#that one car snap of him like Looking Cool with a filter on… neither of those are ‘thirst traps’ tho especially not enough to warrant | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

murkycats · 1 month

Text

Two Idiots

Word Count: 1,390

Type: Fluff, One-shot

Pairing: Steven Grant x Reader

It was a truly pathetic sight. Horrific. Tragic, honestly. In fact, it was so horrendously devastating that you folded so quickly for this man—in just a little over two months, but you couldn’t help it.

You slam the car door closed, stepping out onto the brick pathway. The crisp, cool fall air blew harshly against your face, somehow perfectly conveying the internal turmoil you were feeling inside. Yet, you did your best to shake off the anxiety you felt. The worst he could say was no, right?

He couldn’t help the way his kind eyes would crinkle at the sides when you came in to visit him, or how he would talk and talk and talk about his obvious passions and nerdy hobbies.

Ten paces so far. You can do this. Don’t think too much, just say it.

Steven Grant had stolen your heart right out of your chest the moment you set eyes on him, and the poor bloke had not one bloody clue.

Twenty-four. Deep breaths. C’mon.

However, that was definitely going to change today. Because you were probably definitely going to ask him out.

Thirty-six...

Nearing the last step, you came upon two huge pillars on either side of the entrance, along with striking blue banners flowing down the sides–as you normally did during your visits to the museum. Despite all the tourists and customers filtering in and out of the building, you spotted Steven immediately. His wavy hair and gray trench coat gave him away, bless his heart.

He was touring around a little girl that was pointing at one of the Egyptian exhibits, no doubt asking loads of questions, as children tend to do. Nevertheless, you knew that would do nothing to deter Steven from answering them just as enthusiastically, though.

Passing through the entryway, you made a beeline towards the pair. The exhibit he was describing to the little girl was one of his favorites of all time. He’d told you in one of your many conversations whenever you popped by. Your eyes softened at the way he animatedly explained the history behind the exhibit. Nothing made you happier than listening to him talk about topics he found interesting.

But then something hit you like an arrow to the heart.

Maybe you took the ‘don’t think about what you’re going to say’ too literally. What do you say? The tremors in your hands started up again, much to your dismay.

Perhaps you could talk about the exhibit?

Sure it was a rather niche topic to be heavily interested in, but that's perhaps why he would get so excited when someone would inquire about it. Because few people, (other than himself) truly cared for it. Donna really should have made him the tour guide.

Before you knew it, you were standing about two feet away from the very gift-shoppist you'd come to love now. Taking a breath, you reached out and softly tapped him on the shoulder. Once he turned around to face you, you let out a breath that you weren't aware that you were holding. It never got old, seeing Steven. Neither did the butterflies, either.

Get it together. Ask him out.

At Steven's redirection of attention, the little girl ran off, most likely to find her parents. His eyes crinkled on the sides in the way you were just thinking of before you’d arrived, and a broad grin lit up his handsome face. "Well hello darling, what brings you here today?"

Apparently you took too long to answer, (and from the way your face felt, he was probably worried you were going to suffer heat stroke) because Steven began to look very concerned. Luckily you snapped out of your lovey-dovey trance just in time.

"Hm? Oh, uh yeah... yeah I uhh... I just wanted to talk to you." If it weren't for Steven standing directly in front of you, you could've as well punched yourself in the face.

This is absolutely crushing. For god’s sake, this man is about as intimidating as a butterfly, so why were you so nervous?!

In that moment, all the oxygen in your lungs had been wrung out and left to dry, like a damp washcloth. You weren’t sure how, but you were certain that your face had paled and flushed in a very worryingly short space of time.

“No… no no sorry, uh—that-that’s not what I…” You wave your hands frantically, thoroughly embarrassed. You buried your face in your hands.

“Oh bollocks this is going so well so far isn’t it?” What you said was muffled, but comprehensible all the same. Through the gaps in your fingers, you saw Steven make a puzzled face. His brows were practically knotted together in confusion.

Did he not realize what you were trying to say?

“Uhm,” Steven’s sudden dialogue gives you a small start, “Might I ask, what’s going horribly?”

Andddd he didn’t. Fantastic. Lovely. Bloody terrific. Perhaps you’d have to spell it out with ancient hieroglyphics for him to understand. Which is ironic, considering how they are literally just freaking symbols—

An exasperated sigh fell from your lips. “It’s just… gods I came here to ask you if you wanted to go out with me, and completely screwed it up.”

You smiled sheepishly up at him, suddenly very appreciative that he couldn’t read your mind. But yeah, you never really had gotten on with the opposite sex, until you met Steven. It was kind of sad, but the fact he didn’t have a ton of experience with people like you did, was probably the reason you two even spoke to each other at all.

Sure he was your friend, but why couldn’t your relationship with him be more?

Steven seemed to be as still as the glass case holding King Tut behind him. That is, until he finally spoke. His eyes became wide, contrary to his usual sad, resting face. “I’m sorry… are you sure you’ve got the right per-person, I mean,” He laughs lightly, looking genuinely shocked, but mostly perplexed as if he couldn’t believe someone would ever—or could ever see him in that way. Your heart ached inside.

“Are you absolutely sure you have the right bloke?”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed. Hard.

Steven returned the gesture, although half-heartedly and awkward, like he was the butt of some joke that he had to play along to. Suddenly you realize what he might’ve assumed.

Your eyes widened considerably, nearly matching his own. “Steven, of course I want to ask you out. Who else would I ask, Osiris? Gods, I love you but sometimes you can be a bit clueless for a bookworm, you know that?”

“You love me?” It was Steven’s turn to blush then. Even his ears turned a deep crimson.

Never mind. Maybe I will ask Osiris out. Because fucking hell do I want to crawl into a hole and die.

“Oh for the love of—would you like to go out with me or not?” Your eyebrows were pinched together, your bottom lip between your teeth in anticipation for Steven’s reply.

And with a quick jolt of his head, a promising smile made its way onto his lips. “Okay, alright. Uhm, when—when would you like to uh—meet? And where?”

Before you could say anything, Steven interjected, completely flustered—so you didn’t mind one bit. It was nice to know he was as affected by you, and much as you were by him. “I know—I’ll grab one of those pamphlets we have at the register for you. That way you can jot down my cellphone number. I’ll be back in a jiffy, love.” Leaning towards you, you felt his soft lips peck you lightly on your cheek.

All you could do was dumbly nod, a love struck, no dazed expression plastered on your face. “Mhm, will do.” With a sweet smile, he took off as fast as you’ve seen him do—to fulfill what he’d said, just for you.

However, unbeknownst to Steven, you literally hadn’t heard anything after he confirmed that he wanted to go on a date with you. Every nerve in your body was shot, almost like little fireworks had gone off—causing time to slow. Your ears were completely blocked, no noise came in—bloody hell, you couldn’t speak. Your brain was too busy picturing the enormous victory dance you were doing in your head.

#steven grant x reader #steven grant #moonknight #marvel #fluff

144 notes · View notes

bratkook · 3 years

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almost. (m) jjk.

not yet, almost, right now

pairing. jungkook x reader genre. fluff, baby angst, smut word count. 6.4k warnings. two idiots!!, pining, masturbation (m. and f.), use of vibrator, accidental voyeurism?, more feelings come to light!! summary. jungkook tries to be the best wingman he could be in your new venture after your breakup. he could do it, right? note. part two of not yet, some more feelings are exposed, please don’t hate oc she is but a pendeja that doesn’t see the obvious feelings jungkook has but she has good intentions i promise<3 there will most likely be a final part,,if you guys are into it lmao okie bye

The cool summer breeze flows around you as you’re sitting under the shade, eyes focused on the chaos of runny yolk and hashbrowns that is your breakfast. Jungkook on the other hand, is focused on you. His signature yellow shades block out the sun reflecting from passing cars, concealing his eyes just enough for you to not see him blatantly staring at you while you stuff your face.

The charmed smile he has falters slightly when you look directly at him, hashbrown lingering by your lip as you repeat his name. “Sorry, what?”

Your brows come together as you smile at his zoned out state, something you had grown fond of in the years of knowing him, always enjoying the small dazed look that graced his face whenever he was lost in his thoughts. His lips push out slightly in question, curious eyes wondering just what you could have been asking him.

“I was saying that I think I’m giving up on crushes and love.” You say it so easily, mind made up as you grin at him before continuing to shovel hashbrowns into your mouth, only pausing to take a sip of your iced coffee.

Jungkook tries his best to seem unaffected, nodding along in interest as he takes a steady bite of his own food. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, taking a look around at the people surrounding you: friends having breakfast together and snapping photos, couples feeding each other food with smiles on their faces, a lone man with his dog perched on the seat across from his while he worked on his computer. You briefly wonder if all of them, even the dog, have better luck with love than you do.

“I think I’m cursed,” you continue. “All of my exes have been assholes, and I’ve always been too blind to see it until it’s over and I’m left crying over Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams.”

“Maybe you’re just looking for love in the wrong places,” Jungkook shrugs, internally screaming because he’s who you should be looking at if you wanted love.

Not to toot his own horn, but Jungkook liked to think he was a good guy, a great boyfriend even. His previous track record of relationships could attest to that, all of them ending on mutual terms, still friendly and civil with each other. He’s almost certain if there was a Yelp page for him it would be at least 4.5 stars with comments raving about how great he is, even little anecdotal touches about how he always gave away his hoodies or offered to cook breakfast.

He was a god damn catch, why couldn’t you see that?

