when I'm reading all this: 😯

It's my seat now. I will live and die here.

Love the sexuality options!

"You're not into sex or romance and this man affirms your decision" Love this tea 😌

Sadly I'm attracted to trash and ice box slime so he has a chance with me.

Ah, I'm finally a real writer 😢

Ugh, I think I'm gonna end up playing Sylvester's route 😔

"They're from the outside" gave me some bad tingles 😯

Haha yeah I can't be harmed, I'm the mc! And also, uh, don't like death, especially my own.

Haha I got arrested- OH JESUS CHRIST THIS IS LIKE THAT STEPHEN KING STORY THE MIST OH GOD I'M GONNA GET EATEN IN ONE BITE LIKE THAT DUDE FROM JURASSIC PARK AND GOD I MADE TWO REFERENCES FROM ONE SCENE WHAT AM I DOING

MORE SLIME

I never get to eat the slime. I'm like a baby doing its best to eat some glue but my mom keeps yanking me away at the last minute.

We're going where?

#rivi plays cog #quinn: my mental health is over 50% so clearly I'm perfectly fine

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ineloqueent · 4 years

Text

an ode to impossibility

Brian May x Fem!Reader | 1979

click here for a fic playlist (yes, i made a playlist and an aesthetic too...)

synopsis: in which Freddie decides that Queen should spend an actual night at the opera, and Brian decides he’s fallen for Odette.

warnings: swearing, drinking, complete angst fest from dusk til dawn and dusk again, implied smut

word count: 8.1k

a/n: for jess (@brianmays-hair)— happy birthday!! i hope you have a wonderful day. you’re so so lovely, your writing is just rivetingly gorgeous, and you are nothing short of absolutely inspiring. anyway, i believe you once mentioned something about brian and a ballerina…

⭒

Barcelona, 19th of February, 1979

Though it was Monday night, it would seem that the entirety of Barcelona, dressed to the nines, had been packed into the Gran Teatre de Liceu.

“Freddie,” Roger said as he sat down beside John, “I could’ve sworn you said we were going to the opera, not the ballet.”

“This is the opera, darling,” Freddie told Roger’s skeptical expression. “The opera house. We are seeing a ballet. Know the difference.”

Roger looked vaguely disappointed. “So no screaming vikings, then?”

Freddie rolled his eyes.

“So long as it perks up misery guts over there,” John jerked a thumb in Brian’s direction, “I’m okay with anything.”

Brian stammered in protest, but he was ignored as Freddie sighed, “Thank you, Deacy.”

“Even if it is a little disappointing about the lack of vikings.”

“Alright,” said Freddie, “both of you can shut up. I’ll be solely talking to Brian for the remainder of the night, thank you.”

Deacy snorted, and Roger muttered, “Good luck.”

Freddie turned to Brian, “What is it that’s got you in such a sulk, anyway?”

“I’m not in a sulk,” said Brian, folding his arms over his chest.

“You’re looking quite the grumpy sod, though, aren’t you?”

Brian shifted his legs in discomfort, only to knock his knee on the seat in front of him, hard. He winced, rubbing his injury. “I’m not, it’s just, they’ve not really made these chairs accommodating for tall people.”

“Poor you,” said Roger tonelessly. Brian fought the urge to snap at him.

“Maybe if you were taller, you wouldn’t be mistaken for a girl all the time,” he mumbled.

“Brian,” chided Freddie. “That’s low, even for you.”

Roger squinted at Brian from the other end of the row. “But then I wouldn’t be comfortable in these chairs.”

“Shush, all of you,” Deacy waved his hand. “Show’s starting.”

Sure enough, the house lights were being dimmed, and a hum of sound led by violins rose from the orchestra pit.

Brian sighed heavily, and Freddie patted his arm. “You’ll be alright, darling,” he said.

But Brian wasn’t so sure.

Nothing in his head had made sense lately. Or maybe what scared him was that it was only inside his head that the world made sense.

Everything around him felt like madness, felt like it was falling apart as rapidly as it’d come together. The world seemed to know who he was, but Brian was entirely in the dark.

To the world, he was the gentle-smiling, brainiac guitarist for perhaps one of the most popular bands on the music scene. But Brian often found it difficult to smile. And he hardly felt clever when he couldn’t even understand his own inner workings.

The world spun, and his head spun with it.

The dancers spun onstage.

He hadn’t even noticed the rise of the curtain. But there they were.

Brian leaned his chin into his palm, watching passively. He’d never been much for either ballet or opera, preferring plays, in which the characters made their intentions clear by speaking them and were generally easier to keep up with. Still, he could admit that the dedication and skill required of ballet dancers was immense, and impressive in its execution.

He hadn’t, however, been paying attention along the way, and thus had now absolutely no idea as to what show he was watching. It wasn’t until the second scene that it dawned on him.

And then, the music was unmistakable. Tchaikovsky.

This was Swan Lake.

Brian sat up a little; he’d always liked this particular piece of music. Mysterious, lulling, nostalgic— it was beautiful, and suddenly, he couldn’t take his eyes off of the stage.

But maybe that particular fact had something to do with the appearance of the prima ballerina.

She was gorgeous, yes, but this was not what utterly enamoured Brian upon first sight.

It was the way she moved.

It was said that the majority of human expression lay not in the wealth of words, but in the depths of body language, and as the prima ballerina moved, she wholly became Odette, and Odette became the epitome of expression. Brian found it hard to believe that he was watching a dancer, a real human being, rather than the porcelain figurine in a music box, because her grace was immaculate; not the whisper of a mistake seemed possible between her steps. Brian felt oddly moved by it all, because it was when he played music that he felt the most alive.

And now here was this dancer, bringing to life a whole other world through the way she moved to music.

He hoped she knew how beautiful her expression was. He hoped she knew that she spun across the stage as though the floor were the sky and she danced among the stars. He hoped she knew.

He resolved then, madly, to tell her, so that he could be sure.

He couldn’t bear for her not to know.

⭒

“Well,” Roger stretched his arms above his head, “that was nicer than I thought it’d be, but I think I’ll go back to the hotel now.”

“Pretty lady waiting for you?” Deacy quipped.

“No,” Roger scoffed, “I’m just tired, christ.”

Freddie patted his shoulder. “You can’t blame us though, can you, dearie?”

He turned to Brian as they all began to shuffle out of the theatre alongside the rest of the audience, afforded anonymity by being in a crowd instead of before it, and by the fact that Barcelonians did not seem to recognise English musicians. “Ready to go, Brian? You’ve had your head in the clouds all day.”

Brian frowned, preoccupied by the notion that nagged at his mind. “Actually,” he said, “do you mind if we take the back way out?”

Freddie glanced around. “I didn’t think anyone had recognised us,” he muttered, lowering his voice and his head.

“No, no,” Brian waved a hand. “There was just somebody I needed to talk to.”

“Well, I for one don’t speak any Spanish,” said Roger. “You’re on your own.”

Brian shrugged. His own haphazard Spanish would have to do.

Freddie’s brow furrowed. “Alright then, darling. Lead the way.”

Brian nodded and began weaving through the abundance of people steadily swarming in the opposite direction. It was rather like swimming upstream.

At the door to the backstage area, Brian hesitated.

There was no one to stop him from going in, and the door itself was wide open. Everyone in the theatre was so intent on leaving that no one had bothered to block this entrance.

“Brian?” John prodded. “You wanted to talk to somebody?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

He walked through the doorway, and though the space was mostly quiet, laughter floated from a corner, where a small gathering of people stood talking. Some seemed to be from the ballet company, while others bore the demeanour of critics come backstage to discuss the show.

And there she was.

Odette, as Brian had subconsciously nicknamed her in his head. But he’d seen her name in the program. He only hoped he could remember it between crossing the room and finding the courage to speak.

He turned to the others, but found that they had been distracted, drawn to a table full of drinks that proclaimed ¡gratis! by way of a little card set amongst the glasses.

Now Brian really was on his own. Odette drifted apart from her flock of admirers, a crown of feathers still on her head. Though she now wore a tracksuit instead of a tutu, she was no less elegant than she had been onstage. Even the way she held herself spoke an otherworldly grace.

Brian swallowed. Then he approached her.

“Disculpe, ¿Señora Y/N?”

She turned at his polite intrusion, lips parted in a question, and she looked almost surprised.

Brian blushed, abruptly terrified that he should make a grammatical mistake in the face of this Elysian being. “Tu eres… eras magnífico.”

Her lovely face was grim, her hands clasped tightly around her water bottle, and Brian feared he’d somehow insulted her. Somehow.

“Perdón,” she mumbled, “but I’ve got absolutely no idea what you’re saying.”

Brian could have laughed in relief. “To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure I know what I’m saying either.”

She smiled radiantly, and Brian felt instantly more at ease.

“Well,” he said, “seeing as neither of us speak Spanish very well, I’ll stick to what I know and try English.”

She laughed lightly, folding her arms over her structured frame, one which had undoubtedly been built up with years of hard work, endurance, dedication.

Brian’s eyes caught on hers, only to have him flush again under the sway of her gaze. “Although at the moment, it seems I don’t speak any language at all.”

She laughed again, shaking her head slightly. “You’ve managed more words that I have,” she said kindly.

Brian laughed with her, to try to ease the tension knotting in his chest, but the air he breathed only grew thicker.

“I just wanted to say that you were phenomenal,” he began, and her eyes softened. His courage steeled upon seeing that she didn’t look as though she wanted him to leave. “I mean, really, truly, absolutely phenomenal. “The control over your movement, your poise, your expression,” he continued. “Just— everything. It’s indescribable. All I can say is that you’re a wonderful dancer. Though I’ve sure you’ve heard that a thousand times before, so much that it must sound like white noise at this point.”

He was rambling, and he knew it, but she didn’t appear to mind.

“Actually, no,” she responded to his unasked query. “I haven’t heard that a thousand times before.”

Brian blinked, perplexed, but she said, “People tend to take one look at the prima ballerina and tell her she’s beautiful, not that she’s talented. And,” she went on, “that’s the first time I’ve gotten phenomenal. From Brian May, no less!”

Brian was baffled. “You— you know who I am?”

“Do I know who you are?” she repeated, with satire. “Of course I know who you are! And I know who those three milling about the drinks table are as well. You’re Queen. You’re quite phenomenal yourself.”

Brian felt another blush colour his cheeks. “Maybe not quite phenomenal. We’re doing alright for ourselves, though.”

She smirked, and she was royalty herself, appalled at the ineducation of a commoner. “You’re on a world tour. I’d say that’s pretty damn phenomenal.”

“Well,” Brian balked, “thank you.”

She then fixed him with a curious stare, her eyes flitting over his face in a delicate manner. “How long are you here for?”

“Three days,” he responded slowly. “Two after today.”

“Any chance you’ll come see me again?”

Brian asked carefully, “You’d like me to?”

She smiled. “You wouldn’t?”

“Yes,” said Brian. “I mean, no, I—”

“I know what you mean.”

Brian nodded. The conversation was finished.

But there was a glint in her stare where she stood, transferring her weight from the balls of her feet to her toes, then back to her heels, as though she couldn’t stand still, as though she longed to dance, even after having finished a performance. Brian felt the same when he finished concerts. So he asked what he’d been meaning to all along.

“Would you go out for a drink with me?”

She looped an arm through his. “I thought you’d never ask.”

⭒

You usually spent your nights alone, because after the shows, you were tired, and so was everybody else.

But tonight, you were wide awake. And it had everything to do with the curly-haired guitarist sitting directly across from you.

You leaned your elbows on the table as he talked, observing more than listening. You’d asked Brian to tell you about himself, but you knew very well that everything he told you would be disproportionate to the truth; he was too humble to offer you insight on his own achievements.

So you watched instead. Watched how delicately he held his glass of beer, how his eyelashes fluttered when he talked about something that brought forth in him great passion, how his teeth caught on his lip when he paused in deep thought.

You loved to watch him think. You could almost see the rampage of ideas and impressions as they danced forth behind his honey-coloured eyes.

“Brian,” you raised your voice over the noise of the crowded bar, and he leaned forward. “You’re not telling me about yourself.”

He angled his ear toward you. “Say that again, love.”

“Let’s get out of here,” you said instead.

He turned toward you. “And where to?”

“Nowhere in particular.”

A smile curved over his lips. “My favourite place.”

Out of the bar and into the night you went, Brian’s arm hovering at the small of your back as he guided you past the beginnings of a brawl by the pub entrance.

Barcelona was a lively place, the hum of people and their festivities not slowing, even outside the tourism season, even on a weeknight.

Neither of you knew the city well, so it was fitting that you should explore it together. Between the cobblestone alleyways ensconced by potted plants, flickering lamp posts, and the sparkling sea, it was all very picturesque. Like a fairytale— como un cuento de hadas, in Brian’s words.

“So you do speak Spanish.”

He was good at it, too. His accent was nearly flawless. Had you closed your eyes, you might have mistaken the soft rumble of his words for that of a native speaker.

But then again, had you closed your eyes, your thoughts might have wandered to another place entirely, one where you imagined what it would be like to have him whisper his lovely words across your skin. You drifted closer to him with each swaying step down yet another Barcelonian street.

“Do I?” He smiled endearingly, and your stomach flipped. “I hadn’t noticed.”

You liked this side of him, the one which seemed to surface when he relaxed. Slightly cheeky, a little less enigmatic and a little more bold. Definitely attractive.

“Liar,” you said. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

And please, for the love of god, keep doing what you are doing.

He laughed in response. “I’m glad I have you fooled,” he said.

Amongst the alleys you weaved aimlessly, admiring in silence the way that no two street corners you turned looked the same, how the entire ambience of a road was changed as the light bent differently around little details or imperfections in the brickwork.

The buildings were high and though they sat close together, their roofs were flat and did not obstruct the sky; the darkness above you could still be seen.

The sky reminded you of the stage, how it was difficult to see anything— anyone— beyond the darkness, and how when the quiet settled in, it was almost as if you were dancing alone, without an audience, with only the music and yourself.

Brian wondered aloud about life on tour with the American Ballet Theatre, and in describing it to him, you quickly realised that your worlds were very similar. You knew the early mornings and he knew the late nights, and he understood the lonely melancholy of flying from city to city without ever looking back.

The loneliness. It was something you shared.

The stars were not visible, but Brian lectured you on them anyway, and for the first time that evening, you had the impression that he was talking without holding anything back, limitless in his awe of the night sky.

You asked an abundance of questions, not out of politeness, but of genuine interest. The manner in which he spoke of the stars was invigorating, enthralling, and you wanted to feel this sense of wonder forever fill your heart, as beautifully as it filled his.

“That’s beautiful, Brian,” you’d said. His lips had closed over the remnants of a sentence only partly-formed, ended almost before it had begun because he’d trailed off in thought.

“You think so?” he asked, turning toward you with a wilderness in his eyes. He’d stopped walking. “I bore everyone half to death with all this.”

You shook your head, “How could anyone be bored?”

He had a gravity about him, and an air of pensiveness that brought you pause, because you’d never before wanted to listen to someone forever, until now. Until Brian.

You suddenly craved the familiar weight of your pointe shoes, because you longed to dance. It was all you could do when your inspiration bubbled over, and right now, beneath Brian’s soft gaze, even if you’d tried, you wouldn’t have been able to remember what it was like to feel lost.

Thoughts cascaded in a waterfall through your mind, begging to be spoken, to be heard. You wanted to tell him about his gravity, his pensiveness, how he made you want to dance.

Instead, you told him to wait for you in the wings after tomorrow night’s performance, because the implications of doing so said far more than you ever could.

“Hasta mañana,” he bid you as you parted company after he’d walked you back to the theatre.

Until tomorrow, spoken so simply, as though you’d always have tomorrow.

It had not escaped you that he would depart in less than three days.

⭒

Barcelona, 20th of February, 1979

He’d come running from the stage, had handed off his guitar and swapped his jacket, and was out of the arena before most of the audience had even begun to move.

If he was quick, he could just catch the end of her show.

He took the first taxi he found, armed with flowers and a vague recollection of the instructions he’d been given yesterday by his favourite ballerina.

At the stage door, Brian addressed the security guard in what he hoped was adequate Spanish. It seemed to be, because after showing the man a pass, Brian was through.

He followed signs, through corridors patterned by the autographs of performers past, until he reached a staircase, and at the top of that, the final door between him and the wings.

There, he stopped, hesitating on the doorstep to decision.

I’m leaving tomorrow.

The old adage of ‘don’t get attached’ wasn’t one Brian was fond of, because he did get attached. Far too easily, and far too much, and if he was already so enamoured after having spent mere hours in her company, then there would be no chance of him forgetting.