“Maybe prince charming is a lot closer than you think,” he grumbles out, stabbing his omelette with a little more force than necessary, fork clanking against the plate. And when you gasp in realization he freezes, slowly looking back up at you and seeing the way your eyes widen.

“Wait, maybe you’re right!” Your hand shoots across the table, gripping onto his forearm and it sends a shock throughout him, skin tingling at your touch. “You know that coffee shop below our building? That cute barista always puts a heart next to my name. Do you think I should ask for his number?”

Jungkook blinks once, slowly twirls his fork in his hand and blinks again before staring up at the sky, mentally asking why he couldn’t just go out and say it. “Hm, I don’t think you should.“

With a defeated sigh you retract your hand, slumping back into your seat and grabbing your iced coffee once more, stirring the straw and ice around as you nod. “True. What if he feels obligated to give it to me just because he doesn’t want to get fired in case I go all Karen on his ass.”

That wasn’t why Jungkook had said not to, but sure, that works too, so he hums along.

“I bet he draws hearts on all the other girls cups too.” You huff, playfully wiping a tear under your eye with a smile.

“I’ve actually—“

“You know what I—“

You both freeze mid sentence, Jungkook’s cheeks tinted a light pink as he stutters on his words, wide eyes staring at you as if he had caught himself before you cut him off. But as you’re about to tell him to go on, he waves you off and urges you to speak first.

“I was just gonna say that maybe I should go through that wild phase people usually go through after breakups.”

He sets his silverware down on the plate and sips his water, giving you an odd look. “Wild phase? Like you wanna dye your hair red and get bangs?”

“No,” you cackle, ruffling a hand through your own hair as you picture yourself with that combination. “I should just go out and hook up with people. I feel like I’ve either been in a relationship or entirely single, so it could be fun right?”

“Uh, maybe...” he trails off, rolling his lips together in thought, not exactly fond of hearing you say that when he had felt the confession about to roll off his tongue. He takes a slow breath, trying to see this from a neutral point, the point of a supportive friend wanting to help you get over a breakup.

“How do you go about it?”

“Me?” he chokes, pointing at his chest as if there was magically some other person you could be addressing.

“Yes, you. Need I remind you, we share a wall between our beds.” You roll your eyes, but the smile on your face shows that you’re speaking of this lightly, not entirely annoyed by the fact that you had heard Jungkook during his own fair share of hook ups.

He’s not ashamed of it, but considering he never really brought up being able to hear you, he thought you’d pretend to never hear him. It wasn’t too often that he had a girl over, the number of hookups only increasing after you got with Hajoon and loosely cut ties with Jungkook. But from what you had heard—and seen thanks to your nosey self looking through peep holes once they left—it was very rarely the same girl.

So to you, Jungkook was a pro at the art of hookups.

“Right, sorry,” he grimaces, a sheepish smile on his lips as he wonders just how many times his activities kept you up at night.

“It’s fine, consider us even.” A teasing laugh follows your statement, enjoying the flustered look on his face, how his cheeks get even darker in embarrassment. Jungkook was used to the two of you talking like this, neither of you having a filter especially when it came to sexual aspects, but he hadn’t had a conversation like this since before you got with Hajoon. It would take some getting used to again.

“So, give me the tips. Where do you find people?”

Jungkook leans back into his chair, arms stretching out on either side of him, short sleeves of his black tee bunching up and revealing more of his tattoos and the rippling of his muscles. With a small laugh he rakes his hand through his fluffy hair, giving you a small smile. “Honestly? Anywhere. I’ve gotten girl’s numbers at the gym and at coffee shops, but bars are the best bet for something quick.”

“Ugh, fuck you and your pretty privilege.”

“What?” he guffaws, smiling wide and showing you his adorable smile as he laughs loudly, not caring about the attention he draws to your table. He doesn’t even realize how the table full of girls is now trying to discreetly stare at him, because his eyes are on you. You see it though, and it further proves your point. “What the hell is pretty privilege?”

Your wild hands gesture towards him, a look of disbelief on your face as you do so. “You! Of course girls line up to hand you their number, have you seen yourself? Pretty privilege,” you jab your fork at him in time with your final words, a smirk on your glossy lips.

Jungkook feels his confidence grow at your casual compliment, tongue prodding at his cheek as he stares down at his food, trying not to smile too hard. You thought he was pretty, that was a win in his book.

“C’mon,” he teases, foot gently nudging your leg underneath the table. “You could totally score someone's number. Plus there's always apps if you just wanna test the water.”

You give your plate a contemplated stare, “Sure, how hard could it be?”

Admittedly, the answer to that question was: not hard at all. You had met all your previous boyfriends in person, through mutual friends or shared classes back in college, never once dipping your toe into the world of Tinder or Bumble. Who knew all it would take was a couple of selfies and the strategic body shot to have boys circling around you like some new-age, slightly filthier version of rapunzel.

Jungkook knew though, not at all shocked by how quickly you get a match the following day when he’s at your place. His eyes are focused on the screen in front of him, helping you beat a level in your favorite game that you had been stuck on. But the second you gasp as if you’ve won the lottery, he pauses the game entirely and gives you an odd look.

“What?”

His answer comes in the form of your phone thrusted in his direction, lit up screen displaying your profile picture and the one of the boy you had just matched with. Jung Hoseok. Jungkook’s eyes narrow as he reads the name, trying to remember it in case he somehow had a friend in common that knew all the dirt on him.

He has a similar pair of yellow shades on his own head, thicker black rims around them and a charming smile on his face. Jungkook chuckles to himself. Yellow shades? How original.

“What do I say?” you question, eyes looking nervous as you wiggle the phone in his face. The small white bar beneath your match urges you to start a conversation, and coming up with the right words to say makes you overthink it all.

“Just say hi and tack on some cute emoji. It’s not that hard,” he laughs, pushing the phone back at you. Jungkook knew you could start the message off any way you wanted and this Jung Hoseok would eat it right up. How could he not, the alluring smile in your profile photo would draw anyone in.

“Okay, I did it.” Your phone is instantly locked and chucked aside in an attempt to be forgotten, choosing to grab the remote out of Jungkook’s hands for another distraction. It only lasts a brief second before you’re killed by the boss Jungkook was trying to defeat.

“Really?” Jungkook huffs, yanking the remote back into his hands, needing a distraction himself. He was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that you were searching for a fuck buddy while he sat beside you. How crazy would it be if he suggested being your fuck buddy, offered to help you through this so called wild phase you were searching for.

No. That’s not what he wants.

Would he enjoy it? Sure. But he could already imagine how much worse his heart would hurt if his feelings came to light and yours were non-existent. That is if you’d even agree to it.

“Relax, he’s probably thinking of what to reply.”

You make a noise of disagreement, fingers itching to unlock your device to see if it was true, slowly inching towards it until you finally grab it and go back onto the app. Jungkook just chuckles as he goes back to helping you with your game, not wanting to look at you as you giggle at your device. He could already imagine what this guy was telling you for you to turn into a giddy mess not even two minutes in.

He tunes it all out, eyes focused on the screen, fingers gripping the remote with a little more force than needed. His concentration helps him though, finally passing the level you’ve been stuck on for the past two weeks.

“You’re welcome,” he sighs, making a show of stretching out and sending you a smile, having it falter slightly when he sees your eyes still focused on the screen of your phone. With a frown he looks back at the television, saving the game before turning it off altogether.

Once he gets up from the couch, making his way over to the media console to store the remotes, is when you look up at him. “You’re right, this is easy!”

Jungkook doesn’t feel the usual pride that comes with being right, but the cheerful look on your face prevents him from feeling salty. Coming back towards the couch, he sits beside you once more, facing you as he rests his elbow on the back cushion to lean on. “Told you so.”

He keeps that same smile on his face as you mention how quick Hoseok was to ask you out on a date, even as you bring up the fact that this date would be at his place, and Jungkook could decipher netflix and chill any way some greasy boy tried to conceal it.

“I hope he knows I don’t want anything serious,” you mumble, chewing on your fingernail as you scroll through the messages.

Jungkook could almost laugh at how blissfully unaware you were of the piranha infested water that was the great sea of Tinder. Of course this yellow sunglass wearing wannabe version of him knows you don’t want anything serious, why else would he be so quick to invite you over with the cheeky excuse to watch movies.

All he can do is shrug as he stares at you, lips pressed together in an effort to not say something that would totally ruin everything. Instead, Jungkook does everything he can to be the best version of a wingman you could get. He tells you the ins and outs of hookups, how you should definitely not text him the minute you leave his place and tell him you had fun, don’t talk about anything super personal involving family or your work, and if he doesn’t offer to go down on you but expects a blowjob he’s a loser.

It’s solid advice that you mentally jot down, subjecting him to further questions your mind comes up with and even asking him for help on an outfit via text the night of your hangout with Jung Hoseok.

Jungkook stares at the photos for a little too long if he’s being honest. They weren’t spectacular selfies that you had taken much effort for, their sole purpose being showing off the outfit, but the way you look so focused as you snapped the shot had him zooming into your face and smiling like an idiot. When you double text him with a long line of question marks he snaps out of it, deciding on the second option you picked of mom jeans and a cropped shirt. Cute and casual, and definitely something Jungkook preferred, but he’d never tell you that.

When you finally text him a thumbs up and tell him you’re on your way out he just hearts the message before locking his device and trudging to the living room. It’s not often that he wallows in self pity, spacing those days out so far he barely remembers them. But they usually went exactly like this, ordering a large meat lovers pizza with extra cheese, drinking far too many Mike’s hard lemonade—because despite how much they made his stomach hurt they were tasty so he didn’t care—and binge watching his comfort show: Modern Family.