After even a singular conversation with her, he’d realised that she was the romantic sort, the kind to inspire a renaissance with a single phrase, a glance, a touch, a breath. She spoke in poetry as fluidly as any other person would have breathed, and yet, it seemed that it had never occurred to anyone to tell her so. She lived in ignorance of her own etherealness, subsided in the shadows of solitude where such sentiments of narcissism would never have arisen.

But ethereal as she was, she felt far away— untouchable, almost— to those who perceived her, for who could fathom the existence of such a muse without themselves feeling displaced? She was a planet out of orbit from the sun that all others were drawn to; she was radiant enough that she could survive without its light, because she had light of her own.

A dreamer she was, and all longed to be a part of her dreams, for her presence was dappled sunlight on an otherwise rainy day, pinpricks of light flooding through the darkness like stars.

There would be no chance of forgetting her.

He would be forced to leave Barcelona with a breaking heart, and face the consequences of breaking hers.

If, of course, he had any hold on her heart.

Part of him hoped that he did, and part of him hoped that she did not care for him at all, if only to make his imminent departure easier.

He could walk away, right now, and never see her again. It would have been simpler, certainly, to avoid entangling his emotions any further, to live and let die this connection that probably should never have happened at all.

But hell, when had Brian ever done anything because it was simple?

He pushed open the swinging door and then he was in the wings, catching sight of her as she arched across the stage with infallible grace, unfathomable beauty.

She made everything around her beautiful, for she moved like light.

Starlight.

Yes, that was her. No one would have thought to describe her as any less.

And just like everybody else, Brian had fallen utterly head over heels for her.

⭒

You ran off of stage as applause resounded from the audience, your heart still thudding with adrenaline as the curtain sank to the floor behind you, as you sank from your toes to your heels, easing the weight from your ankles. It wasn’t a job in which one could relax, but never in a million years would you have given this life up. Nothing would ever come close to the rush of euphoria that was a pirouette, executed perfectly at centrestage, beneath the glow of a spotlight as radiant as the moon.

Except perhaps the look on Brian’s face as his eyes met yours.

Outside of youth, you’d never seen anyone smile so brightly. Only naïvete allowed such brilliance, when one still believed that nobody had ulterior motives, and that it only rained when it was meant to.

“You came!” you exclaimed, breathlessly flinging your arms around him.

He laughed, wrapping one arm around you and holding the other at a safe distance. “Careful, amor,” he said. “The roses have thorns, you know.”

“Oh, you brought me flowers!”

You let go of him because he’d almost lost his balance to your embrace, and he presented you with the bouquet.

“I know that everyone brings flowers, and red roses at that, but it felt wrong to arrive without any.”

But these roses were different. They were from him.

You pressed your nose into the petals, their velvety quality reminiscent of the satin of your ballet shoes, the aroma reminding you of the flower box outside of your bedroom window back home.

“They’re lovely, Brian. Thank you.”

He inclined his head, and you flushed beneath the weight of his eyes; you felt like royalty.

Still winded, though you should have caught your breath by now, you gestured toward the backstage area. “Wait by the sofas. I’ve got to change, but then I want to show you something.”

The smile already on his face broadened. “Okay.”

You brushed past him, but his fingertips brushed the underside of your wrist.

You spun, instinctively taking hold of his hand.

“Y/N, you were wonderful.”

Abruptly shy, you looked down. When you raised your head, his hazel irises twinkled.

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, and so you smiled instead. A small smile, a secret, one which would forever belong to the two of you, and to the darkness of the empty stage.

⭒

When you returned from the dressing room, Brian was reclining on one of the couches. His outrageously long legs extended before him, he twirled a silver coin in his hand, staring at the token absently.

“What’s that all about?” you asked, and he snapped his fingers closed around the coin, sitting upright in an instant.

“Christ, you scared me,” he said, pupils dilated. He lowered the hand he’d pressed against his chest, and unfurled his long fingers to reveal the coin.

“It’s my guitar pick,” he told you as you sank to the cushions beside him.

“You use a coin?”

“A sixpence,” Brian nodded, holding out the coin and dropping it into your palm when you offered your hand. Pointing to the edge of the metal disc, he leaned close enough to you that his shoulder rested against yours. “Look,” he said, his voice by your ear, “it’s the serrations on the side that give the sound character. Sort of scratchy, unclean.”

“Rock ‘n’ roll,” you responded, returning him the coin. He smiled as he tucked it away in his pocket.

You were suddenly aware of how close he sat to you. His chin could have rested on your shoulder if he had only lowered his head, his breath could have stopped your heart if only it had been upon your mouth.

You were stilled in the moment, and he stared back at you in your stillness, powerful in the silence suspended between you which bound your will to his.

“What was it you wanted to show me?” he asked, quietly.

Slowly, you stood, giving him a hand up. “Come on.”

⭒

It was a bit of a walk to the Arc de Triomf, but it did not much matter to you, because every alley and alcove was an adventure in itself, made for straying souls who wandered through the Barcelona night, not because they were lost, but because they were seeking that which would inspire them. You were amongst those restless adventurers, and from what you could tell of Brian, inadvertently, so was he.

Seemingly endless with life, each corner of the city was crowded, friends and newfound acquaintances sharing stories and drinks beneath the shelter of trees, breathing the ocean air as it washed in over the land. Laughter and music drifted from cafes and bars, and the Barcelonians appeared to have a fondness for warm light, decorating fences and walls with hundreds of strung up lights, candles, lanterns, so that the whole city glittered as brilliantly as its people. The night was not warm, but it still felt that way, with the previously sun-soaked boulevards radiating their daytime heat and Brian hovering close beside you.

The dark was beginning to fully set in for the night, and you smiled at Brian. He mirrored the expression, albeit with a furrow of his brow, because he did not yet know where it was you were taking him.

Still, he didn’t ask where it was you were going, because he knew you would not tell him anyway.

You led him along the scenic route of the city, partially to distract him, partially because it was his last night in Barcelona and if he was anything like you— and he was— then he would want to see as much of the city as was humanly possible. He would want to cradle in his mind the memory of the night, crispness of the night air, the energy of the people, and perhaps the thought of you at his side.

Years and years later, these moments would still glitter in your own memory, like mirages frozen in time and stained glass, like the windows in the churches in this city where you’d dared to live so boldly. But you did not know that now. It all passed you by, as things do, before one can remember to notice them and tuck them away for later, for when happiness feels far away. But then again, there would be no beauty in knowing which memories would resurface at odd moments in one’s life, to inspire, to build a dream upon, to draw an unexpected smile. Chaos— now that held beauty.

The beach came into view, the cool breeze blowing in from the water. Barcelona’s lights twinkled about the edges of the crashing waves, the hills of sand.

A lone busker, aged in face but bright in soul, armed with only a battered acoustic guitar and his lilting voice occupied a place on the path by the beach, and Brian touched your elbow as you went by. Though you did not understand the words, the tune he sang was mournful. It made you think of flowers floating abandoned through water in remembrance of the lost.

“I know this song,” Brian said, and then said nothing more. Instead, he took your hand and spun you once around, as though the two of you were dancing. Then he continued walking, as though nothing had happened.

There was a sadness in his face, equal in sorrow to the song of the busker, and he did not look at you.

You studied his face silently, wondering what he was thinking. But it was nigh impossible to discern anything at all; he had suddenly become completely closed off, utterly unreadable. You yearned to take his hand again, if only it would make him smile.

At one point, you passed a fountain and could not resist stopping by the trickling water, gazing at the mounds of coins sacrificed in the hopes of fulfilling some hopeless wish.

He halted with you. “What is it?”

You leaned against the fountain, skimming your fingers across the surface of the water and staring as gold, silver, and copper glitters in the depths. Some of the coins looked older, roughened by age and the exchange of hands, oxidised in greens and blues, while others appeared almost newly minted. Shiny and unworn, those new coins would never see anything but the fountain, and perhaps their opulence would thus be forever preserved. Maybe some people preferred their treasures preserved, but you loved the little nicks, the little imperfections, that came with time. Character, as Brian had said. Those new coins had no character.

“Who do you think they were, all those people?”

Brian leaned against the fountain as well, then perched on the rim when his height proved to be too much to avoid falling in. “Who?”

“The wishers.”

“Well, there must have been many,” he said, sweeping a hand over the water.

A strange melancholy had taken you over, and when you looked at him, his eyes were soft and wide; he was not simply humouring you. This ancient place— with its gothic architecture and hidden streets and squares— it stirred something within him too.

“Do you think they stopped,” you went on, “like us, because they came across the fountain, or do you think they came to this place on purpose?”

His expression was pensive, peacefulness tempered by sparks that lit up his eyes in wondrous thought. Oh, how you loved that look about him. It made you feel alive.

“Both,” he said. “Some made their way here, and others found their way here, perhaps walking a path they did not intend to follow but did so without knowing.”

You sat down beside him. “Do you believe in fate?”

“No,” he murmured. Then, “I don’t know.”

“What about wishing with coins in a fountain?”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “No harm could come of it. Unless of course you’re throwing away your last coin.”

“But you wouldn’t be throwing it away,” you said. “You’d be spending it, on a wish.”

“Best hope your wish is worth it then,” he responded, not unkindly, but with a playful undertone.

You blinked at him in confusion, but he dropped his hand to his pocket and pulled out the sixpence. He held it up and it sparkled in the light of the flickering street lamps.

“And is it?”

“Is it what?”

“Is your wish worth my sixpence?” he asked, turning the coin between his fingers.

Not just any sixpence. His guitar pick.

“How long have you had that sixpence for, Brian?” you said softly.

His smile faltered, in a strangely open show of sentimentality. “Since the beginning,” he said.

“Meaning…”

“Meaning nine years.” His eyes left the coin and found your eyes instead. “So. Is it worth it?”

You shook your head slowly. “Nine years, Brian.”

He leaned toward you, holding the coin between you. His eyes were warmer than the light which bathed the street. He whispered, “What are you wishing for, my love?”

You shook your head again. “If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

“But it’s worth it, then?”

You nodded.

“For you, amor.”

He kissed the sixpence and tossed it into the fountain, and you wished that one day you might see him again.

⭒

Time, it seemed, was of no consequence in Barcelona, and washed away as easily as rain. The walk disappeared between the folds of time, and when you next rounded the corner of a road, the Arc came into view.

Brian laughed, “Ah, so we’re going sight-seeing?”

“No,” you shook your head, “not quite.”

He frowned.

You smiled. “Come on, starchaser.”

You slipped your hand into his, and slowly but with decision, he folded his fingers through yours. You felt the flutter of his pulse against your wrist.

The Arc came into better view, but squinting up at the sky, you could see that you still were not quite close enough.

A few more steps, and then you were there.

You pulled Brian’s hand so that he came to stand right before the Arc.

“Look up,” you told him, and he raised his eyes to the sky.

Beneath the Arc, the moon rose in glistening whites and yellows, illuminating the sky in a halo of light and giving the archway the impression of housing a crystal ball.

“I saw it last night, when I was on my way back to my hotel,” you said. “I know you still can’t see the stars, but—”

“I love it.”

You turned your gaze on Brian’s face and found that he was staring at the moon, his expression caught between wonder and wistfulness.

Then he looked at you.

The wonder and wistfulness remained.

“I love that you thought of me when you saw it,” he said softly.

For a moment, you thought that he might kiss you, staring at you so unabashedly, his eyes flickering between yours, as though he intended to draw you to him and finally replace your intake of breath with his lips. But he didn’t. He took your hand again.

“I’m not usually this forward,” he murmured, running his thumb over the back of your hand, and your heartbeat quickened.

“You call this forward?” you laughed, but the sound caught in your throat as you stared at his fingers curled around your own.

“I’ve only known you a day,” he replied.

It was true, you realised. You’d only just met him, really. But with his soft-spoken manner and intelligent conversation, a day had multiplied for an age, and you’d spent a hundred years waiting for him to wrap his arms around you.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“I know,” you said.

“I don’t want to leave.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

He shook his head slowly, clasping both of your hands. “Why is it that it’s so easy for me to say all this to you now?”

His skin was warm, his fingers calloused, and his touch was so gentle that it weakened you where you stood.

“Sometimes,” you said, “we’re more honest with strangers than with those closest to us.”

“Why?”

You frowned. “I don’t know— anonymity? A lack of feeling responsible for whatever impact our words may have upon the listener?” He turned your hand over absently as you spoke, tracing circles over your skin. “Or simplicity?” you continued, fighting the urge to shudder. “For the simple fact that they do not know us and will not judge us on the basis of how they believe we should act, in accordance with how they know us? It’s difficult to understand, and nonetheless, it seems to happen.”

His eyes flickered. “I care.”

“What?”

“I care how my words will impact you,” he reiterated. “Would you not, in my place?”

“I would,” you responded quietly. He’d somehow moved closer without you noticing, and when his hip brushed against yours, a tingle rushed down your sides.

“So that cannot be it.”

“Simplicity, then.”

“Yes,” he hummed, “I think that makes more sense.”

“Only, the longer you speak with somebody, the less simple it becomes.” You were referring to the two of you, and he knew it. “And the less of strangers you become.”

“Maybe,” he went on in a low voice, “that is how all relationships should be built.”

“How?” you dared to ask.

“Without judgement, from the beginning.” Here he paused, and where before you’d been occupied with the caress of his fingers across your skin, you met his eyes. “So when I tell you now that you are beautiful, I mean not only that you are beautiful, but that you are an artist, talented and soulful too, and it shows, in all that you are.”

After everything, he still cared enough to make you understand that he wasn’t trying to belittle you by noticing your beauty, but rather that he earnestly thought you beautiful as well as everything he’d said yesterday, and couldn’t bear for you not to know.

It made your heart ache.

“Brian—”

He tilted his head ever so slowly, and when his hand came to rest on your cheek, he kissed your lips. Delicately, tentatively, until you pressed up against him and pulled him closer, kissed him harder, like a storm drawing him into the abyss, and from the storm you became the abyss as you drowned in his touch.

When your hands drifted to his hair and your fingers wound in his curls, he drew back from you.

“You mustn’t do that,” he whispered, and a shiver skittered down your spine behind his trailing fingers.

“Why not?” you hummed, and he brushed his lips over the corner of your mouth.

“Because you’ll drive me absolutely mad.”

You smiled languidly. “All the more reason to do it, then.”

His kiss was less hesitant this time.

⭒

By the end of the night, you thought he must have kissed you in every place in the city— beneath stone arches and under overhanging flowerpots, by fountains and along the waterline of the beach, by monuments and to the audience of marble-eyed statues, never once shy in his affections, as he had previously been.

With each breath he lingered longer, and you became more desperate to keep his mouth on yours, to have his hands roam your skin, to run your fingers through his hair and to hear him hum with pleasure at your touch.

And then the rain started.

Out of nowhere, it came rushing down from the sky in a heavy torrent, like sand spilling through an hourglass on borrowed time, and Brian pulled you under the awning of a closed shop.

You laughed as he leaned down to kiss you again, his lips now speckled with rainwater that tasted like the open sky and the flower fields one might have found beneath.

He brushed his nose against yours, stroked a gentle finger down your face.

“It’s late,” he whispered, and his breathlessness made your heart stutter.

He was so beautiful. And here he was kissing you.

“Then take me home,” you said.

He opened his eyes, drawing back slightly. “Are you sure, my love?”

“Yes,” you breathed, because you couldn’t remember when you’d last wanted something as much as you wanted this. “I don’t usually do this kind of thing,” you added, should he have thought less of you.

But he smiled. “Nor do I.”

“You’re leaving tomorrow.”

“I know,” he said. “But it is still today.”

You ran with Brian through the rain, huddled under his jacket with clasped hands.

At the door to his hotel room, he fiddled with the rain-coated key until it finally latched in the lock and you stumbled inside, already pushing the jacket from his shoulders as he closed the door.

He kissed you hungrily now, to quell the thought of how little time there was left in which to do such things, to satisfy the burn of desperation that surely scalded him as much as you.

It made you reckless, the thought of him leaving, but you were determined that your recklessness should not be synonymous with regret, and so you slowed your movements to appreciate the softness of his mouth, the elegance of his being. Brian fell into step with you, and when he eased the blouse from your shoulders, his fingertips trailed lightly across your skin.

The cotton finally fell from your frame and he gazed at you with parted lips, a look of utter adoration in his eyes. His hands came to rest on either side of your face, and he leaned into you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured.

You were on your toes to kiss him and he was bending down to meet you, but then he caught your lower lip between his teeth and you whimpered. “Bri—”

He breathed your name, easing you back a couple of steps until your legs touched the bedsheet, where he gathered you into his arms and laid you gently atop the covers.