But even as he sulks on his couch, practically sinking into the cushions with horrible posture and a slice of pizza resting on his chest, he can’t find it in himself to chuckle at Cam and Mitch’s usual banter. He’s too busy thinking about which movie you’re currently watching, if you were watching it. Who’s Jungkook kidding though, you were totally getting your guts rearranged right now.

Taking an aggressive bite out of the crust he frowns and raises the volume up on his television, attempting to drown the mocking voice in his head calling him a loser for not admitting to his feelings. He knew this, knew he should have said something when he wanted to at breakfast, but Jungkook was afraid that if he confessed as you were talking about hooking up, that you’d see him as taking advantage of a situation instead of being genuine. I mean who wouldn’t? You say you want something casual and suddenly he’s spilling his heart out and you’re supposed to believe he’s not some pig trying to butter you up. He didn’t want to get labeled as a creepy neighbor after the good times you’ve had.

“So stupid,” he grumbles to himself as he takes another swig, the last drops of the alcohol hitting his tongue with a tangy aftertaste. As he sits up to place the empty bottle onto his coffee table his muscles ache, neck stiff from the unfortunate position it had been subjected to for the last three hours. With a small huff he’s rolling his shoulders, reaching for his discarded phone to see the time—and also check if you’d sent him some SOS text—but he finds nothing besides the bright numbers indicating that it was nearing midnight.

In true pity party day fashion, he doesn’t even bother cleaning up after his mess, just tossing the dirty dishes into the sink to be washed tomorrow when he would force himself to be in a better mood. Instead, he grabs a water and his phone and waddles into his bedroom.

The moonlight illuminates the space enough for him to keep the light switch off, undressing from his crumb covered sweats and shirt, choosing to remain in his boxers as he slipped under the cold duvet. The sheets feel fresh against his hot cheeks, flush from the alcohol, cooling him down and making his body relax.

Jungkook knows he should sleep, needing to be up early tomorrow for work, but he can’t stop his mind from wandering into dangerous territory. His buzzed brain has no qualms imagining exactly what you were doing right now, wondering if you’d be the type to act shy at a guy’s house for the first time, if you’d initiate the first move or not. Jungkook had only seen it up close once under the flash of strobe lights and the haze of alcohol, but he can still picture the soft smile on your face before you go in for a kiss, and he grumbles under his breath when he realizes that he wouldn’t be the one kissing you tonight.

What he doesn’t know, is that you wouldn’t be the one getting kissed tonight either. The Jung Hoseok you had perceived through Tinder, assuming he was all casual and DTF with his netflix and chill suggestion, had been anything but. What you thought would be a steamy night, ended up becoming a nice dinner and comedy watched, morphing into some version of game night where you discovered he was a little too competitive than you were used to. The only action you got was a kiss to your cheek as he walked you to your car and a promise for another date. A promise you would not be keeping.

So as Jungkook lays in bed while his thoughts turn into some fantasy of you moaning out his name, you shuffle into your bedroom and slip into your pajamas with a defeated sigh. You had already texted your best friend telling her what a bust tonight had been, deciding to just tell Jungkook all about it tomorrow because you knew he was most likely fast asleep now. And as you settle under your own covers, inches away from Jungkook with only a wall seperating you, you decide to just call it a night and pretend it never happened.

Just as you shut your eyes, nuzzling into your pillow, you hear the first moan come from behind the wall. A small cry of despair escapes you as you bury your face into your sheets, tugging them up and over your head to block the sound of Jungkook getting some action the same night you had been left high and dry. Of course he would, assuming you’d be getting the same treatment at your date's place, why wouldn’t he take advantage of your absence and not have to muffle his partner’s moans the way he usually did.

You’re just going to ignore it, until you hear a moan that sounds strangely like your own name. Maybe it's wishful thinking on your part, your horny brain deciding to pretend that Jungkook was calling for you instead of whoever he was with. It might be a little wrong for you to have that fantasy of your neighbor, but you aren’t blind. He’s hot, and adorably sweet, the perfect package for any girl he tried to swoon. And judging by the cries you’ve heard of lucky girls prior, you know he was good in bed.

You’re just desperate now. That’s the excuse you tell yourself as you slowly settle onto your back, feeling your body warm up when you focus on his muffled groans, desperate and needy. As your hand slowly slides down your shirt, you shut your eyes, biting down onto your lip to muffle any sound you could make when your fingers slip underneath your pants and past your underwear.

Jungkook on the other hand doesn’t care about his volume. His boxers are tugged down his thighs, knees bent as he slowly ruts into his sticky palm. His hand is tacky with the lube he had messily squirted on, thick cock glistening in the light coming in from his window. He can’t look away from it, mouth dropped open as he groans, imagining it was your hand tightly wrapped around him, your spit covering his cock instead of that strawberry flavored lube.

“Ah fuck,” he moans, shutting his eyes and throwing his head back onto his soft pillows when his thumb rubs along his slit. It continues to leak beads of precum, quickly wiped away to join the mess on his cock when his hand slides back down and squeezes along his base.

You hear that loud and clear, and when the female voice you’re expecting never follows, you realize he must be taking care of himself. It makes you feel a little less guilty now as your fingers trail along your slit, collecting the slick coating your folds before you softly circle your clit. A choked gasp fills the air at the small sensation, your body already wired after having expected to get some action tonight; it totally had nothing to do with your hot neighbor jacking off inches away from you.

With your eyes fluttering shut, you strain your ears to make out any other noise, muffling your own groans with a hand pressed against your mouth. The bed creaks lightly underneath you as you roll your hips into your hand, getting into a smooth rhythm that makes your body buzz.

Slowly, your imagination runs wild, and you wonder just what Jungkook was thinking of as he did this. Was he watching some porn as he did it, using his own filthy thoughts to push himself to ecstacy, or was this just something he needed to do to be able to sleep?

“Shit, so good,” he groans out, voice raspy, but you can sense his desperation through the drywall. It’s what has you sinking a single digit into your drenched entrance, biting down onto your lower lip when you feel the glide of your walls as you start to thrust into yourself, easing in another and mewling at the slight stretch.

Jungkook would absolutely give his left leg to know what your pussy felt like, he didn’t even care how disgusting he sounded by admitting that to himself, it was true. Blame it on the hard lemonade that made his stomach ache and his mind unfiltered, but he could almost visualize how you’d look above him, could practically feel the warmth of your core wrapped around him, dripping down his length as he fucked into you.

He knows you’re loud in bed, never being one to conceal your cries of pleasure and he would die happy to hear his name come out of your mouth as you creamed his cock. But for now, his hand would have to do.

His lids feel too heavy, jaw slack as the pleasure flows through his body. The wet squelch of his palm fills the room, mingling with his pants and groans, air growing thick around him. It’s been a while since Jungkook had jacked off, and even longer since he’d been able to do it shamelessly in bed without the fear of you hearing him, but now that he thought you were gone he can’t find it in himself to cover his mouth or groan into his pillows like he usually did.

The pent up frustration fogs up his mind, cranks the lust up to 11 until his free hand is gripping his sheets beside him, bed frame creaking as his thrusts speed up. The thuds of his headboard hitting the wall come from behind you, a choked moan blending in with it, and it has you scrambling for your bedside drawer.

The pajamas you wear get yanked off your legs and tossed aside after you grab your trusty vibrator, settling onto your back once more with huff. All it takes is a press of a button for the device to come to life, buzzing in your hand as you trail it up your thighs. A gasp escapes you when you pass it over your mound, brushing against your clit and sending a jolt of pleasure through you.

“Oh my god,” you whimper when you finally press the vibrating head directly onto your sensitive clit, legs spreading further apart as you increase the intensity. You could clearly hear the raise in Jungkook’s moans, and that's when the first irrational thought pops into your mind.

How easy would it be for you to head over to his place and deal with both of your problems. Surely Jungkook wouldn’t have an issue with you offering to suck his dick, wouldn’t mind letting you sink down onto him if it was just a friendly favor.

The little devil on your shoulder tells you it would be mutually beneficial, urging you to get up and walk to Jungkook’s with the vibrator still in your hand, but you can’t. This alone felt like enough of a dirty secret, a secret you’d have absolutely no problem keeping because although you feel slightly ashamed, you couldn’t deny how turned on you are.

The flashes of all the times you’ve heard Jungkook with other people play in your mind, the screams of his name that he tried to muffle, pleas for him to go faster, the resounding smack of his palm on flesh that always left you wide eyed when you heard it. And you start to wonder if maybe you’d be into that, the feeling of his large tattooed hand connecting with your ass, gently tapping against your cheek for you to open up for his cock.

That fantasy is like the first ember needed to start the fire inside of you, spreading uncontrollably until you’re bucking into your vibrator, teeth biting down on your lip to keep any potential moans of his name from slipping out.

“Fuck, fuck,” he chants, the same fire burning within him. Maybe your minds are linked telepathically, his thoughts gravitating to the same filthy fantasy you had. Jungkook was very much an ass man, knowing very well how good your butt looked in jeans from how often he stared at it, he could only imagine how good it would look as he fucked you from behind. Picturing the way it would bounce back from the force of his thrusts, eyes glued to the way you’d soak his cock, mimicking the tightness of your walls with a firm grip of his palm.