You pulled him down to you, relishing the little groan that escaped him when you parted your lips and pushed your fingers into his hair. He moved his hands from your face to your waist, his lips grazing beneath your ear, leaving tender kisses down your neck and across your collarbone, until his breath whispered against your legs and his lips the inside of your thighs.

The world fell away from around you, because there was nothing more to it when Brian was yours in the moments that followed, pretty and gentle, achingly slow in his movements.

⭒

In the afterglow, the city lights danced across the walls of the unlit room as Brian’s long fingers skimmed up and down your arm.

You were nestled close to him, your nose buried in the crook of his neck as you breathed in his lovely smell of soap and sea air and flowers, and he pressed the occasional kiss to your shoulder, as though to remind you that he was still there and had not changed his mind in how he thought of you.

Somewhere, a clock struck an early hour, and you flinched.

He was leaving today.

You wondered faintly if you would ever see him again, ever kiss those fluttering lashes and gesturing hands, with which he belonged more in Italy than in England. Or better yet, in Barcelona, with you.

So you kissed him everywhere now, and he kissed you back, and you hoped that the memory of your lips would serve you better than that of your mind, because you forget things all too easily these days; they slipped away from you in black and white fragments like piano keys, all feeling fading away into nonsensical noise and hazy pictures. It terrified you.

Brian hummed quietly when you shivered, wrapping his arms around you in wordless solidarity.

“It was always going to be short-lived,” you murmured, as though it would make it any simpler for you to let him go if you spoke aloud the logic which eluded your melancholy heart.

Brian said nothing, and you sighed.

“An English musician and ballerina signed with the American Ballet Theatre. You have your city, and I have mine.”

He ran a strand of your hair through his fingers, tucking it behind your ear. You watched him move, marvelling at his prettiness for the thousandth time, and at the thought of him choosing to lie here with you— you, of all people— adoration rushed through you. You longed to kiss him again.

But his hazel eyes found yours, and he kissed you first— softly, fleetingly, his touch dying away all too soon.

“Let us have Barcelona, then,” he said. “Our city.”

His words warmed you where fear had turned you cold.

Beneath the guise of sleep, an overwhelming sadness washed over you and pulled you under.

You pressed closer to Brian, and his hold on you tightened.

⭒

Barcelona, 21st of February, 1979

He held her hand as tightly as he dared all the way to the theatre.

The theatre was where he would leave her.

It wasn’t meant to go this way. These things weren’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to find happiness and then be forced to let go of it. You were supposed to find happiness and then by god, you were supposed to hold so tightly to it that even light could not have escaped your grasp, to be a black hole for the desire to be loved.

Brian knew that it was unrealistic, and given the way life had treated him, he should not have believed in this, this naïve idea that things would right themselves when he needed it the most.

But he was a dreamer. He couldn’t help it.

The light was slipping through his fingers.

And she moved like light.

With every step, the theatre and the dismal fate that awaited beyond it loomed closer.

Brian’s chest clenched painfully.

He began to walk more slowly, and he felt her lessen her pace beside him, felt her eyes fall upon his face as he swallowed.

They came to a stop by the doors, and he turned to her. He did not let go of her hand.

She stared up at him with doe-eyes, tears beginning to rise in their depths.

Wordlessly, he put his arms around her, leaning down to press his forehead to hers. She closed her eyes, but he preferred to gaze at her for just a moment longer.

“Write to me,” she murmured. “But don’t call me when you land.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have to get used to the thought of living without you, and I can’t do that if I still remember the sound of your voice.”

He brushed his knuckles across her cheek, and she turned her face to press a kiss to his fingers. “Prefiero un minuto contigo a una eternidad sin ti,” he whispered.

“Brian,” she laughed softly, sadly. “I still don’t speak Spanish.”

He didn’t laugh, because he was trembling as it was and did not need anything more to wrack his frame with shudders. It was cruel, how little time they’d had.

Exhaling slowly, he repeated,

“I would rather spend a minute with you than spend an eternity without you.”

She choked on a sob, and her arms wrapped around his middle as she laid her head against his chest.

“I’ll wait for you,” she whispered.

He took her face in his hands and pressed a final, bittersweet caress to her mouth.

Then he coaxed her gently from his arms, to find that saltwater streaks had stained her face.

“Oh, love,” he murmured. He touched his lips briefly to her tears, wishing for all the world that he would not have given her reason to cry in the first place. But as much as it hurt to leave her now, he would not have wished her memory away.

His hands slipped from her face to her shoulders until they found her hands again.

“Goodbye,” he whispered.

But she shook her head. “Hasta mañana.”

She had remembered. Dimly, he was aware of the tears that pooled in his own eyes.

He had only just found her, but after today, he would never see her again. Until tomorrow, she had said. And yet, they did not have tomorrow. But he could pretend. Perhaps if he left, imagining in his head that he would see her again tomorrow, then perhaps he could keep it all from tearing him apart. At least, that was what he told himself. But he was a fool, as those in love can be.

“Until tomorrow, my love.”

He couldn’t look at her as he let her fingers fall abandoned to her sides, as he took the first of many steps in the direction away from her, the way he did not want to go.

The ephemerality of existence had briefly been eclipsed by the lightness she had brought him. But he was not a black hole, and nor was she. The gold would not stay.

She had told him that she would wait for him, but who was to say when they would meet again? It might be months, it might be years. It might be a decade. It might be more.

He couldn’t ask her to wait.

He caught a glimpse of her as he rounded the corner, watched her wrap her arms around her shoulders and duck her head as she went inside. A wave of déjà vu washed over him and steeped his heart in sour melancholy. He was right back where he had started. Far away.

The world would spin as the years passed, and as it turned they would be thrown farther apart, disillusioned by the terrible realisation that what they had always believed to be naïve was exactly so. Nothing would come as a surprise, because nothing changed and nothing was new, no matter how much they might have wished for it to be.

She would forever dance in his memories, but she would not wait.

And he would lay no blame.

Who waits forever anyway?

⭒

a/n: my sincere apologies to everyone who speaks/understands spanish. i’ve been learning spanish for four years now, so i hope that experience was enough to make my grammar acceptable, haha

#this is the angst i was talking about two weeks ago oops #tina's writing #brian may x reader #fic

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akvtsuki-ari · 4 years

Text

A Study In Body Language | ii. tidal separations

Warnings: depictions of opioid withdrawal/drug use (there's a mention of needles), general warnings for drug addiction and arguing.

Length: 4.4k

Authors Note: After abandoning this fic for like? a year? I’m back at it. I really love this concept a lot and I think the end result will be good so please stick with me and read it! Promise it’ll be good <33

Plot Summary: Spencer takes time off and you’re worried about what the future holds. Maybe it’s moral obligation that leads you to take care of Reid as he works through his vices, but maybe there's something more to it. You can’t say for sure.

Chapter 1

Story Preface: In the altruistic language of foreign tongue, and the flower lettering of love stories, it's important to remember the context. In which Spencer Reid and you will fall in love under the circumstantial evidence that the two of you exchange in the language that is physical, no symbolism or hidden messages but instead an abysmal means to end to find each other in places you never expect. In the image of storytelling, this is a Case Study In Body Language, and all of it's idealist beliefs and intentions.

_______________

Midnight was detrimental to the human mind. The evidence of that was concise in the car ride between you and Dr. Spencer Reid. The space between tangible with tension and bubbling, simmering anger.

Your hands were fastened around the steering wheel, knuckles pale white. Spencer was sitting with his knees away from you - teeth gritted together in a symphony of misplaced emotions and projection. The silence was deafening - both of you looking at anything but the other person with angry and nonsensical confusion. The wind was blurring your eyesight as you drove down the highway to Spencer's apartment, an uncomplicated endeavor that suddenly had some great stakes to it that neither of you could prepare for. Every detail was carefully placed in order to cause the most destruction. The sound of the bottles in the back clicking together, the silence of the entire city at 3am you and Spencers generally disheveled appearance. All things that seem culminated together to create a perfect disaster - it was almost poetic.

Spencer cleared his throat, swallowing his pride as he turned his head to look at you. You were entirely still - nothing was moving except the fact he could see your toes curling in your shoes. It was a rapid and anxious movement, a way for the emotion to escape you while not showing anything else. Your jaw was forcibly still like you were telling yourself to keep it still. You were, gritted teeth and fists just begging to pound on Spencer's chest and knock some fucking sense into him.

Spencer folds first, the silence begging to cut your tightrope friendship entirely. This outcome was beyond your words and description - neither unexpected or catastrophic, but rather heavy. A heavyweight on the both of your shoulders, tied to each other in social contract. Was it respect that kept your hands away from your phone the second you saw? Was it friendship? Or was it something bigger, much more vast than either of you that was bordering indescribable. The silence begged many questions, but most of all it begged to broken. You and Spencer forced to put the pieces together.

“Y/N, listen,” his voice was calm - it was clear this speech was well-practiced and it pissed you off further. You shut your eyes with exasperation, as your tongue swipes the back of your teeth, physically trying to hold it back from calling him a fucking dumbass. You still might, but a selfish part of you was urged to just wait and hear his explanation.

“I’m fine - but please don’t tell the team, I don’t need them worrying about me,” Spencer rushed the words as if they were being beaten out of him. You laugh angrily and swerve your car into a parking lot on the next turn. Spencer looks at you curiously as you stop in - opening his mouth to speak, words replaced quickly with the sound of your voice.

“Oh, are you fucking kidding me? Are you genuinely fucking serious?,” your voice is beyond angry. Spencer's defense raises as he realizes the situation - as both of you play the other side of the court.

“I seriously cannot believe you - I knew you were a selfish prick, but fucking seriously? Jesus Christ, Spencer what do you think happens now?,” your voice borders a scream as you look at him, eyes blurry, fingers shaking. You want to hit him, punch him, anything to knock him to his sense but you don’t, the urge pulsating through your every nerve.

“What are you talking about? You were the one following me but this has nothing to fucking do with you! You’re supposed to just leave this alone, and I’m asking you a favor - what is complicated about that? This doesn’t concern you, so stay out of it!,” His voice is laced with dishonesty, hidden by anger but his selfishness prompts your frustration further. You want to correct him, to get it through his thick skull that this is bigger than him and you - that this has to do with the team and people he cares for but you’re too frustrated.

“I seriously can’t fucking believe you and to be honest, I cannot deal with having this conversation with someone so fucking stupid - I’m throwing away your stash and dropping you off at home - I’ll deal with you tomorrow,” you say exasperated. You were sick for fucksake, nose still dripping and voice already hoarse from before. Too many demons in your own life for you to fight his at 3am. Not tonight anyway.

“No, you can’t throw it away,” his voice nearly reads as a plea but you shoot him a look - one so sharp you suspect if you acted on that expression, he’d knocked out with a bruise on him.

The rest of the car ride passes in total silence, no gritting of teeth or anger left, all replaced with different kinds of exhaustion. Different kinds of frustration creating this chokehold on both of you as the long night become darker by nature - maybe as a show and tell for the plays that both of you are forced to make. To look into another's darkness without warning is a scary place to be, Both of you find yourself to explore together - the consequences were still unclear.

You dropped Spencer off at his apartment, and you drive home. Comforted by the solitude but unable to focus on anything but the road without feeling fear stir in your chest. The feeling wasn’t out of place but it wasn’t what you were expecting.

You feel your throat tightening as you walk into your own apartment, and walk into your kitchen - putting on coffee and rubbing your face with exasperation. The sleeplessness is replaced with jittery caffeination as you watch the sunrise through the window of your apartment. The darkness still seems to wane - but maybe that was the exhaustion talking.

Work called in like expecting but the morning lacked any feeling of normalcy expected. You were less angry now, surely. Everything was left feeling sticky in a sense - a long term discomfort surrounding everything you did, and the only thing that would relieve it would be seeing Spencer. After the anger subsided you just hoped he didn’t do anything stupid, but you weren’t close enough for the two of you to just talk or for you to text him. So you spent the whole night looking at lots of nothing while your mind went a hundred different places trying to figure out how you got here.

Walking into the BAU was helpful - it was grounding, a well-needed kind of sanity. You were one of the few people on earth that was comforted by a place many would consider dark, but it was home. A home with people to hold you still, and love to make you weep, something you didn’t normally experience. Something you’d never really experienced before, anyways.

Emily is the first to greet you, looking at you intently before laughing - partly concerned. You smile at her weakly, sending her a wave.

“Rough night?,” she asks lightly, you laugh playfully and nod. She looks at you fondly, pushing her hair behind her ears.

“Being sick is quite disruptive to sleep apparently,” you remark with sarcasm. She nods and smiles sympathetically.

“We don’t have a case today, Hotch might agree to let you stay home another day,” she comments. You shake your head.

“Still gotta catch up on paperwork,” you say sighing. She nods again and theres a few seconds of comfortable silence.

“Hey, Emily - do you know where Spence is?,” you ask carefully. She shoots you a curious look but answers your question.

“He called Hotch last night and took some time off, said it was something to do with his mom. Haven’t spoken to him since yesterday,” she says, recalling that very conversation.

Something in you drops, as you sit up straight. Emily looks at you confused, but you don't have any clue on how to explain so you don’t. Instead, you stand up and look for Hotch whose in his office.

“On second thought, I think I’m gonna go ask Hotch to take another day,” you say, voice hoarse. Emily just nods at you, dazed in her own right.

“Thanks, Em, see you soon,” you say as you rush over to Hotch’s office. He looks at you as you pop the door open, and greet him. You swallow thickly, your words seeming to be stuck to your throat as you speak them - unable to do anything but rush. Your every movement and expression feel that way - like time is moving too fast and too slow all at once.

Hotch looks at you concerned, sensing your urgency as you walk in and close the door behind you.

“Hey Hotch, can I talk to you?,” you repeat the question meekly.

“Of course, Y/N,” he says to you, brows furrowed tightly with worry.

“I wanted to request some time off, something is going on back home and - ,” your voice sounds like its going to break, so Hotch stops you.

“Take as much time as you need, we’ll be here when things settle,” He speaks knowingly, the only one on the whole team who does know anything about it. It wasn’t technically a lie either, but it was happenstance that you were taking time off for it.

“Thanks, Hotch,” you reply softly. He nods at you and you’re on your way out of the door. No one else is in, and Emily isn’t in sight so you slip away entirely undetected.

The car ride to Spencer's house makes your skin itch. You can’t get dark thoughts out of your head, struggling to drive there in the first place. Worry blossoms in your chest and every stoplight seems to stimulate the feeling. Every moment that you aren’t sure is another moment Spencer could be doing something detrimental and you can’t have that guilt resting in you.

You rush up his apartment stairs, and knock on the door. Silence. You shake yourself, trying to regain some balance before you knock again - voice small as your call to Spencer on the other side.

“Are you okay?, Spencer,” your voice echoes in the empty hallways - seeming to loom over both of you. Every movement you make is calculated, and precise.

Spencer lays against the other side of the door, slumped up against it with exhaustion. He knows he’s experienced minor withdrawals, he hasn’t gotten high in days and its working him heavily. His skin is hot against his clothes, eyes dilated, breathing through his mouth as he tried his best to stay still and relax. Pain shoots within his muscles as he fixates himself on anything, anything to keep him afloat. He hears your voice and winces.

“I’m fine, Y/N, leave me alone,” he croaks out. You sigh with relief but know you can’t leave.

“Just open the door, Spencer,” you say sighing. He feels a shiver run down his spine and shakes his head as if you can see him.

“This has nothing to do with you, Y/N. I don’t understand what you’re here for in the first place, you’re not gonna be some hero for finding this out. I gotta say I am impressed that you figured it out first though, I always figured you were kinda incompetent,” his breathing is heavy, taking an edge of his words. It stings to hear since you know he still means them but you don’t have the energy to complain. You sit down, back against his door and sigh.

“You really are an absolute dickhead,” you say more to yourself than anyone else, growing frustrated. You rub your face in your heads, your legs up to your chest and you sigh aloud - annoyed.

“Just leave me alone already,” his words hold sincerity in them. He sincerely doesn’t like you, and neither do you - but the two of you knew that already - before your relationship was purely political but it was forced to go deeper than that. This feeling was a cross between pure annoyance and frustration - you didn’t know someone's existence could be so frustrating but you found yourself here.

“What do you want Spencer? Do you want some emotional speech about how you shouldn’t do this, and how you’re stronger than this? Well, fuck you - you’re not getting that out of me. I’m not fucking JJ, or Penelope, or anyone else for that matter. To be honest, I don’t give a single shit about your life outside of work and I’ve always planned on keeping that way. This situation, my presence here - we lie in this bed together. I’m not JJ, I’m not gonna pretend to be here out of some deep-rooted platonic love. We’re co-workers, and I’m a decent fucking person so I’m not gonna let you sit here and rot-away. Why? Because JJ, Derek, Emily, Penelope, and Hotch all care for you and I care about them. I’m not gonna let you ruin yourself and be a selfish prick - so open the fucking door and let me help so you can actually get better. After that, I’ll keep your dirty little secret,”

Your speech is given unwavering, and every word you said held a specific weight. You were right, and that was ultimately the problem. You weren’t close to Spencer, but you were close to the team. He knew you were doing this because you had too, solely out of moral obligation - he knew that you understood that something was objectively wrong. And maybe that was the problem - none of this was personal to you. You were actually just trying to help because you knew he needed it - he had no intrusive thoughts about something so objective. He sighs heavily, letting tears escape him. Weakly, he stands up and opens the door slightly.

You walk into Spencer's apartment and scan the room. It’s a mess, books stacked up untidily along with take-out boxes and plastic water-bottle littering random areas. Fresh needles sat on the edge of his desk, and you winced at their presence - the whole thing too familiar. Spencer sitting on the couch dazed off. You know immediately.

“Withdrawal,” you mumble to yourself. He looks at you confused.

“How?,”

“Not important. How many days has it been since you showered?” you ask. He can’t seem to remember and you sigh.

“When was the last time you ate?,” you ask again. He shuts his eyes, lids twitching before he responds.

“Last night,” he says again. You check his temperature and his body is hot. You sigh.

“How long can you be alone for?,” you ask. He shakes his head, rubbing his face.

“An hour, at most,” he admits to you quietly. You sigh, standing up and giving him a tight hug. It’s unexpected, and not something he was used to but the comfort was so... comforting he couldn’t refuse. You feel hot tears land onto your abdomen as you sigh, rubbing Spencer's back with understanding.

“Leave the door unlocked in case you fall asleep, I’ll be back in half an hour. I’m gonna put on a nature documentary, so just watch that and just try to focus on it. When I come back, tell me something you didn't know already or correct something that was wrong - that’s your homework for the next half-hour, okay?” you say softly. Your tone of voice was warm, and knowing. This process seemed familiar to you but Spencer decides against saying anything.

You put on some animal planet on your laptop, and go off on your way, letting Spencer watch and focus intently. He finds his eyes shutting as time passes, and falls asleep.

Spencer wakes up to the sound of pots and pans in his kitchen. He doesn’t think he’s ever used his kitchen so he’s startled at first. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand as he walks into his kitchen to see you. You’re wearing an apron and bandanna, a long shirt and leggings. He’s never seen you like this, watching with intent as you fidget with the knobs on his oven. The smell of pasta and garlic hit him with ferocity and his stomach grumbles. You startled by his presence and turn to look at him. He finds himself overwhelmed and slips out a quiet hello.

“Hey, Spencer. How’d you sleep?,” you ask the question casually. He blinks again and looks at you.

“Well,” his response is dry. You start washing dishes in the kitchen sink as the oven turns off and Spencer finds himself walking closer to the island in the middle of it. He takes a seat, seeing fresh fruit and a glass of water poured out for him.

“They had some strawberries on sale, so I cut them up for you. Vitamin C is good for you right now, and you need to eat anyways - so have some,” you explain, mindlessly washing away. You shake your head at how many seem to be in the sink, probably a lot of weeks of build-up. It makes you wonder if anyone comes by.

“Why’re you doing this,” he asks before he can stop himself. He flinches at the sound of his voice, gravelly and exhausted. You know the questions coming, but you can’t give him a good answer yet. You figure it’s worth a shot to try.

“Recovery is a slow thing. The small things are what can be the most overwhelming when you’re trying to get better and I want you to get better” you say as honestly as possible.

“But why?” he asks again. Not urgent, just curious. You turn the water off and look at him

“It’s a story for when I know you a little better Spence,”

The answer seems to satisfy him, as he looks down.

His voice is barely a whisper as he looks at you, watching you bend down and pull out a tray of lasagna. He watches you so carefully, he finds his heart, stirring - unsure of why. He smiles, a very small, but genuine smile as you place the lasagna on the counter. You look to him and give him a tight-lipped smile back.

“It’ll be a minute before this cools, so I suggest you take a shower, or bath or something,” you suggest. Spencer winces, the thought of being alone in the bathroom making his skin crawl. He’s brain wracks itself with the idea of being alone again, that loneliness is what got him here in the first place and to be anywhere but there is so relieving. His eyes are hollow when he thinks about it. You see his expression and yours softens.

“I know it’s tough if you want I can massage your head with shampoo or something before you go in - make it a little less daunting. My little cousin likes it because he’s scared of the sound the shower makes, so it might help,” you explain. Spencer blushes, but the idea isn’t all that bad. A little embarrassing but it’d be nice. Plus his head hurts, so it’s not all that bad of an idea. He scratches the back of his neck and nods.

“Thank you,” his voice is barely above a whisper. You look at Spencer tenderly, and you sit down at the island next to him. He turns his body, neck stretching as he looks at you exhausted.

“You’re gonna be fine, Spencer. It’s not gonna be easy because this type of thing, it just seems to follow you. It’ll feel like it’s everywhere at first, but it isn’t. Keep your head up, if not for you - for the people who need you like Diana and the team,” you explained gently. Spencer and you weren’t ever very close but his mother loved you. Even if she couldn’t remember you, she always had a pleasant reaction to your name when she was feeling okay. She had met you when Spencer brought her into the BAU for a case.

Spencer's eyes shift their focus onto you and for the first time in his life, his reaction to you wasn’t so unpleasant. It was still strained, still difficult and unruly - but different. It was humanizing to see you like that. He nods at you, dazed. You give him an awkward smile.

“C’mon, let's get you cleaned up,” you say, softly. Spencer blushes as he leads you to the bathroom

“I’m starting to realize, I don’t actually know anything about you,” Spencer muses softly. Your fingers are tucked away in his curls, white bubbles of foam and shampoo between them as you work Spencer scalp. His hair was greasy, but that's probably because he used that terrible 4-in-1 stuff before. You figured you’d be there for a while anyway, so you ended up using your own products. Disgusted at the fact he was a grown man and still used 4-in-1. Who does that?

“I don’t really talk a lot about what I do outside of work,” you reply casually. You scratch a part of Spencer scalp and watch his neck crane in delight like he was a small dog. You stifle your laughter.

“What do you do then?” Spencer asks.

“I volunteer with kids, mostly. I help them learn to read at the library nearby, you know - read with them and help them pick out new stories to learn together,” you say sincerely. Spencer is softened by your words.

“That's really nice,” Spencer comments. You laugh.

“I guess so. It’s just something I do, you know? Kids are wonderful, they have so much wonder about life. It’s all sincere, too. It’s more fun to read with people whose imaginations are so big, seeing them make up their own world,” you say affectionately. Spencer nods in agreement.

“Yeah,”

There's a moment of comfortable silence before Spencer finds himself curious again.

“What else do you do in your spare time?,”

“I try to volunteer as much as I can, just in general. Soup kitchens, animal shelters, that kind of thing. If I’m taking some personal time, I cook a lot. I’ll invite some people over and have a small dinner party. I’d invite the BAU sometime but that's kinda Rossi’s thing so I wouldn’t wanna intrude,” you say softly. Spencer notes that none of those things are really all that personal.

“Those are all things you do for other people, though. What do you do for you?,” Spencer asks again. You feel something stir in you at the question, and you shift. You become a little suddenly aware at the fact that Spencer's head is between your thighs but you can’t say anything about it.

“I listen to music a lot. I cross-stitch sometimes but that makes me sound super old. I bake a lot too, loaves of bread and bagels and sometimes desserts but I don’t have much of a sweet tooth. I really enjoy my me-time so I have very long-winded self-care routines that I do to loosen up and feel pampered. It’s nice,” you say shyly. You’re not used to the question, about what you do for you. It feels vain to answer. Spencer seems intrigued by that.

“Self-care routine?,” Spencer eggs on. You chuckle at his curiosity.

“Skincare, self-pampering, shit like that. Most women have like 3 different versions and they vary based on how much time they have. I’m a working woman, so I have a version for cases and a version for weekends alone and a version for going out. I can’t speak for guys here, so I won’t but yeah,”

“You know, it’s been proven time and time again that it’s majorly beneficial for people of any gender to take time off to attend to personal needs. It’s shown major benefits in overall happiness, mood, and overall attitude,” Spencer repeats back. You give a small smile, it finally feels more like Spencer.

“Take your own advice, genius,” you comment back sarcastically. Spencer laughs, leaning into your fingers without much thought. He’s visibly more comfortable than he was before. It makes you comfortable too.

“Alright, you feeling okay to go shower, kid?,” you ask Spencer. He does, but he find himself a little disappointed. The nickname bounces around his head for a moment before he laughs again. His voice is light.

“Yeah, yeah I think I’m okay. Thank you,” He stands up and so do you, and the two of you look at each other for what feels like a few seconds too long. You look at him, the old t-shirt he’s in, and his pajama pants and you can’t help the way your heart bangs against the cage of your chest. It could’ve been a lot of things, maybe the fluorescent lightning or the way that your hands were covered in shampoo, or the way Spencer stood a little slumped and sleepy. You didn’t want to kiss him. You were just compelled to give him a break, and maybe that was worse. Feeling compelled to give someone empathy even though a small part of you always felt like they were a complete asshole. Feeling moved by someone's vulnerability so much you almost give them a pass, yes certainly that was more dangerous.

You don’t say anything, you just give Spencer a smile and a pat on his chest. He hates the way he takes notice of the feeling.

“I’m gonna set up dinner, and we can watch Harry Potter,” It was the one thing you two had in common before all this. He nods.

“Okay, yeah, that works. Thanks,” he says again more softly. He wants to say more, and in a way so do you but neither of you does. You wash your hands of the shampoo and close the door behind you. Your eyes flutter closed for a moment as you listen to the water run and think to yourself. It was by pure circumstance that you ended up here, really. The way every move had made thus far, though it felt so careful feels beyond your control. You weren’t alone for the first time in a long time and this feeling keeps weighing on you. More dangerous than love is empathy. Empathy for someone so stupid and selfish, it made you feel strange. Yet it was there. Yet, you were there.

Spencer understood the feeling. Guardian Angel, the term bounced around in Spencer's mind as he showered. The feeling of your fingers still on his mind. Not alone, for the first time in too long. Strange is such a phenomenon.

__ taglist: @cynbx @zephyr-studiesjp @reid-187 @louistwinslover @skrrrrrrrrrrt

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid oneshot #Criminal Minds #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds angst #acsibdl #i really like this story mane #please read

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raz-b-rose · 3 years

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There's nothing about transgender people in the bible and the thing that seems to be anti gay was actually referencing pedophilia. There's some really great websites explaining this, definitely look into it

Ok so I’m assuming you’re talking about this post. So thats what I’ll base most of my response off of.

1. You offered no sources for me to cross reference

2. You didn't reference what verse you are talking about, if any, so I can look into it myself.

Just because the bible doesn't directly use the English terms “transgender” doesn't make it any less of a sin discussed in the bible. Also remember it is difficult to translate the bible into English perfectly because of how the original Hebrew and Greek was spoken and written culturally at the time. It is always important to compare to the original scripture, and culture, to have an accurate read.

However, the issue you are presenting to me, God is very clear and deliberate in his design. Not just of us as people but as how he designed each gender uniquely to function within the different relationships created through those bonds. Everything humans are and do is a reflection in some way of Gods design (Genesis 1:27) and how sin has corrupted the world.

“Then the Lord God formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being.” Genesis 2:7

It is no coincidence that God actively created mankind. He spoke everything else into existence except for us. He formed us with his own hands and so intimately breathed life into Adam. (It is also not a coincidence that paramedics can revive someone via CPR. Again an image of Life given to us via God)

“The Spirit of God has made me, and the breath of the Almighty gives me life.” Job 33:4

“For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb.” Psalm 139:13

“But now, O Lord, you are our Father; we are the clay, and you are our potter; we are all the work of your hand.” Isaiah 64:8

“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you;” Jeremiah 1:5 a

Consecrated: having been made or declared sacred; declared to be or represent the body and blood of Christ

After Jesus’ sacrifice for our souls, the veil in Gods temple that was used to resemble our separation from him due to our sins was torn in two. (Matthew 27:51, Mark 15:38, Luke 23:45, Hebrews 10:19-22) After that our bodies became living temples for God. (1 Corinthians 3:16-17, 1 Corinthians 6:19-20, also keep in mind the commands in these verses are for believers, you can’t be expected to obey if you have not repented) The Holy Spirit will become a part of you at the moment of salvation and therefore God is always with you.

“I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well.” Psalm 139:14

“Everyone who is called by my name, whom I created for my glory, whom I formed and made.” Isaiah 43:7

I myself, having been called by God to work in this ministry uniquely created for me, will work for His glory. I will speak truth, and plant seeds. God will reap what He sows, I simply obey and give God all the glorious control.

“Worthy are you, our Lord and God, to receive glory and honor and power, for you created all things, and by your will they existed and were created.” Revelation 4:11

God does not make mistakes. He made us as we are, nothing we feel changes the fact that he chose male or female for us.

If God made mistakes then everything the bible says is a lie. To accuse God of such a thing, attack his character and Being in such a way, is purely insane. There is no hope for us if even a word of His is a lie.

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” John 1:1

The bible is God. It reflects who He is, to displays His plan and design for all to see. The bible is Jesus. It shows Gods detailed plan from the beginning to end, to offer us salvation for our own sin and the beautiful opportunity to choose Him. The word of God is active in our hearts through the Holy Spirit.

“For the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and of spirit, of joints and of marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart” Hebrews 4:12

They are Three in One and have existed outside our constructs of time for all of eternity.

If the bible is wrong about even one thing, then God would cease to exist. That is why God doesn't make mistakes, and bible holds no lies. It can hold mysteries that God does not full reveal to us (this is where acts of faith come in) but it does not lie. Because God can not lie.

“But Raz, what about those cases of people being born with both genders”

Sin has corrupted the world, outside of Gods perfect design is an imperfect image of what could have been, what will be once Jesus returns and God restores what has been broken.

(Something we all desire with all out hearts because it is what we were created for. We were created to have perfect union with Christ. to be perfect in every sense. For there to be no death or evil. We desire perfection in our everyday lives because it is in our intended nature and our relationship with God is only a fraction of what will be possible eternity with Him.)

He has a plan for those people, one we may not full understand or know but it is there and the challenge is no different than those born with any other difficulties (homosexuality, mental illness, health issues, imperfect bodies, addiction, ect.)

The point is, we are all born with sin. We are all challenged by different temptations (the desire to do something, especially something wrong or unwise.) God presents us with these challenges so the reward for refusing them is great. The feeling of saying no to them, and succeeding by Gods power is wonderfully, indescribable. Its both encouraging and humbling. I know I wont be perfect in this mortal life time, but each success brings me closer to God.

“For God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control.” 2 Timothy 1:17

God strengthens us through our battles, and equips us for them through His word. At the end of the day. All of our battles are fought within our minds and our hearts. We are commanded to keep His word close with us (memorized) so we are ready for them all.

Jesus’ time on earth was important. He lived a life as fully man remember. He Himself was tempted and overcame them all with scripture. (Matthew 4:1-11) His life is an example for us, and an encouragement for what can be accomplished through God.

He was also fully God. He showcased Their inability to sin and Their perfection. Again. God is prefect. Lying is a sin. God can’t sin, because God is perfect. Therefore, the bible is fully true.

I urge you to think on these truths, and know that this is love. Gods definition of love is always going to be different from the worlds definition because it tells us what we need, not what we want to hear.

I love you, and will be praying for you.

#Raz speaks out #christian #transgender #lgbtq #Gods word #truth #speak in love #I am a warrior daughter of the King #Love isn't what you think it is #hiding behind anonymous

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pamphletstoinspire · 4 years

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August 30 - Today is the feast day of Saint Rose of Lima. Ora pro nobis.

Born Isabella de Flores, Saint Rose was the daughter of a Spanish immigrant father and a Peruvian mother. She was personally confirmed by the Archbishop of Lima, Saint Turibiuis de Mongrovejo, and took the name Rose. Her family and friends had been calling her “Rosa,” as when she was still an infant, one of the family’s servants had seen her face miraculously transform into the vision of a mystical Rose. All of Saint Rose's sufferings were offered for the conversion of sinners, and the thought of the multitudes in hell was ever before her soul. She died in 1617, at the age of thirty-one.

by F. M. Capes, 1899

We may not say that St. Rose was the first saint of the New World, for God only knows His own; but she was the first of America's children to be placed in the calendar of canonized saints–the first flower gathered from that part of the great garden over which St. Dominic has been placed as the husbandman of Jesus Christ.