Jungkook can sense his orgasm approaching, leaves his chest feeling tight as he pants, legs gliding along his sheets for leverage to continue fucking into his hand. You’re not far off either, vibrator set to the highest setting you can practically feel your bones rattling, free hand slipped under your shirt as you pinch at your pebbled nipples. You’re both on the brink of falling over the edge, the same question playing in your mind: where would you want Jungkook to cum?

As his moans get breathier, whiny in a way you’d never imagine them to be, you mentally decide that you’d want him to cum inside of you, wanting to see the way his cute face would twist up in pleasure as he filled you up. Jungkook hopes you would, throwing all responsible thinking aside for that sweet moment of ecstasy and the mental picture is enough to finally push him over.

“Ah shit, baby,” he cries out in his room—thankfully having half the mind to not cry out your name as he came—eyes rolling back as his cock twitches in his palm, ribbons of cum splashing onto his stomach and chest. The warmth hits his skin, more droplets continuing to leak out as his palm milks his orgasm, stomach hiccuping and back arching from the stimulation.

The choked moan is what has your own orgasm washing over you, your palm slapping over your mouth so hard you know you’ll feel the ache later but you don’t care. A muffled gasp blends with the buzzing of your toy, thighs tensing up as your body tingles and writhes around on your sheets.

The only thing you can think of is Jungkook, the charming smile he’d give you when he listened to you rant about anything, his annoying habit of rolling up his sleeves to show off his muscles, the cute scowl on his face whenever you managed to beat him at Mario Kart, and the soft feeling of his alcohol coated lips on yours. It leaves you feeling warm as your orgasm flows through you, lying limp on the bed as you mewl at the sensitivity.

When you realize your thoughts have strayed from ‘pure sexy Jungkook fantasyland’, and switched over to ‘Jeon Jungkook your adorable neighbor’, your eyes go wide, finger immediately going to turn off the vibrator. In your haste to shut it off, you click the wrong button, changing the pulsing settings and nearly screaming when the device starts to buzz erratically against your overly sensitive clit.

With a strained gasp you yank it away from yourself, turn it off and throw it aside, horribly miscalculating the size of your bed and watching in horror as it lands on the floor with a loud thud. The complete silence from both sides makes the noise sound deafening, and all you can do is sit on your bed, half naked, and hope Jungkook is still too busy basking in his post orgasm bliss to hear the bang.

Although the blood is still pumping in his ears, he heard the thud clearly. His heart stops in his chest as he lays there, too scared to breathe in case he’d somehow make too much noise, suddenly afraid of being too loud after he had just made a show of himself. Jungkook slowly sits himself up, grimacing at the stickiness on his stomach before pressing his ear against his headboard to try to hear anything else.

All you want to do is yank the covers over yourself and go to sleep, pretend your horrendous date and your dirty thoughts about your friend never happened. The sobering mentality that comes after an orgasm settles into you, leaving you staring at the floor with a crease between your brows as you wonder what the hell came over you.

When Jungkook hears nothing else, he sighs in relief, hauling himself out of bed to grab another pair of underwear before entering his bathroom to clean up. As he stares at his own reflection in the mirror, he frowns at how pathetic he feels. The throbbing headache of his earlier drinks is already starting to kick in, body now sweaty from exertion, stomach covered in his cum.

“Such a loser,” he grumbles out, grabbing a wad of tissues to wipe away the mess on his skin before walking back out. Here he was, getting off to the thought of you, while you were out having your post-breakup wild phase.

His hands grab his phone as he reaches his nightstand, flopping back onto the bed and unlocking the device. It’s now one in the morning, and you still hadn’t text him, which either meant you were having the time of your life, or Jungkook had to track down this Jung Hoseok. The slightly protective side of him won’t allow him to sleep until he hears back from you, fingers already typing out a message and hitting send.

Jungkook 1:23am : you safe or am i gonna have to go all Liam Neeson on this guy?

When your phone vibrates on your nightstand you gasp, grabbing it before it could make any more noise. Seeing Jungkook’s name flash on the screen makes your blood run cold, already imagining what the text could be: calling you dirty for getting off on him, making fun of you, telling you to come ove—no stop that.

Finally mustering up the courage, you open it up, a small laugh spilling out as you read his message, relief flooding through you as you realize that meant he thought you were still with Hoseok.

Y/N 1:26am : oh yeah, you gonna show him your very particular set of skills? lol

Y/N 1:26am : i just got home though

Y/N 1:26am : like right now

Y/N 1:26am : still sitting in my living room

Y/N 1:27am : haha

He laughs at your string of texts, something you hear as he settles into bed. Jungkook ebbs away the small feeling of jealousy in his chest, trying to see the silver lining of this. You weren’t rushing to tell him anything about your date which meant it either went so good you wanted to keep it to yourself, or it was subpar and you wouldn’t be seeing this yellow sunglass wearing copycat again.

Jungkook 1:29am : glad you got home safe, goodnight y/n!

Sending back a goodnight text, you lock your phone and slide deeper into bed, pulling the sheets up to your chin as you stare at the ceiling. You already know the only thing you’ll be dreaming about is your cute neighbor with a bunny smile and body proportions that contradicted it. And as Jungkook lays in bed, wondering if he’ll have to push the crush aside, you’re barely coming to terms with the fact that the small glowing feeling that came with being around him might be something else.

Every single one of your interactions gets rewinded and played back like a seamless montage, remembering just how many almost moments there was between you. The way his eyes would flash down to your lips whenever you playfully argued on your couch, hands yanking the remotes from his in a game of tug of war that left you way too close in the heat of the moment. How he’d let you braid his hair anytime you found a new youtube tutorial, his starry eyes staring at you with so much adoration it made your stomach flip, brushing it off as love for a friend.

Then came the jokes from your friends, constantly teasing you about Jungkook, playfully saying they would try to sleep with him just because they liked the scowl on your face, and how quickly you tried to play it off. How the sweet old lady from the convenience store downstairs always assumed you were dating when you came in together, the low jab she sent when you walked in with Hajoon and she said she preferred you with Jungkook. That argument had been one of the ones that left him bolting out of your apartment with a nasty slam of the door, spewing nasty words at you, calling you blind for not seeing it and dumb for acting like you had no idea what he was talking about.

And for the first time, you come to the sudden realization that Hajoon was right. His deep set insecurities about Jungkook had stemmed from scraps of the truth, not just from him but from you too. The amount of times you’d find a way to slide Jungkook’s name into a conversation about anything, telling him funny stories about him, too lost in thought to see that while you were giggling as you reminisce, he was staring at you in disbelief.

The final thought that makes you want a blackhole to swallow you up, comes in the form of you, grabbing Jungkook’s face before planting a kiss on his unsuspecting lips at the club. You want to scream into your pillow as you recall it, how he had almost leaned back in to kiss you again before you had sobered him up with your dumb question rooted in revenge.

“Oh my god, I’m such a bitch.” you whimper. Subjecting Jungkook to be your wingman, jokingly telling him he should be your fake boyfriend more often, asking him for tips with hook ups. If everyone else could see it but you, he probably thought you were purposely friendzoning him.

The guilt piles on top of you as you start to piece together every moment that flew over your head, only making you bury yourself deeper into your sheets. It makes your heart twist, taking note of how Jungkook was always so quick to put a smile on his face despite how naive you were to it all, wondering if maybe it was too late to try to make something of this now. How many times could you call Jungkook ‘bro’ and treat him like you didn’t see him romantically, before he decided there was no hope for him anymore.

So as you force yourself to sleep, nerves and uncertainty weighing heavy on your mind, Jungkook snores away as he dreams of the almost moments that could have been.

#heartsforbts #btswritingcafe #btsghostie #bangtansorciere #bangtaninn #ficswithluv #btscreatorscorner #jungkook smut #jeongguk smut #bts smut #jungkook angst #jeon jungkook #bts fics #new

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1kook · 4 years

Text

dreamy

—pjm x (f) reader

summary; You try to not let it get to you, but Jimin is so cool and you want him to be your boyfriend so bad. warnings; ANGST lol, fwb, reader is very :(( rating; mature (18+) bc tiny smut lol misc; small smut scene, a happy ending <3 wc; 2.5k

notes; i have to post on #JIMIN’s bday or else i cannot live with myself anyway here’s me trying to fit an entire novella plot line in less than 5k words clap for me except maybe don't bc its not proofread anyway hbd jimin <3

Jimin is a nice guy, but you doubt he’d make a nice boyfriend. He fucks you hard and fast, just as you like, but hardly goes out of his way to sprinkle in any other requests. He’s got a one track mind, doesn’t dwell too long on what you say or how you’re feeling. Doesn’t matter because he’s just supposed to be a fuck buddy, the hot guy you met at a party, so you don’t let it phase you. But, well. Jimin is dreamy.

Sometimes he holds your hand while he eats you out and it sends your thoughts into a frenzy, makes your heart pound a little too fast to brush it off as just arousal. He’s got this gorgeous smile, plush lips framing pearly teeth, and when he flashes it your way, it makes your knees weak. Tells you you’re pretty when he picks you up from class, always holds your hand on the way to his place for your routine fuck. Cute and nice like an angel, but just like an angel, he hardly gives a shit about anyone’s feelings but his own.

He laughs when you ask him to hang out that weekend.

“What, like a date?” he snorts, bare chest glistening from his post-fuck exertion. You're pressed against his side now, circling his pretty brown nipple with your finger. “That’s corny.”