Almost before she was out of her infancy, that love of Our Lord's suffering, which was afterwards to become the ruling passion of her life, began to lay hold of little Rose's heart. How God speaks to the baby souls of those early-chosen children of His special delight; by what channels the Divine secrets are imparted to their barely-opened minds; what marvelous gift enables them to entertain and understand thoughts far beyond their years–we cannot know; but that such special communications are made to some of the Saints even as little children is certain.

In St. Rose's case the working of these mysterious operations in her heart was witnessed to by the fact that, as a little thing barely able to walk, she would often be found, having managed to escape from her guardians or companions, absorbed in deep infantine contemplation before a picture of the thorn-crowned Christ, in His mantle of scorn, which hung in her mother's room.

Her own apprenticeship in her Master's school, too, began early; for from the time that she was three years old Rose de Flores was the subject of one accident or complaint after another, and was kept perpetually in states of suffering which were sharp trials to her childish patience.

This ideal she realized in her life. It is this life of penance and mysticism which is presented to the reader in these pages. Everything in her life calls for admiration, many things for imitation, some, maybe, for explanation. The reader of this record of her ways and works will perforce exclaim: ‘Wonderful is God in His saints'–wonderful in their number, in their graces, in their variety.

St. Rose's life was eminently wonderful in its marvelous penance, its deep, earnest, and all but continuous prayer, its perfect union with God. She studied in the school of Christ; her book was the Cross; her Master the Crucified. Naturally of delicate health, weak in body, and physically feeble, hers was a life of chronic suffering. To this she added much fasting, abstinence, and penances of every kind, as will be seen from the perusal of this interesting and instructive life. But all her sufferings, whether sent by God or self-inflicted, were borne for God, with God, and in God.

She could say with the Apostle: ‘With Christ I am nailed to the Cross; and I live, now not I, but Christ liveth in me. Her suffering life was a life of detachment from the world–a life of union with God. If she could make her own the words of St. Paul, ‘The world is crucified to me, and I to the world, she could add with equal truth, ‘I live in the faith of the Son of God, Who loved me and delivered Himself for me.'

ST. ROSE OF LIMA, VIRGIN BY FATHER FRANCIS XAVIER WENINGER, 1876

God gave to the Christians of America, and all over the world, a beautiful example of holiness, at the end of the sixteenth and the beginning of the seventeenth century, in the Saint whose festival is this day commemorated by the Catholic Church. Her native place was Lima, the capital of Peru. She was named Isabel, but while yet in the cradle, she was called Rose, as her face, in its loveliness, resembled a rose. She took the surname of St. Mary, by order of the Blessed Virgin. Already in her childhood, her conduct was holy. Her intention was to follow the example of St. Catherine of Sienna, whose life she had read, and therefore she entered the third order of St. Dominic. When five years old, she consecrated her virginity to God, and was such a perfect hand-maiden of the Lord, that during her whole life, she never offended Him by a mortal sin, nor even intentionally by one that was venial. Her time was divided between prayer and work. Twelve hours she gave to devout exercises, two or three to sleep, the rest to work.

When grown to womanhood, her hand was sought by several, but she always unhesitatingly gave the answer, that she was already promised to a heavenly spouse. That, however, her parents might no further urge her, she herself cut off her hair, as a sign of her consecration to God. She treated her innocent body with extreme severity. From her childhood she abstained from fruit, which, in Peru, is so delicious. Her fasts and abstinences were more than human; for, when scarcely six years old, her nourishment consisted almost entirely of water and bread. At the age of fifteen, she made a vow never to eat meat, except when obliged by obedience. Not even when sick did she partake of better food. Sometimes for five or eight days, she ate nothing at all, living only on the bread of angels. During the whole of Lent, she took only five citron seeds, daily. Incredible as this may appear to the reader, it is told by unquestionable authority. Her bed was a rough board, or some knotted logs of wood. Her pillow was a bag filled with rushes or stones.

Every night she scourged her body with two small iron chains, in remembrance of the painful scourging of our Saviour, and for the conversion of sinners. When, however, her Confessor forbade her this, she, after the example of St. Catherine of Sienna, bound, three times around her body, a thin chain, which in a few weeks, had cut so deeply into the flesh that it was scarcely to be seen. Fearing that she would be compelled to reveal it, she prayed to God for help, and the chain became loose of itself. Hardly were the wounds healed, when she again wore the chain, until her Confessor, being informed of it, forbade her to do so, She then had a penitential robe made of horse-hair, which reached below her knees, and occasioned her intense suffering. She wore under her veil, in remembrance of our Saviour's crown of thorns, a crown which was studded inside with pins, and which wounded her head most painfully. To attend the better to her prayers, she loved solitude above everything.

To this end, she asked the permission of her parents to build a small cell for herself in the corner of the garden. This cell was only five feet long and four feet wide; but she lived more happily in it than many others do in royal palaces. O, how many graces she obtained from heaven in this place! How many visions she had there of St. Catherine of Sienna, her Guardian Angel, the Blessed Virgin, and even of Christ Himself! She was also frequently favored with visions in other places. The most remarkable of these was one which she had on Palm Sunday, in the chapel of the Holy Rosary, before an image of the Blessed Virgin. Rose, gazing at the picture, perceived that the Virgin Mother, as well as the divine Child, regarded her most graciously, and at last she heard distinctly from the lips of the divine Child, the words: “Rose, you shall be my spouse.” Although filled with holy awe, she replied, in the words which the Blessed Virgin had spoken to the Angel: ” Behold, I am a handmaid of the Lord, be it done to me according to thy word.” After this, the Virgin Mother said: “May you well appreciate the favor which my Son has accorded to you, dear Rose!”

I leave it to the pious reader to picture to himself the inexpressible joy which this vision gave to Rose. It served her as a most powerful incentive to the practice of all virtues. Among these virtues, surely not the least was the heroic patience which this holy virgin showed, as well in bodily suffering, as in interior, spiritual anguish. The Almighty permitted her, for fifteen years, to be daily tormented, at least, for an hour, by the most hideous imaginations, which were of such a nature, that she sometimes thought that she was in the midst of hell. She could think neither of God nor of the graces He had bestowed upon her; neither did prayer or devout reading give her any comfort. It sometimes seemed as if she had been forsaken by God. In this manner, God wished to prove and purify her virtue, as He had done in regard to many other Saints. Her patience was also most severely tried by painful diseases, as she sometimes had a combination of two or three maladies at the same time, and suffered most intensely.

During the last three years of her life, she was disabled in almost all her limbs; but her resignation to the will of God was too perfect to allow her to utter a word of complaint. All she desired and prayed for was to suffer still more for Christ's sake. She, at the same time, encouraged other sick persons, whom she served with indescribable kindness, as long as she was well. She endeavored to comfort them when it was necessary to prepare them for a happy death; for, her greatest joy was to speak of God and to lead others to Him. One day when she was greatly troubled about her salvation, Christ appeared to her and said: ” My daughter, I condemn those only who will not be saved.” He assured her at the same time, first, that she would go to heaven; secondly, that she never would lose His grace through mortal sin; thirdly, that divine assistance would never fail her in any emergency. God also revealed to her the day and hour of her death, which took place in her thirty-first year. After the holy sacraments had been administered to her, she begged all present to forgive her faults, and exhorted them to love God. The nearer the hour of her death approached, the greater became her joy.

Shortly before her end, she went into an ecstasy, and after it, she said to her Confessor: ” Oh! how much I could tell you of the sweetness of God, and of the blissful heavenly dwelling of the Almighty!” She requested her brother to take away the pillow that had been placed under her head, that she might die on the boards, as Christ had died on the cross. When this was done, she exclaimed three times: “Jesus, Jesus, be with me!” and expired. After death, her face was so beautiful, that all who looked at her were lost in astonishment. Her funeral was most imposing. The Canons first carried the body a part of the way to the church; after them the senate, and finally, the superiors of the different orders, so great was the esteem they all entertained for her holiness. God honored her after her death, by many miracles; and Clement X. canonized her in 1671 and placed her among the number of the holy virgins.

#st rose of lima

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im-a-goner-foryou · 5 years

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The fic where Mysterio takes advantage of a grieving Peter + a little twist :)

Warnings: slight dub con, manipulation

Peter’s well aware, on some swaying level of self-consciousness, that what he’s getting himself into will lead to nothing but trouble. It’s certainly not the wisest decision he’s ever made— might possibly even be his worst one, actually— and is the exact sort that will undoubtedly earn him one of Mr Stark’s disapproving looks.

Then again, it’s not like he’s here.

And that’s precisely the problem that’s landed him in this situation in the first place, isn’t it?

“Oh, don’t cry,” that warm baritone soothes into his ear, smooth yet gravelly all at once; Peter whines wordlessly in response, unable to form words around the clumsiness of his tongue. “Shh, shh… careful now, you’re gonna spill that all over yourself.”

Tightening his grip onto the mug in his hand, Peter weakly bats Quentin away with his other, bringing the drink up to his trembling lips and only wincing slightly at the cool burn of whisky down his throat this time round; he’s already taking it much better, considering his first sip at the bar just hours ago had him spluttering and sent him into a coughing fit. Quentin had only laughed fondly then, advising him to take it slow on the hard liquor; but the man’s not smiling now, concern reflected plainly in those deep blue eyes of his. It’s enough to make Peter tear up again— most things are, these days.

“Peter,” the man says, clearly alarmed. “Hey, sweetheart, we’ve talked about this, remember? If you want to stop at any time, just say the word—”

“Please don’t,” Peter hiccups, almost in a blind panic; because that’s the last thing he wants, damn bad decisions to hell. Mr Stark’s not here anymore, but Quentin is, with those always-warm hands large enough to completely engulf his own and to brush his tears away so tenderly, calloused touch and gravelly voice all so achingly familiar as it is even without the illusions.

Illusions, Peter reminds himself, trying his best at steadying his shallow breaths— because that’s all they are. Everything seems so real it’s frighteningly easy to forget; especially with a level of alcohol in his system so high it would’ve knocked him out if it weren’t for his accelerated metabolism, and the indescribable feeling of being held in Tony’s arms once more. He has to lean back against the pillows now as the drinks begin to fully take effect, the words that leave his throat a slurred, “p-please don’t stop now, I’m okay, really, t-that is… if you are too.”

“Of course,” Quentin smiles down at him all rugged and handsome, plucking the now empty mug from his grip and setting it on the bedside table. “Why wouldn’t I be? I mean, just look at you,” he sighs appreciatively, tenderly brushing back the stray curls off his sweat-matted forehead, gaze dragging down his body in a way that makes Peter feel desired again, like he hasn’t been since—

Choking back yet another sob, he squeezes his eyes shut and welcomes the now familiar wave of dizziness that courses through him, making everything all floaty and blissfully numb. A rough palm caresses his cheek; Peter nods his assent to the silent query, blood thudding in his ears and heart racing with anticipation, and when his eyes flutter open the next time he’s met with deep-set, chocolate brown ones that belong to none other than Tony Stark— a soft moan slips out against his will, Peter lunging forward to wrap his arms around broad shoulders, chest so tangible and solid and real against the side of his cheek; he buries himself in the comforting steadiness as the room seems to dip and sway around him.

“I— I,” he gasps out, blinking back the haze of tears, pulling away with tremendous effort to drink in that warm smile so familiar even the alcohol isn’t enough to dull the ache of his chest. It’s so real, the way Quentin’s holding onto his quivering chin with a thumb and forefinger, even the way those eyes cling onto him almost greedily– the likeliness is too much to bear, and those same lips that he hasn’t felt against his in forever are right there; so with a needy whimper Peter closes the distance between them to crash their mouths together in a messy kiss, noses bumping and teeth clashing in his blind rush. Evidently caught off guard from his sudden movement, Ton—no, Quentin stiffens against him, but catches on quick enough with a low grunt; easily taking over by a clawed hand tangling in his messy locks and a bruising grip on his waist.

Swallowing Peter’s squeak of surprise, the man presses their chests flush to deepen the kiss, then pins him bodily down into the mattress, mouth moving against his firmly the whole while— Peter can only lay breathless underneath the solid weight caging him in, lips parting willingly when a tongue swipes firmly against him to demand entrance. “Oh, oh god,” he gasps as sharp teeth dig into his bottom lip, the domineering control enough to shut down his rational mind and reducing him to a puddle of need. “Been so long- please—"

“Christ, Pete,” Quentin growls, and Peter whines at the husky rasp of Mr Stark’s voice against the nape of his neck, canines scraping along the dip in his collarbone and sending electrifying pain-pleasure up his spine. “You’re so fucking gorgeous— and I bet all of you is this pretty, hmm? C’mon, let me see you, sweetheart, don’t be shy.” The greedy hands dragging along the length of his body pauses at the hem of his shirt to slip underneath the material, rough skin burning into his side and Peter’s already a mess, so painfully hard and leaking in his jeans he’s sure there’s a damp spot where their legs tangle under the duvets. He feels himself burn hot red to the tips of his ears as inches of his skin are laid bare under those hungry eyes, dark and indiscernible like a wild animal’s; Peter’s never felt as much as prey as in this moment, but then a string of curses fall hot and wet over his exposed chest and the need for more drowns out any ringing of alarm bells in his mind. “Fuckin’ hell, look at you. Those pretty little nipples are so stiff for me already, doll.”

Without warning, the rough pad of a thumb flicks against him, ripping a squeal of “Mr Stark!” from his throat; it’s only seconds too late does he realize his mistake, biting down harshly on his lips to stifle the babble of whines that threaten to spill out, embarrassment flushing over him. “N- I mean…”

The man chuckles, mouth hovering directly over his right nipple so the warm huff of laughter raises goosebumps across his skin.

“It’s alright, sweetheart, you know who’s making you feel this good, don’t you?” A large hand slides down to grope at his ass, hauling their hips together and urging him to rut against the thigh pressed in between his legs; Peter’s stifled mewl only earns him a sneer. “Oh, don’t you dare think about hiding those pretty noises of yours from me now.” Calloused fingers circle teasingly around the stiff peaks at his chest, a not-so-playful nip at his earlobe. “Go on then, scream out my name, baby boy, you know you want to. Scream for me.”

Wet heat closes over his nipple then, tearing the wail of “o-h god, Mr Stark!” from his throat; head lolling back from the overwhelming sensations, Peter tears at the bedsheets, hips snatching up to grind his leaking cock against solid muscle. Now that he’s finally given in, the words spill in an endless stream of pleads from his hanging mouth; wrecked cries of “Mr Stark!” and “ah, please, please-” rising in pitch and fervor until he’s sobbing, “f-feels so good, please Sir, I gotta-!”

“Fuck yeah, that’s a good boy,” Mr Stark growls, the animalistic tone enough to make Peter’s head spin and back arch off the mattress. Shifting their hips even closer, the man begins to rut forward without rhythm; and then Peter feels it, the slightest brush of a thick length against his weeping cock through the rough material of their jeans, the unmistakable tent pressing hot and insistent into his thigh like a promise– just like that he’s coming undone, crying out shamelessly into his pillow as he makes a mess of himself, toes curling eyes rolling to the back of his head from the force of his release. Mr Stark cradles him through it, hushing his hiccuping whimpers as Peter falls apart in his arms, vision turning to black for a few moments.

When Peter finally comes back to full consciousness, Tony is still clutching onto him— and rocking his hips forward to grind his stiff cock into the cleft of his ass, groaning low into his shoulder. “Mr Stark,” Peter mumbles weakly, eyes fluttering shut from the bombardment of sensations; the burning scrape of coarse stubble against his cheek, the too-hot panting of breath across his over sensitized skin, all building up until he’s crying out from the overstimulation, struggling to get away. “Please, ’s too much–” he gasps, attempting to push the man off him, only to find his limbs weak from exertion and his mind still cloudy through the haze of liquor.

Confused, alcohol dulling the edges of building fear, Peter stares up into brown eyes that somehow look less familiar than before. His lips tremble around a weak sob.

“Shh, don’t cry,” Quentin says once more, only now in an almost deprecating coo; Peter’s stomach flips with unease as he struggles uselessly under the man’s heavy weight. Tears rapidly fill his eyes at the distinctly cruel laugh into his ear. “Actually, on second thought—you do look so pretty when you do…”

“Quentin, what—what’re you—”

“You poor thing,” Quentin breathes, cutting off his stutter and brushing another stray curl away from his now damp eyes. Peter shoves the offending hand away—or at least, attempts to, the older man deftly grabbing hold of his wrist, grip tight and unyielding. Chest shuddering from hitched breaths, Peter can only sob under the mercy of this man he only now realizes he barely knows; dread fills every bone of his body, even as he stares up into a dark glinting gaze that could never belong to his Tony. “You poor, pathetic little thing… honestly, you’re making it much too easy for me. Not that I’m complaining, of course.” Another cold smile, terrifying in the way it curls around Tony’s lips. “It’s a shame, really, to ruin that pretty head of yours, but I’m afraid I don’t have much choice.”

“Please,” Peter sniffles, despite knowing deep in his heart that there’s no getting out of this. “Please let me go, I promise I won’t t-tell.”

“Oh, you better not. I don’t think he’ll like that.”

“H-he?” Peter starts weakly, interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps; through the cloudy daze of his mind, his delayed senses warn him of the new presence in the room. Whimpers beginning anew, he yanks against Quentin’s death grip around his wrists, body twisting until he’s facing—

“Mr Stark,” the name falls unbidden from his lips, pained, confusion overtaking him—but then the towering figure steps fully out of the shadows, and any sense of familiarity leaves Peter’s mind to be replaced with cold fear.

The man smiles wolfishly at him, Tony Stark in every way but also not. His ice blue eyes flash in the dark, sending chills down Peter’s spine as he leans in to purr into his ear.

“Oh, you just keep getting prettier and prettier, don’t you Pete? We’re going to have so much fun.”

#starker #peter x tony #spiderio #drabble #family unfriendly #tw: slight dub con #superior iron man #dark! mysterio

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roswellwrites · 5 years

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I was only going to be like an hour late posting this for Halloween but tumblr has been nothing but uncooperative with me and this is my last attempt to get this to actually show up in the tags so........fingers crossed, I guess? Anyway this is pretty filthy.

Pairing: Michael Myers/Reader (reader is never referred to as he or she so it’s up for interpretation. I do kiiiiiind of refer to them as having a vagina though, so heads up)

Tags/Warnings: Slasher x Reader, Michael Myers x Reader, Michael Myers, Face........F*cking......tbh (god that sounds so vulgar i’m sorry yall), Rough Sex

Word Count: 2907

Author’s Note: I personally pictured Rob Zombie’s version of Michael when i was writing this just because thats who i was indescribably thirsty for at the time. Like I’m personally not a fan of the RZ Halloween movies (with the exception of Tyler Mane as Michael because jesus christ) and I’m sure there are a lot of yall that feel the same way so feel free to picture OG Michael, I wont be offended!

You were hyper aware of eyes on you the entire night, the eeriness of Michael’s white mask as he hovered just at the edge of your peripheral, so stiff and unmoving you had mistaken him as a feature of the treeline more than once. He had watched for hours as you gave out sweets to trick-or-treaters, unwavering, his intense gaze following you as you rose finally from your seat on the top step, entering your home and flicking the porch light off to indicate that you were no longer giving out candy.

You had taken your time putting on your costume, catching the pale visage of his mask reflected in your mirror more than once through the window over your shoulder. You righted the fabric of your ensemble, giving yourself a last once-over in the mirror before slipping your shoes onto your feet and heading for the door.

The party you were attending was some twenty minutes away at the edge of town, and as you stepped off your front porch and into the chill of the October night air, you noticed suspiciously that Michael was nowhere in sight. You hummed, unbothered as you got into your car and buckled your seatbelt, sliding the key into the ignition with a click. The car roared to life around you and for a moment you sat there, fingers drumming idly on the steering wheel as you allowed the vehicle to warm up for the drive. You fiddled with the dial on your radio, selecting your usual station and then turning in your seat, checking behind the vehicle for any stray trick-or-treaters before backing out of your driveway and onto the street.

Your eyes flickered to the rear view mirror then to see that a car had pulled away from the curb, following you closely now as you made your way down the street. You found yourself grinning, pleased at the development.

The party was a blur around you, loud and busy with the laughter of people having a good time, their bodies dancing and swaying in time with the music. You had been approached a few times since arriving, the compliments and lingering stares not entirely unwelcome as you leaned back against a wall, solo cup full of alcohol in hand.

The old Myers house was a ten minute walk from the location of the party, something you had taken into account when agreeing to attend, and you found yourself now in the brisk fall air as you made your way down the darkened street, the noisy clicking of your shoes on the sidewalk loud enough to have you bending and pulling them from your feet, opting to continue the trek barefoot rather than listen to the sound.

The porch steps creaked under your weight as you climbed them, the front door opening with some resistance as you pressed your palm to the old wood and shoved against it. You moved slowly up the stairs, cautious of the old wood as it groaned beneath you, your hand finding the splintered banister and squeezing it gently as you made your way upwards.

There was the shifting of floorboards behind you and you allowed your lips to curl into a smile, body thrumming now with excitement.

You screamed when he grabbed you, the shock of his hands suddenly on you overpowering the logical part of your brain that knew he had been behind you the entire time. Your heartbeat was loud in your ears, the muscle itself hammering behind your rib cage as if it intended to break through the bone and escape through your chest wall.

His hands were strong on your upper arms as he pinned them to your sides, the dark flashing of his eyes just visible behind his mask as he shoved you easily to your knees.

You could feel his heavy gaze on the back of your neck, tangible almost, barely resisting the urge to glance over your shoulder at the massive man as he loomed over you.

He remained there for a time, seconds ticking by like minutes and minutes ticking by like hours before he finally moved, circling around to your front. Michael reached for you, rough fingers finding the side of your face tracing the smooth skin he found there, making their way first to your jawline and then higher, his thumb brushing your lower lip softly.

There was the tang of something on your tongue as he pressed his thumb into your mouth, metallic and sharp, and you felt your stomach churn in protest. You wondered when he had even had the opportunity to get bloody, who the unlucky victim had been, what they had done to provoke his anger or if they had even done anything at all.

Michael’s thumb withdrew slightly, the pad of his finger pressing now to your bottom teeth, more gentle than you were accustomed to. You dropped your mouth open obediently, cheeks flushing as he took a lumbering step forward and tilted your face upwards to look up at him, your eyes finding the placidity of his white mask even in the gloom of the old house. The faded hardwood floor was unforgiving under your knees and you shifted minutely in discomfort, adjusting your position.

He lowered a single heavily scarred hand to rest on top of your head then, large fingers carding gently through the hair he found there in a rare display of tenderness. You permitted your eyes to droop shut under the action, your lips parting and allowing for a small sigh to escape as he began to scratch slow circles into your scalp with blunt fingernails.

You tensed when he clenched his fist suddenly, body going rigid under his ministrations as he took a handful of your hair in his hand and pulled hard enough to have tears pricking the corner of your eyes. You moved obligingly as he tugged you upwards, maneuvering you easily from your position sitting back on your calves so that your back was straight, posture the picture of attentiveness.

Michael pulled his thumb from your mouth slowly, the hot drag of the digit across your tongue enough to have you opening your mouth wider for him, submissive, body flushed now all the way to the tips of your ears.

His free hand came up to the zipper of his coveralls then, the sound of the interlocking teeth being undone just loud enough to be audible over the rush of blood in your own ears. The shirt he wore beneath his coveralls was black, stretched taut over his broad chest, and you longed to reach up, to trace the thin material with your fingers, to feel the hard plain of muscle under your palm. He worked the zipper down slowly, hand moving now beneath the rough material to encircle the base of his hardening member and pull it free of his coveralls.

You could feel your heart skip a beat at the size of him, same as it always did, your tongue darting out to wet your bottom lip in anticipation as he began to stroke himself to full hardness. Your mouth was still open, wide and wet and welcoming, and Michael adjusted his grip on your hair, angling your head now to allow for the easy press of his cock between your lips.

The weight of his length was heavy on your tongue, satisfying and exactly what you needed. You allowed your eyes to slide closed, shoulders sagging as you exhaled softly through your nose, the slightly salty taste of him on your tongue enough to have you swallowing reflexively.

The first sharp thrust as he worked his way fully into your mouth was a surprise to say the least, catching you off guard as his cock slid nearly to the back of your throat. Your eyes flew wide, darting up questioningly to his masked face as he withdrew, leaving only the tip of his cock on your tongue before thrusting forward again,

Michael twisted his scarred hand in your hair sharply, coercing your head to the side and grinding forward into your mouth, forcing your nose nearly to the sparse, dark hair at the base of his erection.

The pace he set was quick, brutal, the blunt tip of his cock meeting the back of your throat with every forceful thrust. He manipulated you easily by the hand in your hair, angling your head upwards so your glassy eyes found his expressionless mask, the action opening your throat further to him as he used your mouth in the way he saw fit.

Your hands came to his muscular thighs, fingers scrabbling for purchase against the dark blue fabric as he fucked your mouth with deep, relentless strokes. You could feel the tears as they welled at the corners of your eyes now, the obscene trail of slick on your chin as your saliva mixed with his pre-cum and leaked from your mouth. You closed your eyes against the onslaught, dark eyelashes fanning across your flushed cheeks as you forced your throat to relax, shifting again on your knees as he gave your hair another sharp tug.

You groaned around his length, fuzzy from lack of oxygen, grounded only in the moment by the relentless snapping of Michael’s hips as he filled your mouth, gripping your hair so tightly you knew you would be feeling it for hours.

His hips jolted forward one last time, head lolling slightly to one side, the only warning you received before his hand tightened impossibly in your hair and he forced your lips to the base of his cock, holding you there as he came down your throat.

You choked, sputtering, hands twisting into the fabric of his coveralls as you tried to move away. You could feel more tears slipping down your cheeks as he observed you, dark eyes seeming to search your face for something before withdrawing from your mouth completely. You exhaled shakily through your nose, swallowing as his hand moved finally from your hair, trailing downwards until it found your chin, catching it easily between his fingers. His thumb found your bottom lip for the second time that night, dragging the rough digit across the flushed skin before sliding slightly lower, sweeping through the messy layer of saliva he found there.

You wondered what you looked like, wondered if your cheeks were as hot as they felt, if your lips were swollen from the rough treatment. You reached up self consciously, brushing aside his gentle fingers and wiping the drool from your chin with your sleeve as you allowed him to press you back against the floor with large hands at to your shoulders.

It was never just one round with Michael.

He lowered himself to his knees in front of you then, slotting with some difficulty between your spread thighs, and for a moment you were floored at the vulnerability the gesture exuded. Michael was huge even on his knees, a behemoth of a man, muscles wound tight like a predator ready to leap.

Your eyes trailed his body hungrily, darting from his broad shoulders to his chest and stomach, taking note of the way his shirt had begun to ride up, revealing a tantalizing sliver of pale, scarred skin. Your eyes found his length as it began to harden again, sitting heavily against his still-clothed thigh, flushed from base to tip and still damp from where it had been in your mouth.

One of Michael’s hands moved from your shoulder to your upper chest, spanning nearly the length of your entire clavicle as he pinned your body easily to the floor beneath him. He pressed down on your rib cage suddenly, harsh and with so much force that you gave an involuntary wheeze of distress, hand flying immediately to his wrist in hopes of relieving some of the pressure.

“Michael,” you gasped, squirming ineffectively under him as he continued to exert his near supernatural pressure, entirely unaffected by your pleading tone and twisting body beneath him.

When he released you suddenly, you arched from the floor, lungs sucking in a much needed breath.

Michael’s practiced hands made quick work of your shorts and underwear then, taking the time to unbutton and slide the fabric down your hips and thighs, and you found yourself grateful that he had opted to remove them calmly rather than simply tearing or shredding them. He moved one large finger to your entrance, dipping leisurely inside of you to the knuckle, and you could feel your legs shaking on either side of him as Michael began to investigate the slickness he found there. One finger became two, and two fingers became three, the delicious stretch of his large digits as they flexed inside of you nearly enough to have your eyes rolling skyward in pleasure.

But it wasn’t enough.

You dropped your head back as he withdrew his fingers, skull thudding softly against the old hardwood as he lined himself up, positioning himself at your leaking entrance. You breathed slowly through your nose, mentally preparing yourself for what was to come.

Your eyes flew wide as Michael entered you then, thrusting forward suddenly with a single, impatient snap of his hips. Your muscles clenched involuntarily at the intrusion, so sudden and unexpected and large that you found your hands reaching up, grasping desperately at the lapels of his coveralls. Your throat was sore from the rough treatment it had received earlier but you opened your mouth anyway, hoping to still him with your words.

“Fuck, Michael,” you rasped, your voice sounding absolutely wrecked even to your own ears. “Just…just hold on a second. Please.”

He was impassive as he stared down at you, expression impossible to read behind his mask. Michael gave a slow tilt of his head then, as if deciding something before he withdrew, pulling himself almost completely out of you before allowing his hips to snap forward again,

You grit your teeth, back arching wildly off the cold floor as your body tried and failed again to adjust to his size. “Michael,” you pleaded again, your tone edging now on a whine as he repeated the motion, filling you again with another sharp thrust.

Michael’s large hands were steel at your hips, thumbs pressing meanly into the flesh he found there, and you found yourself squirming beneath him in discomfort.

You had learned early on that Michael liked to leave marks, littering your skin on a regular basis with bruises and bites. He would never say so, of course, but more often than not, you’d catch him returning to the marks, lavishing them with attention with either his mouth or hands, reverent almost.

His pace was fast and bruising, reminiscent of the way he had fucked your mouth earlier as he chased his own release.

You were aware of his eyes as they flickered across your face from behind his mask, gaze sharp and assessing as they took in your flushed cheeks and gently parted lips, your bright eyes undoubtedly glazed in your pleasure.

Your hand slipped between your bodies to touch yourself in response, only to give a startled sound high in your throat as one giant hand caught your wrist and slammed your arm back against the floor by your head.

“Okay,” you said breathlessly, giving a sharp jerk of your head to indicate that you understood. “Okay.”

His hand remained there for a moment before he released you, as if coming to the conclusion that you weren’t going to try it again. Michael’s hand returned to your hip then, squeezing fiercely.

Your body was lax under his as he pounded into you, pliant as he worked you against him, using his powerful hands on your hips as leverage. The pain had faded out entirely by now, replaced by searing pleasure as he filled you again and again with his cock, the stretch of him nearly overwhelming as he penetrated you.

You could feel the exact moment his rhythm faltered, hips stuttering forward

“Come on,” you gasped, panting now from the force of his thrusts and he dragged you against him harshly. “Please, Michael, please.”

Michael twitched within you, lifting one hand quickly from your hip to cover your mouth, forcing you into silence as he continued to fuck you with powerful thrusts.

You whined in response, the sound muffled by his palm as you lifted your hips from the floor, giving him a better angle to work himself deeper into you.

Michael gave a few more erratic thrusts before tensing as he came, spilling himself inside of you, his grip on your hip so tight now you felt it might snap under the incredible pressure.

You made a small sound as he pulled out and moved away, taking a moment to simply lie there before straining your neck upwards to look at him, eyes lingering unabashed as he tucked himself back into his coveralls.

You could feel his cum leaking from your abused entrance as you rolled finally to your knees, slick sliding obscenely down your still-shaking thighs and dripping onto the floor beneath you. You gave a soft groan as you lifted yourself onto unsteady feet, bending slightly to retrieve your shorts before righting yourself again, your lower back giving a painful throb in protest at the action. You turned to him now, clothing clenched tightly in one hand.

“Let’s go home, Michael.”

#slasher x reader #michael myers x reader #Michael Myers #happy (late) halloween yall!!!

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victoodles · 5 years

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The Look

I had a lot of fun writing this and now I’m addicted to writing for Chief Hopper. I also really like music from the 80′s and while that isn’t a focal point, it still was cute to imagine a scenario jamming out to Roxette with my main man. Just some fun nonsense, enjoy!

“I’m an officer in training, though I guess that’s just a fancy way of sayin’ I’m your new assistant for the time being. Regardless, it’s a pleasure to meetcha’!”

Jim Hopper is momentarily taken aback by your overly sunny disposition, finding it too bright and warm for the given situation. It’s Monday, approximately eight in the morning - no one should be that…cheerful on a fucking Monday.

But there you are, standing in the door of his office beaming like you won the goddamn lottery.

For some indescribable reason, it’s grating and makes his heart rate increase. He chalks it up to irritation...for now.

“I’m sorry, run that by me again?” Hopper asks incredulously as he runs a hand through his hair; it’s too early for this crap, even if it comes in the form of a cute, sweet, lovely-

Wait, focus Hopper!

You’re still looking pleased as punch, not bothered none by his grousing. “I’m aiming to join the force! Yours specifically but it’s still a work in progress, so I was assigned to shadow you for the time being. But like I said-“

“Yeah, yeah assistant or whatever. I got that much. But I don’t really have the time or patience to be some newbie’s babysitter.” The words come out harsher than he meant for them to but you’re still not deterred. You just continue to smile that same breathtaking enthusiastic smile his way and his heart insists on beating faster than should be normal. All that smoking might finally be catching up with him.