You try to not let it get to you, but Jimin is so cool and you want him to be your boyfriend so bad. “Yeah, silly right,” you murmur, ear pressed to his heart. It’s calming and soothing, a slow thrum that contrasts with your own racing heart.

He’s not one for dates or for romantic things like that. But neither is he some player, a cheater, a two-timer. You can count the number of times he’s slept with someone who wasn’t you in your weird fuck buddy relationship, and all four of those had been when you first started sleeping together and only when you had been out of town. You’re no saint either, so you try to understand. He was just horny, liked getting his dick wet, and sometimes he couldn’t wait for you. Understandable, you tell yourself, but your heart hurts a little bit when he begins snoring without really answering your question.

See the thing is, you really like Jimin. It’s been a little over a year now since you’ve met, so you’ve had plenty of time to learn all about him. He doesn’t like pancakes for breakfast, prefers them for lunch actually, and laughs when you tell him that’s weird. He’s got this really dorky laugh, something between a bell and a whistle— it depends on the situation. Sometimes, Jimin likes when you play with his hair, and other times he doesn’t. He’s a sweet boy, you know he is, so why won’t he settle down?

You hate to attribute it to some past trauma, some “my girlfriend broke my heart when I was seventeen” mess, but the more time that passes you begin to believe it’s true. Jimin was a tough nut to crack, and the longer this drags on, the longer he ignores your feelings, you begin to doubt you will ever see them fulfilled.

Maybe you should end this now before it’s too late.

You don’t stay for breakfast the next morning, simply kiss him goodbye at the door like always. He’s older than you, about two years, so he doesn’t go to school anymore, just chills at home all weekend. “I’ll see you soon?” he grins, low-lidded eyes tracking the movement of your mouth as you bid him adieu. You never give him a solid response, figure a guy like Jimin will forget about you soon enough.

Then, suddenly, it’s been two weeks and he doesn’t reach out. Yeah it hurts, but it’s better than having confessed to him and losing him all at once. You’d rather this ending than the one where he terribly rejects you, breaks your heart into a million pieces, and throws you away. Still, it hurts.

Jimin was so cool. He was smart and confident, had a snappy sort of attitude that he liked to use now and then. He could be mean in bed, lick your cunt until you cried and call you a stupid girl when he wanted to. But that same tongue had snapped at a guy who was trying to pressure you into bed with him at a party. That first night you met, where you had sillily followed him home after his dashing intervention, you had thought it would be nothing more. Just a fling, just a fuck.

But then he was in your bed and in your head, twinkling eyes and cocky grin trailing after you everyday. He was so pretty and so suave, made you feel good even when he was being mean. But you suppose most cocky men like Jimin are like that. They know they don’t disappoint, even when they’re not really trying.

Jimin doesn’t call or text. You don’t see his car pull up outside your campus anymore. He’s gone and that’s that. You cry a little (see: a lot) and pretend you’re over him. You definitely don’t think about his soft laughter or his hands on your chest. Nope.

So that ends.

Or so you think.

Your friends say you’re mopey and sad, too down for someone who wasn’t even your boyfriend. It’s true, which sucks, but they honor your admittance by taking you out to a bar that night. It’s supposed to be chill and relaxing, just some drinks with the girls to soothe your aching heart. But the name of the bar reminds you of something, of someone you can’t reach anymore, and you don’t even know why. You’ve never been here before, never even knew this place existed. But everything about it brings you back to Jimin, like you’re in his space now, and you’re unsure why.

It reminds you of his laugh, his smile, to the point you swear you can hear it, right beside you, down the bar, to your left—

He waves.

There’s this look he used to give you every time he picked you up from your last class, this mix between adoration and lust that made your skin tingle with excitement. It’s not there now, in fact, it’s replaced with the complete opposite. It’s, like, the meanest look he can muster, something akin to a scowl. He smiles, but it’s so plastic-y and fake, it makes your head hurt. He’s so obviously unimpressed with you, probably because you ghosted him before he could ghost you. Maybe his pride is hurt and looking at you grosses him out. Maybe he just hates you.

Either way, eleven pm rolls around and you’re crying in the bathroom. Your friends are out on the floor having fun and singing karaoke. They think you’ve gone inside because you got your period, because that’s what you’ve told them. You don’t know how to explain that your ex who isn’t really your ex is out there looking at you like you’re a piece of gum stuck under his shoe. They’ve never even met Jimin. Why? Because he wasn’t your boyfriend. Who meets their friend’s fuck buddy? No one.

You sniffle, press a balled up tissue against your eyes in a feeble attempt to save your makeup. The bar isn’t that small, but neither is it huge. There’s only a few bathrooms in the back, and you’ve been hogging one of them for some time now. Someone knocks on the door, and you don’t even get the chance to ward them off before the crappy knob jingles and the door bursts open.

“Come on,” he grumbles, “you’re not the only one who’s gotta piss—“

He pauses, meets your eye through the mirror in surprise. “I’m sorry,” you blubber, hurriedly washing your hands in an effort to avoid his gaze. Jimin lingers at the door, which has long since fallen shut, and watches you with the eyes of a hawk. Your hands tremble and shake, fumble over the towel dispenser three times before you’re hastily making your escape. “Sorry,” you mutter again, head downcast as you move around him for the door.

Just as it cracks open, the music from outside filtering in, he slams it shut with a flat palm. You flinch, close in on yourself as he steps behind you. “What’re you doing here, doll?” he murmurs, deep yet careful. Tentative. “You don’t like bars.”

You know you don’t like bars. You didn’t know he knew that. “I’m with some friends,” you explain, jump when a hand touches your shoulder. “I— I’ll leave soon.”

A second attempt for the door is thwarted by Jimin. “Don’t,” he startles, breath heavy against your ear. “Don’t leave again…” he sighs, forehead against your shoulder. And then, quietly, “why did you leave me?”

Your heart syncs up with the music outside, thunders in your ears as you purse your lips. You don’t want to talk about it now, don’t want to confess to these emotions that drown you. Especially not when he’ll never understand nor will he ever care. It’s best to leave it as is, you convince yourself, slowly shrugging him off.

“We don’t want the same things,” you reply, eyes burning with the need to cry like a baby. But it’ll weaken your argument, make you look like the sentimental girl you know he won’t like. “It wouldn’t work anyway.”

The hand on your shoulder jerks you around, makes a gasp catch in your throat when he crowds you against the door. He’s got that same glare on from before, the one he had sent you across the bar earlier, and it makes your lower lip tremble when it’s this close. “You never asked me what I wanted,” he hisses.

It is then that you realize it isn't anger or disgust, but frustration that paints his features. It’s pure, unadulterated confusion and distress on his pretty face, furrowed brows and narrowed eyes pointed your way. You don’t know what it means, don’t know what he wants. “I,” you choke, weakly covering your face with your hand before he can see you crumble. “I just wanted you.”

Jimin deflates, steps closer until his body is pressed against yours, hands on your shoulders. “And you have me, doll,” he murmurs, bumps his nose against yours. “Always have.”

You shake your head, choke on a sob that bubbles up your throat. “No, not like that,” you stress, losing yourself in the emotions you spent so much time bottling up. “I wanted more.”

Jimin shushes you, guides your head into the crook of his neck where you paint his skin in dark mascara tears. “Is this about the date?” he sighs, patting your head gently.

“It’s more than just the date,” you cry, fists curling into the material of his shirt until it rumples beyond repair. He doesn’t understand.

Jimin nods, let’s you cry and sob until you’re feeling better and someone else is pounding at the door, yelling at you two to get a proper room. You don’t want a room, you only want his heart.

He takes you home again, helps you out of your shoes at the door because you’re still sensitive and quiver like a leaf when you walk. His bedroom is familiar, smells like him and his detergent. You miss it so much, want to savor it once more. Something in your gut says this is the last time, this is just Jimin getting one last fuck out of you before he really abandons you.

So you cry when he sits down on the edge of the bed. He hasn’t even said anything, hasn’t even taken his socks off yet, but you’re already a mess.

And of course he’s there to catch you, tugs you between his legs to look up at you as if you’ve hung the stars in the sky. “Don’t cry,” he whispers, reaching up to brush away your tears. But it’s not your fault that he looks like that right before he’s going to break your heart.

He’s so cool, even when you’re falling apart in his hands. “You don’t want me,” you sniffle, let him guide you onto his lap. “You just want to fuck and that’s it.”

Jimin leans his forehead against yours, warm breath washing over your skin. “I never said that,” he murmurs. “We’ve been over this.”

You huff. “Well you never said you did either,” you snap, rubbing at your eyes.

You cry and cry some more, until your sobs subside and you’re left with the hiccups afterwards. Jimin maneuvers you beside him, lets your hair spill across the sheets as he lays you down. They smell just like him, make your head spin when he kisses your cheek softly. “I want you,” he confesses. “I want this.”

You shake your head vehemently. “No, you don’t,” you sniff, but you’re not so sure. It’s what you’ve been telling yourself for the longest. Hearing him say otherwise sounds weird, even if he’s saying what you want to hear. “You don’t.”

Jimin catches your hand in his, pins it to the mattress. “I want you to be mine,” he adds, swallows your cries of denial with his lips. He kisses softly, and for the first time, it feels like he’s paying attention to you. Not your body or your lust, but your heart. “Had me feeling like shit when you didn’t come back. Like I lost something big.”

You still cry when he kisses down your neck, over your chest. His hands pull your clothes off, carefully like you’re a present for him to unwrap. Those plush lips you love so much drown you in kisses, over your tummy and your mound, until they’re buried between your cunt. “You’re mine,” he husks out, hand entwined with yours.

His eyes are dark from down there, long lashes blinking up at you as he dips his tongue in the places you crave him most. It brings you to a shuddering end, has you whimpering his name into the empty air until your toes are curling and you’re coming against his mouth. Jimin has never shied away from you, and doesn’t know, sits up with a hazy look in his eyes as he wipes his face with the back of his hand.

Jimin wastes no time undressing, pushes off that sexy jacket until his lithe body is coming into view, thick thighs and lean abdomen. He slides right into you, holds your knees to your chest as he fucks you like never before. It’s slow and sensual, makes you shiver when he says your name in that low register of his. “Don’t leave again,” he whimpers, cock throbbing between your walls. He’s desperate today, ruts like you’ll slip right between his fingertips. It’s funny because you're the same way, clinging onto his shoulders until you’re practically glued together.

You come and so does Jimin. He pants against your ear, feels so warm and heavy on top of you. He doesn’t say much more that night, just plays with your hair. But he asks you on a date, mentions something about a carnival. “Yes,” you respond right away, because, well.

Jimin was dreamy. Maybe he’d be a good boyfriend.

#bangtanhq #networkbangtan #jimin smut #park jimin smut #pjm #park jimin #jimin x reader #jimin x reader smut #park jimin x reader #park jimin x reader smut #bts smut #bangtan smut #mine

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waywardimpalawriter · 3 years

Note

“I’m done. I’m done trying so hard only for you to never even look in my direction.”

With Marcus Pike? Maybe BFFs to lovers because I want it to end happy? Thank you 🙏

Love of his life

Pairing: Marcus Pike x best friend!Female Reader

Characters: Marcus Pike,

Setting: five years after the last episode Marcus was in.

Rating: PG:13

Warnings: 2,774

Summary: Conversation overheard leads to feelings of regret at the chance not taken. Will he take that risk and go for who he wants or let it slide away just like the past?

Word count:

Notes: Written for the lovely @hnt-escape asking for the prompt “I’m done. I’m done trying so hard only for you to never even look in my direction.” Will be in bold in the story. I hope you enjoy sweetie.

Tag List:

Forever tags: @chickensarentcheap @jedi-mando

Pedro Pascal tags: @evyiione

Staring into the caramel colored liquid ceramic mug warming your hands, thoughts clouded by a certain brown eyed man and how to handle the feelings you’ve harbored since grade school.

“Trying to divine this weeks lotta numbers from you coffee sweetie?” Soothing southern accented voice breaks through the fog smile in the sweet lilt.

Head snapping up to look towards the blonde, grin firmly in place over her ruby lips, “I wish, would donate at least half to research the antiquities we have that no one’s cataloged yet.”

“Wow devoted,” chuckling, walking over to the Keurig k-cup spinner to pluck the last Colombian dark roast pod. “What or should I say who’s on that gorgeous your mind that’s got your brow furrowed deeper than the Mariana Trench?”

Not wishing to discuss your thoughts right now, you deflect to ask, “Those things waste so much Donna and bad for the environment. Why don’t you just buy the bulk grounds?”

“Great way to keep from answering the true question,” baby blues lock, sincerity written deep and meaningful. Knowing she’s only trying to help having confided many times your dilemma those feelings you’ve held on to for so long brings about. “I don’t know why you haven’t told him sugar I mean you came to DC…”

“For this job Donna, Marcus turned up later… not much later,” last few words muttered into cooling coffee you try to hide behind while taking a sip. “I didn’t upheave my life for a man,” not sure who you’re trying to convince more yourself or Donna.

Established in your position at the museum a month before Marcus’s transfer and at the time he’s heavily invested with one Teresa Lisbon. Memories flood through like film reel before your eyes. Of that very night he comes to you heartbroken bags in hand with no one beside him and no real place to go. Promising yourself to shove your feelings aside and help him get back on steady legs. Even letting him stay till his place became ready to move in.

Loud snort greets your ears, breaking you from memory lane. “You keep telling yourself that and while you’re at it keeping him friend zoned when your clearly in love with him does neither one of you any good. He ain’t gonna wait around forever sugar trust me on that one,” hurt coloring her tone speaking volumes of her own pain. She looks away to watch the final drops of coffee land in her mug. You know exactly why she’s not looking at your right now, the hurt she tries to hide behind the bubbly personality. Fixing her coffee up just the way she likes to hide her own pain she’s shared a few times.

“How,” licking your lips slowly, mug placed beside you on the counter to clasp your hands in front of you. “I’m not even sure how or where to start Donna. He’s my best friend knows me inside and out I don’t…”

“Do you love him?” Simple question with no easy answer as grey blue eyes land on and pierce you with their intensity.

“I…” wringing those hands her question chases thoughts around your head. Finally giving the heart answer, “I love him, just unsure if he loves me in the same way. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to change the dynamics of our relationship and loose what we have for a what if.”

“Oh sweetheart I know it’s not easy to bank on what if’s but trust me when I say that man loves you in ways I’ve never seen and I’ve seen a lot.” Giving you a teasing wink then sobering, “Why do ya think I haven’t tried to snag him up myself?”

“Cause he’s not your type?” Joke sounding stupid to your own ears, glaze dropping to your shoes. “What if… what if I’m not his type? I mean you’ve seen the women he’s gone out with before. I’m hardly in the same league.”

“No your in a league of your own sugar.” Head nodding in understanding Donna comes over resting a hand on your bicep giving a gentle squeeze. “Compensating maybe even trying to replace the one he truly wants sweetheart. Don’t let a good man slip away especially since you love him.”

“I do, he’s,” head shaking at a loss for words to describe Marcus. “Amazing and sweet, the kind of man that’s so easy to love and care for. I’m lost truly without him.” Happy tears blur your vision for a moment thinking about him. How he’s always at your side just when you need him without notice at times. Sixth sense when you need those late night pancakes from the best diner in town. Watching old movies after a crappy break up, snuggled together with popcorn and beer, snacks of all kinds. Snap shot of his face filters across your vision, “I’m gonna tell him in fact,” glancing down at your watch finding end of day fast approaching. “Would you close down for me Donna I need to tell him now before loosing my nerve.”

“Don’t have to ask me twice sugar go get your man,” nodding towards the doorway you start for, coffee long forgotten in favor of someone more sweeter. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

“There’s things you wouldn’t do?” Cheeky grin highlighting your features, the sound of crinkling plastic reaching your ears so you look down. Frown replacing the smile at finding a small bouquet of blue tipped carnations laying on the ground. Bending to scoop up the beautiful flowers knowing only one man would’ve brought these. “Shit,” curse flying from your mouth while your feet start to eat up the distance towards the back doors bouquet held firmly in your grasp.

Missing Donna yelling about your keys and belongings, to not forget about the storm rumbling in the background. Wide smile forming watching you go hoping you’ll catch Marcus just in time.

While you pray with each step taken you’ll catch him in time to explain. Thoughts running rampant wondering what he heard and didn’t. If the reason for the dropped flowers has to do with the fact he thinks you love someone else. That last thought spurs you on into a run, thankful for the flats you wore today instead of customary heels you normally wear. Eating up the distance you burst through the back doors into a curtain of rain meeting your eyes as more curses fly from your lips. You pause eyes narrowing through the gloom looking for Marcus’s car, his back, hair surely plastered to against his head. Something to point you in the right direction. At the right moment a flash of lighting illuminating the darken skies, makes you jump but press on determined to find him. While stepping out into the pouring rain, clothes soaked through low rumblings of thunder taking your calls out for Marcus away with the howling wind.

Tears form and slide down cool cheeks, still franticly looking around but coming up empty till you catch the flash of grey out of your periphery. Whipping around you head in the direction calling out his name praying there’s a break in the rain so your voice carries to his ears.

And for a moment that one split second he catches a sound other than the storm raging around him. Sweet desperate voice calling out his name, giving him pause in dragging footsteps. Looking around but seeing nothing but the driving rain, drops soaking his suit and blurring his vision. Before turning to resume his path the voice calls out again, nearer and stronger than the last time.

His doubts cloud the mind, accusing him of hearing things the wind brings from other parts of the parking lot. Till a vision dressed in black slacks, creamy silk blouse, hair and clothes plasters to your body appears in front of him. Hand raised in the vain attempt to keep the rain from your face as you search for him.

Eyes lock surprised deep chocolate orbs meet the relief in yours, “You’re gonna get sick sweetheart go back inside.”

“No,” single word yelled out as you near Marcus, gripping his bicep and moving closer to speak into his ear. Warm breath making him shiver despite the cold rain trying to drown the both of you. “Why’d you leave?”

“Saw you busy didn’t want…” shaking your head Marcus swallows catching sight of the flowers in your free hand.

“You dropped these why?” Hurt lacing the tone in your voice as you bring the small plastic wrapped bundle up between you. “Thank you.”

Eyes dart between the flowers and your eyes unsure how to answer your question as so many of his own chase around his mind. Wanting the truth Marcus gather’s his courage to ask, “Do you love him?”

Confusion coats your veins, drawing up your brows with the same emotion till it clicks. “Yes, very much in fact you just doesn’t know it.”