“I’m here for whatever you need, Chief!” You chirp, giving him a mock salute in an attempt to alleviate the tension. While being a glorified secretary wasn’t an ideal position, hopefully your tenacity would shine through to the Hawkin’s chief of police.

Hopper cocks an eyebrow at you, bemused, and then sighs heavily in defeat. He could already tell you were the type that wouldn’t take no for an answer and clearly you wouldn’t back down from this.

Great, just what I needed.

“Fine whatever,” he grumbles, pulling a full folder of reports from a drawer. He drops them to his desk with a gentle thud and you eye the papers curiously, awaiting further orders whatever they may be.

“I need you to go through these case files. All of them.” Hopper instructs with the same sternness of a scolding father. What was that saying about old habits?

“Cross the t’s and dot the i’s. Make sure everything is in order, got that?”

You’re positively radiating with an energy that Hopper simply cannot comprehend considering the gravity of the task he’s assigned.

She’s a strange duck.

Of that much he is sure of at least.

Eagerly you take the file, fingertips brushing against his own briefly and Hopper feels a heat rushing to his cheeks like some lovelorn school boy. You don’t seem to be phased (of course not it’s just a simple interaction with a pretty girl Hop) and he mentally reprimands himself for acting so needlessly foolish.

“Rodger dodger Captain! Er, I mean Chief!” You laugh melodically at your own witticism that not only catches his attention but that of the entire office as well. Hopper is sure he’s dying when the erratic thumping in his chest rears its ugly head again.

Quickly he decides to dismiss you with a wave of his hand, the other attempting to cover the red now dusting his cheeks that you (thankfully) don’t notice. He doesn’t need his first impression to be more humiliating than he thinks it already is. You take your leave with another playful salute before turning on your heels to saunter to your new desk.

Hopper deduces that your eccentricity will soon run him into an early grave. And now he had to have a sit down with Flo about not letting just anybody waltz into his office at any given time unannounced. Especially someone as peculiar as you.

This new girl is gonna be a problem.

And yet...

Does Hopper take a quick peek at the way your pencil skirt hugs your ass while you walk?

Yes, yes he does.

Does it amplify his enthusiasm about working with you?

Only a little bit.

***

Summer has transitioned into Winter, leaving behind bathing suits and sunshine in exchange for sweaters and snow. The station has followed suit and is aptly decorated to show even the Hawkins Police Department has the holiday spirit in them.

It’s mostly your doing, personally going out of your way to cut and hang handmade paper snowflakes around the office. That along with colorful strings of Christmas lights.

Hopper still twitches whenever he sees them after Joyce’s crazed epiphany that lights could somehow help her communicate with Will from the Upsidedown way back when. But he doesn’t have the heart (or the mental capacity) to tell explain that to you.

Instead he revels in your holiday giddiness, masked behind a scowl because the poor fool is still in denial that he even likes you.

You like like her, as El had so fondly put it over dinner one night. Thankfully he can successfully hush her up with a tickle bout.

The same solution sadly doesn’t apply for his nosy secretary. Hopper contemplates firing Flo after she teased him for blushing when you placed a Santa hat snugly on his head, insisting he stop being “such a Grinch”. He quickly realizes that would be “unwarranted” and the idea is soon discarded.

It’s the middle of the afternoon, and Hopper has a slew of frantic calls to deal with much to his chagrin. In order to do that and achieve some semblance of success with it all, Hopper needs papers.

Your papers specifically.

Hours ago, he had assigned you to organize citizen report forms for him so he could properly assess and assist each member of lovely Hawkins Indiana. Missing cats, rambunctious teenage hooligans, all mundane things really. And as usual, you took your work with a grin and excited nod.

Hopper began to enjoy the warmth that you exuded. And the curve of your lips when you smiled. And-

Enough, Hop! You creep…

Now he was ready to welcome the distraction from another onslaught of racing thoughts. About you, no less! But he couldn’t do that without that work, that you usually would have immaculately finished within the hour.

Sometimes you would sign them with a pink heart.

Not relevant!

Today, however, it was almost half past one and still no papers. No bubbly entrance, no perfectly alphabetized folders paired the same cup of black coffee for him. Not so much as a peep from your direction.

Weird, Hopper thinks as he pushes himself up from his desk with a grunt. He might as well investigate, otherwise he would have nothing else to do today. Otherwise he would’ve loved to procrastinate this for as long as humanly possible. Who would’ve thought Wednesday afternoons would be slow.

Hopper steps out of his office and scans the bullpen, neglecting to return Flo’s usual greeting. Almost immediately he spots you hunched over at your desk, head nestled too comfortably on a stack of papers.

His feet are carrying him with a stomp before he can parse what he’s really seeing.

“Go easy on her, Chief,” Flo urges in a hushed voice. The request is again ignored.

Is she...sleeping?

It would appear so.

A cup of now cold coffee sits abandoned as you continue to snore with an adorable dopey smile on your face. You look carefree, relaxed.

Cute.

Hopper shoos that last thought away before he bends down to your level. He would not have any of his staff lazily snooze the day away, on his watch no less!

“Hey! Sleeping Beauty,” he nearly booms in your ear, instantly causing you to jolt up in your seat. Your usual pristine appearance is now disheveled: a messy bun now atop your head, blazer discarded, and the top few buttons of your blouse precariously unbuttoned.

Don’t look, don’t look, don’t l-

He looked.

God dammit.

You look up at him drowsily, still not awake enough to realise the consequences of your stupidity.

“Huh,” is all you have to offer in your defense. It doesn’t seem to placate him.

When you notice his annoyance (finally), you rush to break through your sleep addled fog. Quickly, you sit up straight and smooth away loose hair before meeting his glare.

“M-morning chief,” you say sheepishly, daring to wave hello to him. The stink eye treatment continues.

“It’s 1:30 p.m,” he responds back cooly, unamused by your jests.

You genuinely look surprised, and turn to the clock ticking idly on the wall above. “Afternoon?!” A few sniggers can be heard around the office.

“Oh my gosh I’m so sorry Chief,” you apologize sincerely. Hopper doesn’t even think he’s seen you frown before and now you’re saying sorry for mistakes you never make. He’s taken aback for a moment and you continue to express your regret.

“I came in early to decorate for the holidays. Like, super early,” the emphasis is accurately dramatized with a yawn. Hopper’s rigidness softens. He knew you were responsible for their newfound winter wonderland, but he didn’t realize how much work you actually put into it.

Aw Christ.

Hopper clears his throat. “Y-you did all of this,” he asks incredulously. He’s seen some freaky shit in his career but right now he is truly shocked by your dedication. For something that he previously found tedious and unnecessary.

“Yeah,” you admit shyly, a tinge of pink adorning your cheeks. Hopper notices, and pretends he doesn’t think it’s the most adorable thing he’s ever seen. “I just thought it would be cute.”

Cute?

Was it really that simple? You just wanted to spread some Christmas cheer and it tuckered you out in the process?

Hopper brings a hand to his lips to hide the smile that’s starting to form there.

As soon as it comes, it leaves and he composes himself. He doesn’t know what comes over him (is it love?) and he places his hand on your shoulder, patting it with a huff.

The entire department watches wide-eyed at the interaction.

They’ve been placing bets (secretly) on when and where Hopper finally decides to ask you out. It doesn’t seem like today’s going to be that day, but it’s a step in the right direction. Powell curses under his breath and pulls out a dollar and hands it to Callahan. Flo smiles to herself.

“Just-“ Hopper takes a deep breath in. It’s hard to focus when you’re looking at him with those doe eyes. “Don’t worry about it. Just make sure I get it before the end of the day.”

Your apprehension melts away and it seems Hopper has succeeded in bringing your smile back.

Merry Christmas to me.

“Rodger dodger, Chief,” you chirp before turning your attention back to your own desk, already hyper focused on your work.

You don’t see the small smile he sends your way as he returns back to his office.

Fifty nine minutes later, on the dot (a new record for you!) you bring the fruits of your labor back to Hopper’s office. It seems you just missed him unfortunately, leaving the folder on an empty desk. You quite enjoy the small interactions shared between the two during the lulls of the work day, progressively getting longer and more friendly in nature.

You cross paths with him on the way out however, exchanging smiles and hellos as you both return to your designated posts.

On your desk, you find a fresh cup of coffee made just the way you like it: cream and two sugars.

It’s signed with a heart.

***

Indiana snow storms have devolved into gentle flurries, snowflakes idly cascading down a thin veil of snow covers the nearly empty streets.

Nearly empty.

Where else would Hopper find himself late on a Thursday evening then on his way to a local watering hole. El found herself at Max’s house for the evening, and Hopper’s restless boredom soon gets the better of him. Nothing a cold glass of beer can’t fix.

He, in turn, finds himself in town, meandering his way to a dive-bar at the end of the block. Neon lights flicker dully in the dusty window, barely illuminating the bartender and lone figure inside.

Seems someone else had a similar idea, sneaking out into the night for a pint and handfuls of shitty peanuts.

The door opens with a soft jingle and through the haze of lingering cigarette smoke and dim lights, Hopper spots you at the bar. You’re as perky as ever, chatting the bartender’s poor ear off about this and that. Hopper, childishly, is jealous.

In your hand is a can of cheap beer - Schlitz to be exact.

Hopper’s favorite.

Be still my beating heart.

You notice him shortly after, and your smile practically lights up the room.

“Chief!” You call out with a raise of your drink. The bartender, (Chris - or something, Hopper can’t bother to remember) breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of a normal customer. It seems no grouch can ruin your good time.

“Chief,” Chris greets (with considerably less enthusiasm) and slides him a coaster. Hopper pays his greeting no mind and devotes his attention solely to you.

You look significantly more casual, blouse and skirt replaced with jeans and a flannel, hair loose and falling to your shoulder in gentle curls. Despite the shift in appearance, you still hold yourself the same way as you do at work - poised.

Hopper admires that about you.

Among other things.

“Hey,” he greets. Before he can get another word in, make some lame comment about the weather or what the cat dragged in, you’re already patting the stool next to your eagerly.

“Sit with me!”

“W-what?” Hopper responds (stupidly).

You’re already ordering him a beer, disregarding his confusion. “You heard me. Unless you just came out in the snow to say ‘hey’ and scram?” Your voice has a teasing lilt to it that enchants Hopper. He wants to hear more of it

“Just doing my nightly rounds,” he jokes back, “but since I’m here I might as well hang around. Make sure you’re not getting into any trouble.” It’s rare for Hopper’s bark to have no bite, just playful nips. He appreciates the relaxed atmosphere your presence envelops him in.

“Unfortunately for you then, you’ll have to stick around for a bit. I have a grand scheme in the works that involves drinking with the chief of police,” you say with a mischievous smirk. “Gotta keep me from ‘getting into trouble’.” Hopper can’t help but guffaw at your attempt to impersonate him. It’s comical and endearing all the same.

“Sounds mighty serious,” apprehension dissolves as he sits down next to you, the old chair creaking as he turns toward you. Your knees practically touch and neither of you seem to notice or care.

Handing him his respective can of beer, you knock yours against his with a harmonious clink.

You do that for the first.

And then the second.

And the third.

With each drink comes a new story shared between you.

You tell him about your time at the police academy. He tells you about his continuing struggles with El and her pesky boyfriend, Mike.

You like hard rock and your old Suburban.

He loves hound dogs but is too busy to actually get one.

Drinks keep on pouring.

Time passes effortlessly, bleeding into midnight and your laughter echoes throughout the emptiness of the bar.

“Oh Chris isn’t always this bad. You know sometimes, he’ll let me order a mimosa at 8 p.m and he won’t give me a hard time” you titter, earning an eye roll from the aforementioned bartender. Hopper fights to contain his chortling.

“You’re the only one who orders it and you’re the only reason I have to keep stocking champagne.” Chris grumbles, cleaning a glass a bit more aggressively than necessary.

“Well you should be thanking her for the extra business then,” Hopper adds with a gruff laugh. Chris doesn’t seem to find it amusing. He opts to turn on the small radio behind the bar, hoping to drown out your nonsense. with some music

It works for a little bit.

A little bit.

Until Roxette starts playing...

Then all Hell breaks loose in the form of an ecstatic cheer of, “I. Love. This. Song!”

Hopper really can’t contain his enjoyment now.

Upbeat pop music from a second-rate radio fuels you now.

“And I go la la la la la!”

You’re booming now, swinging your head from side to side to the beat. Your hair is wild now from the throes of your merriment. Hopper likes it even more this way.

He joins in from time to time, singing a lyric from the chorus (poorly he thinks) but takes more pleasure in watching your one woman performance.

She’s got the look indeed.

Chris regards you with a cocked eyebrow and looks to the chief, shaking his head. “She’s something else,” he says with a dry laugh.

Hopper is too busy watching you hurrying to the whirring jukebox now, a hand full of quarters and promises of “you’re gonna love this song,” on your tongue as the first one fades out.

His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles.

“Yeah,” he says reverently, “she really is.”

#vic's fics!#stranger things #jim hopper x reader #i love my thicc police daddy

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kenzieam · 4 years

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The Tutor - Chapter Four

Pairing: AU Bucky X Levi

Rating: M (my usual, lovelies)

Warnings: language, drama, angst, mentions of abuse

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@iammarylastar @captstefanbrandt @jewels2876 @moonbeambucky @badassbaker @everythingisoverrated @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123 @oliviastan17 @igothroughphasesalot @sashli @lorilane33 @pinknerdpanda

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Levi the jock needs help in high school and her twin brother, Steve, volunteers his newest friend, Bucky. Seemingly just to piss her off, Bucky accepts but soon realizes there’s more to the Levi than she lets the average spectator see.

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I’m STILL an attention whore with cabin fever, I’d love to hear what you all think about my newest story, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE leave a review, my Lovelies!

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“It’s real to me.”

Steve gazed at him wordlessly and Bucky stared directly back, letting the newly acknowledged truth shine in his eyes, after a beat, he looked away, turning his head back to Levi and pressing a kiss to her soft hair. He held his lips there, breathing in her scent and indulging in the new freedom his confession had given him.

“Levi?” He murmured after a pause. “Wake up, baby.” The baby slipped out without Bucky thinking about it and, while he would have rather kept his secret pet name for her secret for a bit longer, it sounded right all the same.

Steve stood gracefully, winking at Bucky before stomping back downstairs. That noise, coupled with Bucky’s gentle voice, roused Levi and she inhaled sharply, stretching against Bucky and nuzzling her face in his neck for a moment before pulling away, blinking blearily. She startled slightly as it dawned on her where she’d slept and what she’d just done, and maybe even Bucky’s tender words, and her gaze flicked to his before dropping again.

“It’s okay. Sleep well?” Bucky whispered.

Levi nodded, her fingers pulling and curling at Bucky’s shirt, as if she was holding herself back from something she really wanted to do. “Thank you for staying.”

“Of course.”

Levi looked around at the nest of blankets then glanced up at Bucky impishly. “We had a sleepover.”

Bucky laughed out loud, shaking his head in amusement. “Yeah, we did.”

He fell silent as Levi continued to stare at him, tilting his head as he tried to puzzle out her expression. Her eyes dropped to his lips before flicking back up to his and she bit her bottom lip as she curled her fingers again in his shirt; then, without a word, she pulled him down towards her as she tilted her head up to meet him and their lips connected. Bucky sighed, parting his lips with a small moan as surprised pleasure coursed through his body, as memories of their first kiss flooded him; he’d ached to touch her this way ever since then.

Levi whimpered, so low that if Bucky wasn’t so close and wrapped around her, he probably wouldn’t have heard it. Her lips moved on his, guiding the kiss, then her tongue grazed his, pushing tentatively into his mouth and he couldn’t stop a groan, reaching up to cradle her face. Levi’s hand trailed up his back to knot in the hair at the back of his head, grazing the baby-soft strands at his nape and then she pulled away, Bucky leaning forwards to follow her for a second before the spell broke and he opened his eyes, searching her face as he struggled to control his breathing.

Memories and sensations coursed through his blood and his hands itched to grab Levi and pull her close for more and it must have shown on his face because Levi quirked a grin, touching his cheek with tickling fingertips.

“It wasn’t a dream.” She mused, fingers becoming gentle feathers across his jaw.

“What wasn’t?” Bucky asked, still caught up in desire, her meaning reaching him only belatedly.

“Halloween,” Levi replied quietly. “I thought it had been a dream, me kissing you… but it wasn’t. It felt just as good as this did.”

“You remember that?”