“I’m done,” pain etched into his voice heart aching behind its prison of bone and flesh. Misunderstanding the look in your eyes and the words your spoke. “I’m done trying so hard only for you to never even look in my direction. I just can’t do it anymore it’s so much worse than any of the other.” Taking two steps back from your touch that sears the skin under heavy suit jacket and starch white cotton dress shirt. Gaze dropping to concrete unable to look into your eyes a second longer knowing he’s lost the chance. Internally cursing himself for waiting so long, letting other’s in his heart when the one woman he’s wanted all along stood by him through all life’s ups and downs.

Frowning at the loss of touch, his words sinking in you step forward he matches with one back. “Marcus,” soft achingly tender voice reaches out towards him. Heard now the rain has slowed to light drizzle. “Do you know how long I’ve waited to tell you I love you? Not as a brother or best friend, but in love with you.”

“What?” Single word choked off on a gasp, eyes reaching your smiling orbs trying to find the jest. Only seeing genuine love backed by worry and fear that he doesn’t truly have the same feelings. “You never told me.”

“You didn’t tell me either Pike so we’re kinda in the same boat,” carefully reaching out for his nearest hand tugging him back towards you. “So many times I’d try to tell you, to explain, to see if there’s a chance for us. Every time someone else got my shot. I gave up almost for good this time.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Moving closer, warm palm coming up to cup your cheek from apple to jawline. Thump brushing slowly over soft delicate skin drowning in your eyes as you rubbing your cheek into his large palm. “Never would’ve guess you felt the same way.”

Not sure how to answer the first question, so you joke instead. “Not only good at picking out a fake piece of art but putting on a good show.” Trying to infuse a little lightheartedness into the tense moment. “Gonna call Oscar see if they’ll give me one of those little golden guys for my performance. Not Ingrid Bergman worthy but I can hold my own,” nervous little laugh leaving your lips that Marcus brushes his thumb over the bottom lip. Stuck dumb by the action breath shallow before held while trying to depict the emotions running through those sweet brown eyes. “Say some Marcus.”

The tremor in your voice shakes the shocked cobwebs from his mind to focus his thoughts. Picking up that you haven’t answered his first question, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Which time?” Breathy sigh leaving your mouth as you try to gather the right words. “Not to mention your my best friend Marcus I didn’t want to fuck that up especially if you didn’t feel the same way,” taking a breath fresh rain mixes with the warm subtle cologne Marcus wears. “Couldn’t risk loosing you and changing our relationship for a what if.”

“And now?” Cupping the other side of your face, keeping your chin tilted upward, eyes searching the depths of yours. Finding the peace he’s missed out on with everyone who came before. Home written in your embrace, sweet light flora scent wrapping around his senses reminding him of just who he needs.

Swallowing, pink tongue coming out to wet your lips, a path he follows with rapt attention. “I recently became enlightened by a good friend reminding me sometimes you need to take those chances.” Both arms wrap around his neck, flowers still clutched tightly, free hand carding through rain soaked strands at the back of his head. Blunt nails scratching gently over Marcus’s neck receiving a shiver that vibrates through your body and has nothing to do with the cool air or wet clothing.

“And you want to take that leap with me?” Inching closer with barely a millimeter’s breath between your lips. Eyes still wide open assuring each other and finally showing the truth and need.

“I think this is the beginning of a beautiful love affair,” cheeky smile splitting your face at the crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes. Knowing full well you’ve gotten the quote wrong on purpose.

“Here’s looking at you kid,” deepened voice sending tingles of excitement racing down your spine. Slightest brush of his chapped lips to yours bringing a sigh and parting your mouth that’s captured and devoured.

Angling your head just right as he licks into your sweet coffee tasting mouth mixing the minty freshness of his. Low groan whispers between your lips, which moves and changes. Nibbling his bottom lip, slipping your tongue over the bruised skin to sooth before sliding back into the warm cavern of his delectable mouth. Dreams having no merit on the real kiss that makes your toes curl a moan of your own existing to join with the groan he’s let loose. Air becoming much needed and you part to rest foreheads together.

“I love you to have for a long time,” admitting his feelings frees a part of him held back for so long. “I’m sorry for all the missed opportunities but if you’ll let me I’ll make them all up to you.”

“Start by taking me home to change then out for pancakes,” bright smile blooming over your lips that press into his. Unable to stop yourself from giving another tender kiss while wrapping your arms around his shoulders tighter. “And kisses lots more kisses,” mumbling the words into his mouth while initiating another kiss for emphasis.

Only breaking when someone clears their throat you both turn to see Donna standing there with your purse in hand. “No making out in the parking lot you two take it home,” grinning extending your purse towards you. “Just remember don’t do anything I would,” before turning to start back towards the museum. “Congratulations by the way took y’all long enough.”

“There’s things you’d do I wouldn’t Donna,” you call after her shaking your head before looking back up at Marcus. Catching the look burning in his eyes, “I’m guessing pancakes won’t happen tonight huh?”

Soft smirk slides over those kiss swollen lips, “Later but right now I have other plans.” Tugging you against his chest for one last deep drugging kiss that leaves you weak kneed and panting.

“Care to share those plans?” Snuggling into his arms as you both head the last short distance to his car.

Opening then crowding you into the corner of the door hands braced on either side to lean in placing a soft chase kiss to your cheek. “Making up for all the missed time and then later,” pausing to brush his lips over your ear. Whispering the last words with gentle puffs of air floating across your skin. “I’ll make you those pancakes and lick the syrup from your lips afterwards and any other place you’ll let me.”

“Only if you’ll let me return the flavor,” mischievous smile stretching across your lips, ducking under his arms to slide into the car. Finding him still standing there, you tug on his jacket gaining his attention.

Darken eyes meet yours, “I’ll even paint you like one of my French girls,” sending you a playful wink while closing the car door and running around to the drivers side. Marcus slides in, key slipping into ignition, simple flick of his wrist the car flares to life and he’s backing out heading for home and a new start filled with promise.

#Request #Marcus Pike x Female Reader #Marcus Pike x FemReader #Marcus Pike x F!Reader #Marcus Pike Fiction #Pedro Pascal Character fanfiction #The Mentalist Fiction

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wistfulcynic · 4 years

Text

The Bend of the Arc (4/ 4)

SUMMARY: Emma Swan hates Killian Jones at first sight. He's everything she despises in a man: arrogant, provocative, and a known criminal associate of the city’s most notorious gangster. She’s determined to put him behind bars, until a shocking event forces them together and Emma discovers that there’s a lot more to Killian than meets the eye.

THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone reading this story! I’ve been blown away by your amazing and insightful comments, and so touched. You are all thoroughly brilliant and I want to hug you. Contact-free internet hugs for all!

All the love always to @thisonesatellite for her ‘splaining, even the cold kind ❤️

Rating: M (smut and language) Words: 5.8k (of 30k total) Tags: Modern AU, enemies to lovers, bounty hunter!Emma, criminal!Killian, smut, bedsharing

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | On AO3

PART FOUR:

It didn’t take long to prepare for their departure. Neither of them had come with any luggage; Killian simply packed his tuxedo and her dress and shoes into a large plastic bag and tossed it into the back of the Jeep. They had a quick breakfast and cleaned up the kitchen, quickly tidied the rest of the cottage and then were ready to go.

Emma took a last look around as Killian reset the security system, trying to fix the little space in her memory. A heavy ache of sadness sat in her chest knowing that she would never see this place again, and Killian… she had no idea what might happen between them when they got back. What she even wanted to happen.

The drive down to the lake was a silent one. Emma noticed that the path they took down the mountain was straighter than the one that had brought them up it, keeping mostly parallel to the meandering line described by the creek he’d shown her, the one she was to follow if she ever needed to find the lake again.

The motorboat was precisely where they’d left it. Killian turned off the Jeep and tucked the keys beneath the visor, then fetched the jackets and life vests from the back as Emma grabbed the plastic bag with their clothes. She tossed it into the boat before putting on her jacket and vest and stepping aboard, with no need for Killian’s hand this time. Moments later they were underway, rounding the curve of the lake and heading back to the river that would lead them to the larger lake and the boat that had carried them to it, the one Killian claimed belonged to one of his employees.

It too was right where they’d left it. Emma frowned as she removed her vest and jacket, handing them to Killian who boarded the larger boat with them tucked beneath his arm and stowed them in a compartment beneath the seating on the deck.

“Don’t you worry, leaving things like this?” she asked. “A yacht, just sitting there, and the keys left inside the Jeep?”

“Hardly anyone lives out here,” he replied, turning another key to start the boat’s engine. “And those who do keep to themselves. It’s why I chose this place.”

Emma stayed on the deck of the boat as it purred down the skinny lake—which she soon realised was not a lake at all but a long and winding inlet that opened out into the sea. Land masses crowded the horizon, some clearly islands and others possibly part of the mainland split up by more inlets. Killian steered them gradually to their left, maintaining a more or less straight course in that direction until slowly the islands became less plentiful and a city began to resolve in a blue-grey haze before them.

“You’d better get below,” Killian told her. “And stay quiet.”

“What? Why?”

“Remember that passport you don’t have?”

“Oh.”

She went below and curled up again in the bunk where she’d slept the night of their escape, but no sleep claimed her this time. Voices filtered down from above, muffled but recognisable as Killian’s and another that sounded like a woman. Their conversation was short and soon the boat was moving again. Emma waited another twenty minutes before venturing back onto the deck.

“Aye, love, it’s clear,” Killian said with a smile when she poked her head through the small door. “We’re back in American waters.”

“So,” she said, resuming her position on one of the padded benches, “you basically smuggled me into Canada,”

“Basically.”

He seemed disinclined to elaborate, tension creeping visibly into his posture as they drew nearer to the city. Soon Emma began to recognise the skyline and about twenty minutes later they arrived back at the marina.