“Yeah, I told myself that it was just my own desperate dream; and when you didn’t mention it after I was too chicken to bring it up.”

“It wasn’t. It wasn’t a dream and it was the best thing I’ve ever felt.” Bucky confessed, a harsh whisper. “I wanted to do it again every single day, but I didn’t want to wreck… us.”

“Me neither,” Levi replied quietly. “There were so many days this last month,” she chuckled weakly. “Christ Bucky, I would have climbed you like a tree.”

Bucky choked on a laugh, not able to stop the stupid grin on his face and he allowed himself to lower his head, burrow his face against hers, following instincts he’d never felt before.

I’ve never done this before.

“You haven’t?” Levi whispered, surprised and Bucky realized he’d said it out loud, his cheeks heating at the confession, his heart speeding up even more. “What, been with anyone?” She clarified, her voice hesitant.

“Yeah,” he murmured, dropping his eyes as if it was a shameful thing to say. “Between taking care of my sisters and trying to help my mom, it just never… was something I could do… and the few times I did try, weren’t that great.”

“You’ve never kissed a girl before?”

“I have…. But it never felt like this, it was all sloppy and gross-”

Levi snorted softly and Bucky raised his head to stare at her, sure she was about to laugh at him, call him a loser or a noob, push him away in disgust but instead a huge but shy smile was lighting up her face.

“What?” He mumbled.

“It’s my turn.” Levi giggled, pulling him down for a quick peck before leaning away to meet his eyes, tracing the cleft in his chin with soft fingers. “I get to be the tutor now.”

Bucky laughed out loud, partially in relief and Levi joined him, giggling as Bucky pulled her into a hug, buried his face in the crook of her neck and she wrapped her arms tight around him in return, nuzzling her nose just behind his ear and sending shivers up his spine.

“Lev?!” Steve called from downstairs. “Mom’s awake!”

Levi startled in Bucky’s arms, the reason for her and Bucky being tangled up together in her family room like this crashing back over her like black bilge water. “Oh, yeah.” She murmured, the levity in her voice disappearing. She pushed gently but insistently at Bucky’s arms around her. “I have to go.” She stumbled off the cushions then stopped, seeming to collect her thoughts, running her hands through her hair. “You’re going to school?” It was half-statement, half-question.

It wasn’t really proper to stay here, he’d never even met Levi’s mom, he certainly didn’t need to be any more of a witness to the poor woman’s heartbreak. “Yeah.” A new thought hit him, making his heart sink slightly. “And I have to watch my sisters tonight… can I call you later?”

A small but warm smile pulled at Levi’s lips. “Yes, please… I gotta stay here, obviously but… give your sisters big hugs for me, okay?” She turned to leave then stopped again and pointed over Bucky’s shoulder. “Use the shower if you want, there’s towels and everything in there. Sorry, I won’t be able to walk you out-”

“Levi!” Steve’s bellow was more insistent, and Levi jumped guiltily.

“It’s okay, I’ll let myself out. Go help.” Bucky urged, a new smile breaking out on his face when Levi dove back onto the cushions and pressed a hard kiss to his lips, then stared hard into his eyes, conveying more than words before scrambling away and thundering down the stairs.

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The next days were somewhat quiet. After her initial breakdown, the twin’s mother collected herself quite well, saving her children from having to handle most of the arrangements for Brock’s funeral but they stuck close to home anyway, not for any type of mourning but as a quiet support for their mother, who had had a genuine relationship with the man, despite any animosity he’d held for her children. The funeral was predictably large and Bucky was indescribably proud of the twins for their composure throughout it, where dozens upon dozens of clueless well-wishers reminded them again and again of what a good man their step-father had been and how lucky they’d been to have him in their lives; the assertion that the twins should consider themselves lucky that Brock had troubled himself with another man’s children hinted at by some of the more uncouth members of Brock’s side.

After the service, where both Levi and Steve had flanked their mother as she’d softly cried, Levi holding her hand and Steve with his arm around his mom’s shaking shoulders; Levi had then glued herself to Bucky’s side, clinging to him with a hint of desperation and she’d finally broken down and let herself cry against his shoulder as he held her close, although the tears were certainly a release of stress and tension rather than from sorrow at the loss of her stepfather. He’d pulled her to a quiet corner of the building, away from prying eyes, and murmured soothingly (words he’d wished someone had been around to murmur to him at his own father’s funeral) until her tears had dried and she’d gazed up at him, indescribable gratitude shining in her violet eyes.

Bucky had needed to watch his sisters that night, but he’d stayed with Levi as long as he could once they’d returned to her house; seated on the couch while Levi curled against him, head on his shoulder and fingers twined with his, burrowed under a blanket and not really watching what was flashing across the television; until he’d needed to pry himself away, pressing a regretful kiss to Levi’s forehead and murmuring an apology. Asleep, she’d hummed in response but not wakened and a strangely strong regret crushed his chest as he’d forced himself to leave, trying not to remember just how perfect it had felt to have Levi beside him.

Over a week after being cancelled, Bucky and Lev finally got a chance to go out Christmas shopping and made plans to meet after school again, where they’d climb into Bucky’s old truck and head off into the city. They hadn’t been alone together since right after the funeral; Levi hadn’t been able to come over for ‘study sessions’ and Bucky hadn’t felt entirely comfortable “intruding’ as he put it, any more than he already had on the private family issues going on in Levi’s house. He knew firsthand what it was like for a family after the father’s death, and while Levi and Steve had not cared for or been close to their stepfather in any way, shape or form, certainly nothing like the love Bucky had had for his father, there was still their mother’s emotions to keep in mind.

A rare ray of warm sunshine warmed Bucky’s face as he waited and he turned his head up, closing his eyes, relishing the heat it brought, chasing the chill of December away, even for a few seconds.

“Hey!” He heard Levi cry excitedly, managing to open his eyes and curl in enough on himself to partially shield from Levi’s tackle. She laughed as she attacked, wrapping her arms around Bucky and spider-monkeying him, fingers burrowing to tickle him through his coat and he yelled in mingled surprise and amusement, working his arms around her to reverse the spider-monkey hold, crushing her in a bear hug and laughing even as he tried to growl. He lost his balance, tipping to the side like a giant Sequoia, taking Levi with him as he fell into the snow, a white cloud of flakes exploding around them and Levi gasped as the snow hit the bare skin of her face; it turning into a shriek as Bucky grabbed a handful and stuffed it into her collar, laughing uproariously as she screeched and thrashed, fighting like a wild cat.

Mock fury blazed in her eyes as Levi struggled, wrestling to roll Bucky beneath her and then she was the one with the handful of snow, laughing as Bucky howled, squirming underneath her trying to evade the same fate.

Dimly he registered other students glancing at their spectacle as they passed, some amused, some rolling their eyes and it only made him laugh harder. He’d not been this carefree and happy in a long time, able to just embrace life and laugh, holding someone that he truly cared about close and not have to worry about anything else.

“Okay! Okay, Uncle!” He howled, trying to fend off the extra set of hands Levi had mysteriously sprouted, bypassing all his attempts to guard his tender skin and pressing snow mercilessly down his shirt. “Levi! Please baby, you win!”

Levi’s attack stopped and she leaned back, still straddling him in the snow, grinning victoriously above him. Raising her arms, she flexed her muscles and Bucky saw his chance, grabbing her by the waist while she was distracted and rolling, coming to rest on top of her again, pinning her to the ground with his body. He raised a handful of snow threateningly, grinning when Levi started screeching again.

“Okay, okay!” She begged. “I’m done, I’m done. Let me up.”

Bucky dropped the handful, his fingers reaching up to brush against her flushed cheekbone. “Maybe I like you this way,” he rumbled. Dropping his head, he captured her mouth in a heated kiss, growling when she parted her lips for him, one hand moving to grip her waist while the other cupped her jaw. Breathing hard, he broke the connection, resting his forehead to hers and struggling to regain his breathing. They had shit to do, they couldn’t be necking in the snow-

“Okay, get up!” A new voice bellowed, startling the winded lovers and both craned their heads to look, grins sprouting as they saw the speaker; Steve, standing above them with arms crossed over his chest and father-like disapproval on his face.

Reaching down, Steve grabbed Bucky by the collar and half-helped, half-yanked him to his feet before letting go and reaching down to pull Levi up too, purposefully setting her a few feet away from Bucky and throwing a mock-glower at both of them, but his grin broke through and he ended up just laughing, shaking his head.

“Get outta here, Jesus!”

Still laughing, Bucky pulled Levi back to his side and started walking to his truck, their stride faltering and stumbling for a few seconds before they balanced, and Levi elbowed Bucky with a giggle.

“You don’t need any help with kissing.” She snickered.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, that was good.” She praised before ducking out from under his arm. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t practice.”

“Later,” the words hurt slightly but it was true. “We have stuff to do first.”

Levi rolled her eyes before turning skipping the rest of the way to Bucky’s truck. He jogged to catch up and grabbed her shoulder, spinning her to face him.

“Okay, one more.” He grinned, dropping his head to kiss her again.

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“How’s your mom doing?” Bucky asked a few minutes later. The truck hummed down the road, slowly warming up. Bucky kept one hand on the wheel as he reached over with the other, not letting his eyes drift from the road as he asked for her hand. Levi stretched, taking his hand and twining their fingers together before letting them rest on the seat between them.

Levi sighed, squeezing his fingers. “We had a talk last night, the three of us.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah… all week Mom’s been after Steve and I, asking why we aren’t more upset about Brock’s death. Steve didn’t want to tell her, but last night… we finally had to.”

“And how did she take it?” Bucky asked gently. He knew that the twins had sheltered their mother from most of the Brock’s bullshit, dread forming low in his stomach.

“She was shocked.” Levi replied. “And then, I think she was ashamed. If it had been only me telling her she might have tried to brush it off, but Steve was saying the same things, so she had to believe us.”

“Was Brock just never angry with her or what? She honestly didn’t see that side of him?” That thought had bothered Bucky from the start, the twin’s mother’s apparent blindness towards her husband.

“Yes and no. She saw the typical stepfather, stepchildren head-butting and I guess you kind of expect that and… I think she just rationalized the rest, explained it away. I think she was so desperate to have someone in her life after Dad that she was willing to overlook a lot of shit. That and Steve and I hid a lot too.”

“Does she know Brock hit you?” Bucky gritted, burning over the thought; a part of him still wished he’d wrung the bastard’s neck over that, hang the consequences.

“She does now.”

“Are you okay?” Bucky asked softly, squeezing her hand.

Levi paused, thinking about it. “I’m getting there.”

Bucky pulled their linked hands up to his mouth, pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “I’m here,” he murmured against her flesh. “Whenever you need me.”

Levi smiled at him, the warmth in her eyes melting the last icicles of anger around Bucky’s heart at the topic of Brock. Then she grinned and shook her head, as if something just occurred to her.

“What?” Bucky let their hands drop back to the seat, grinning.

“Just… would you have believed it? If someone had told you three months ago that we’d be here, now, like this?”

Bucky laughed. “Honestly? No. You were a brat.”

“And you were a nerd.”

Bucky just smirked, shaking his head. “Still a brat.” He teased.

“Still a nerd.” Levi replied fondly then, after a pause, continued. “How’s your mom doing?”

Bucky sighed, watching the road but flicking a quick glance her way. “Holidays are hard.” He confessed. “Christmas was like their special holiday together. Dad proposed to Mom on Christmas day; she opened up this little box and there was the ring and then Dad was on his knee-”

“Aww,” Levi hummed, smiling despite the faint sparkling of tears in her eyes.

“Yeah,” Bucky commiserated. “The first year was bad, I could barely get her out of her room; I had to do the Christmas shopping for my sisters and cook and try to keep everything together because they were scared and upset by Mom’s behaviour, I couldn’t be crying around them too-”

“Oh, Bucky.” Levi’s voice cracked.

“It’s alright now.” Bucky plowed ahead before Levi’s tears dredged up his own. “Mom still misses Dad like crazy, but she keeps it together for Maddy and Sarah; she only cries sometimes now, when something triggers her.”

“That’s sad.”

“Yeah… was your mom like that, with your real dad?”

“I don’t really remember anymore; Steve and I were only six but yeah… I don’t remember seeing much of her for awhile, it’s a good thing I had Steve, we kept each other company. At night, if I had bad dreams, he’d let me get under the covers with him to go back to sleep. She found Brock pretty quick though, she didn’t like being alone or maybe, he found her again. He hated that he lost her to dad before.”

Bucky squeezed her hand before pulling reluctantly away to shift gears as they approached the shopping mall entrance and, after guiding the truck into a parking spot, reached over and squeezed her knee. The smile Levi gave him made the little butterflies in his chest start up again and he stared after her for a beat after she climbed out, marvelling again at the strange direction his life had taken. If you’d asked him at the beginning of the school year where he’d see himself by Christmas; dating someone like Levi wouldn’t have made a list of a thousand possibles.

Levi waited for him a few feet away, brow raising in concern when he stayed in the truck but then he jolted into action and scrambled out, wrapping his arm around Levi and pulling her along to the mall entrance.

Gifts for the girls were easy, although Bucky loved his sisters to death and was deeply involved in their lives, the language they spoke recently, especially since Disney + launched, was completely foreign to him and fortunately, Levi was there to translate.

His mom wanted nothing, so of course Bucky had to find her something and finally settled on a new pair of beautifully made slippers for her, her old pair that she would slide on after a long day at work having passed even the repairable stage eons ago.

Passing a jewelry store on his way to find Levi, who’d ducked ahead to the bookstore for some athlete’s autobiography that Steve wanted, Bucky found himself pausing and admiring. Levi had no fancy rings or necklaces and had firmly stated one night that she would never wear anything worth money, out of a near paralyzing fear of losing or breaking it, but, for a few minutes, Bucky indulged in the fantasy of presenting something both breathtakingly beautiful and expensive to her. It was simply a pipe dream right now, regardless of Levi’s preferences, because Bucky, especially after buying for his sisters and mom, was low on funds. Any extra he gave to his mom and, for a time, anything he’d earned in-between keeping their family together had been the only source of income for their family.

Although neither flaunted it, the twins were very well off, their father having passed on a large fortune to their mom on his death, and Brock being a successful businessman, despite his personal shortcomings. The twins were never flashy or in-your-face about it, but the fact that Bucky would not ever be able to begin to match the level of gift-giving they were capable of hit him now. Regardless, his eyes roamed over the cases, even as he scolded himself for foolishness, before freezing in wonder.

“Hey,” Levi chirped suddenly at his side, swinging a Barnes and Noble bag. Following Bucky’s gaze, she gave a low whistle of appreciation. “Wow… that watch would look great on you.”

Her words broke the spell, reminding Bucky that he would probably never be comfortable enough to spend that much on himself and he looked away as his cheeks warmed. The watch that had captured his attention was utilitarian chic, practical and beautiful, well-crafted and well out of his budget. During the height of his mother’s grief, he’d been forced to keep his family fed for months on that sum.

“It’s beautiful.” Levi continued and Bucky turned sharply away, shaking his head.

“It’s too much.” He said curtly, walking quickly away.

Levi caught up to him, her hand catching his elbow. She didn’t ask aloud, but her eyes spoke, and Bucky shook his head again.

“No, it’s too much. I could never match it for you-”

“You don’t need to get me anything-” Levi began.

“Yes, I do! I just… I can’t afford to get you nice things-”

“Hey.” Levi’s voice was suddenly hard as steel and she stepped in front of him, dropping her bags with a clunk to reach up and grab his face. Her eyes bored into his. “I don’t want ‘nice things’ and I don’t care whether you can afford them or not. Brock was able to buy ‘nice’ things and he was an asshole. I love you for you, Bucky, not for what you can buy me.”

Bucky froze, his hands wrapped around her wrists. Her words echoed in his head, reverberated and resounded throughout his body, warming him from the inside out. One word in particular hooked deep in his heart. “What did you say?”

Levi froze as she realized exactly what she had said, but there was no regret in her eyes as she whispered. “You heard me.”

“You love me?” He whispered breathlessly.

Her eyes held her answer and Bucky lunged towards her, crushing his mouth to hers. Although words failed him at that moment, although it was far too soon and this could all be dismissed as simple puppy-love infatuation, Bucky knew deep in his heart that it wasn’t, had known since Halloween what he felt and he poured what he wanted to say into his kiss, wishing in that moment that they were almost anywhere but inside a busy mall so he could continue showing Levi the depths of his feelings, demonstrate just how deeply she’d worked her way under his skin but he pulled away with supreme effort instead, panting for breath as he pressed his forehead to hers, struggling to bring himself under control.

“Fuck,” he managed to wheeze. “I love you too.”

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