Killian brought the boat into the mooring they’d taken it from and tossed the lines to a short, round man with a dark beard and an anxious disposition who appeared to be waiting for them.

“Everything all right, Mr Jones?” he asked.

“No problems, Smee,” Killian replied. “Thank you for the loan of her.”

“Anytime, sir.”

The man nodded to Emma as she debarked and gave her a nervous smile. She smiled back, as warmly as she could manage, then followed Killian across the lot to where his car was parked—another thing just as they’d left it, but with one addition. Graham was leaning against the hood with his arms crossed and his badge prominent, watching them approach with a hard expression.

He and Killian shook hands, the kind of handshake men exchange when they’d prefer to exchange fists to the face, and then Graham turned to Emma. His eyes raked over her, taking in every detail, leaving her with the uncomfortable sensation that he could see everything she’d done over the past few days—that she had slept with Killian and how her feelings towards him had changed. It made her angry; it wasn’t Graham’s business who she fucked or how she felt about them, and she returned his appraisal with a cool stare.

“Are you all right?” he asked her.

“Fine,” she snapped. “Never better.”

Graham shot Killian another dark look. “Come with me,” he said. “I’ve got a cruiser waiting to take us to the station.”

“I’d prefer to drive myself, mate, if that’s all right,” Killian replied.

“If you must,” said Graham. “But Emma comes with me.”

“I’m going with Killian,” said Emma firmly. “And I’m stopping by my place first, to get a change of clothes.

Graham’s eyes flitted from her to Killian and back again, his jaw clenching, and she wondered if he would pull rank. Finally he gave a short nod. “Fine. Be at the station in an hour.”

He turned on his heel and headed for his cruiser, squealing out of the parking lot a minute later in a way that felt deliberate. Killian didn’t look at her as he got into his car and so she simply got in herself, hugging the plastic bag with their clothes tightly to her chest.

Killian knew where she lived. Of course he did, thought Emma, just as she knew where he lived. He went straight to her apartment, parking in her usual space and wordlessly following her inside, where she retrieved her dress and shoes from the plastic bag and held it out to him.

“Sit wherever,” she said. “I’ll just change quickly and be right back.”

He nodded, taking the bag, and she retreated to her bedroom where she shed his clothes and replaced them with her own. As glad as she was to put on actual underwear and clothes that fit—and she was very, very glad for it—the ache in her chest throbbed again as she folded Killian’s jeans and t-shirt and rolled up his socks. She ran a brush through her hair and pulled it into a ponytail, and when she opened her closet to fetch her jacket she froze.

Killian’s jacket was there beside it, the one he’d put around her shoulders the first night they met. The one she’d intentionally kept to fuel her anger and keep her determination to see justice done to him fresh and hot, and now—

Now it made her want to cry.

Slowly she removed it from the hanger and held it to her cheek. It smelled like him, that warm, spicy scent that was so familiar now. Emma buried her face in it, breathing deeply and fighting back her tears. Then she placed it gently atop the pile of his clothes and put on her red leather.

When she returned to her living room Killian was still standing where she’d left him, staring out the window with an expression she couldn’t read. He smiled when he saw her, a smile that started bright and quickly dimmed, one that seemed involuntary.

“Well,” he said, waving his hand at her outfit. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

“Much,” she replied, smiling back. “Um, here’s your clothes.”

“Thanks.” He put them in the bag with his tuxedo.

“And, uh, I should probably give this back too.” She held out his jacket.

“Ah.” Killian stared at it, emotion flaring in his eyes but quickly quenched. “Er, yes, thanks.” He took the jacket, not looking at her.

“Killian—”

“We should probably get going. I wouldn’t want to face Graham’s wrath if we’re late.”

“Yeah. But can we, um… can we just...”

“What?”

Talk, she wanted to say. Fix this, whatever this was that had been so fragile last night and felt shattered now. But she knew there wasn’t time and Killian’s face was shuttered again, carefully concealing all traces of the man she already missed.

She put her hand on his arm and he caught his breath. “Emma,” he whispered, “I—”

She stepped closer and he swayed towards her, reaching up to stroke her cheek with trembling fingers that curled around the back of her head as she tilted it up.

“I—” he tried again, then his lips were on hers, his arms closing tight around her. Emma whimpered and stood on her toes, pressing as close to him as she could get, her own arms twined around his neck and clinging like she never wanted to let go.

She didn’t, but she couldn’t hold on to him, not when he was still keeping things from her. Not when she could never trust him. Emma had been down that road before and she knew where it led—jail time and a broken heart, and a son she would never know.

Killian kissed her with a desperation that echoed in her soul, fingers tangled in her hair and clutching at her waist, mouth hot and demanding and achingly gentle, sweet and bitter, an elegy, an apology and a goodbye.

As their lips parted he let his forehead rest on hers, his eyes closed. “We should go,” he said.

Emma squeezed her own eyes shut, breathing him in. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I’m ready.”

Graham was waiting for them at the station along with what seemed like half his precinct, sweeping Emma away while Killian was corralled by the others and leading her to an interview room like she wasn’t there all the time and didn’t know the way as well as he did.

“Do you want anything to drink?” he asked her. “Coffee, or—”

“I know what the coffee’s like in this place so I’ll pass, thanks.”

Graham’s lip twitched. “Fair.”

A knock sounded at the door and he opened it to admit his partner, a dark-haired man with a perpetually smug expression. “Emma, you remember August Booth?” he asked, cringing slightly when Emma and August turned to him with identical exasperated eye rolls.

“Of course I remember August, he still owes me fifty bucks from the last poker night,” said Emma. “I know this case is a big deal, but can you please remember I’m your friend and not some stranger who needs to be handled with kid gloves?”

“My friend,” Graham repeated. “Right.”

August sat across from her and laid a clipboard and a small tape recorder on the table. “Emma, I need you to make an official statement of what you witnessed at Robert Gold’s mansion, do you consent?” he asked.

Emma nodded.

“And you consent to have your statement recorded?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Sign here.”

She did, but before August could turn the recorder on, Graham spoke from the doorway. “Are you sure you’re ready for this, Emma? You’ve had a stressful past few days, we can do it tomorrow—”

“No,” said Emma firmly, wishing Killian were here and also wishing she didn’t wish it. “I want this over with and I want Gold to go down.” She nodded to August. “Let’s get started.”

It took more than an hour, with Emma telling and retelling her story and August asking questions, pressing her for more details, for everything she could remember. When it was over she was exhausted and emotionally raw, with a pounding head and a fierce desire for a hot bath and a soft bed, and Killian. Maybe he would agree to stay with her tonight, she thought, rubbing her temples. Just for tonight. Just one more night.

She returned to the bullpen to find Graham waiting for her.

“Everything go okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, I think so. You’ll have to ask August for the details because my brain is mush, but… yeah.”

Graham gave her a sort of half-hug, wrapping his hand around the back of her neck to massage it. “You did well.”

“I’m just glad it’s done.”

“Gold’s been remanded without bail,” he informed her. “You should be safe enough to go home, though I’m placing a couple uniforms outside your door just in case. Is your car here?”

“No.”

“I’ll get them to drive you then, too.”

Emma shook her head and pulled away. “That’s okay, Killian can—”

“Killian’s gone,” Graham snapped, his face going dark.

“What?” Her heart twisted, bent and folded itself into a tight knot of agony.

“He left half an hour ago. Said to tell you goodbye, and he’s sorry.” Graham’s eyes flashed. “What does he have to be sorry for, Emma?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

He snorted.

“Nothing like what you’re thinking,” she snapped. Anger surged within her, hot and cleansing, burning away the pain.

“So you didn’t—” He made a vague gesture with his hand, scowl deepening, and oh, Emma relished this anger.

“Didn’t what?” she asked with a tight, mocking smile. “Fuck him?” Graham winced, and her smile became a sneer. “Oh yeah, I definitely did that. And you know what? I’d do it again.”

He clenched his fists, nostrils flaring. “So much for your high-and-mighty ideals about trusting criminals,” he spat.

“I never said I trusted him.” Emma intended the words to sting but her voice rose on a wobble and she spun away, pushing and elbowing her way through the crowded bullpen towards the exit before Graham could see her tears.

She was nearly there when his hand closed around her elbow. “Emma,” he said, softly and without rancour. “I’ll drive you home.”

Graham pulled up in front of Emma’s apartment and turned off the engine. They sat in silence for a moment, she desperately clinging to the remnants of her anger and he staring at his hands.

“Emma—” he began.

“Why do you hate Killian?” The last of the anger slipped away as she spoke his name, leaving the hurt stronger in its absence, leaving her wanting only to curl into a ball and weep forever.

Graham sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t hate him. Once I loved him like a brother.” He paused, his throat working. “Part of me still does.”

“But then why—”

“Because I don’t want to see you become just another woman he hurts!” Graham cried, twisting in his seat to face her. “Did he tell you about the others?”

“He told me he’d hurt people—”

“Did he tell you he had an affair with Gold’s first wife?”

“No, but—”

“Gold found out and she turned up dead. Stab wound to the heart.”

Emma’s own heart twisted even tighter. “That’s on Gold, not Killian,” she whispered.

"Maybe. But when Gold’s current wife got shot, that was Killian.”

“He shot her?” Emma exclaimed. “I thought she was—”

“She survived,” Graham said harshly. “But Killian and Gold have a lot of ugly history and he had no right to bring you into that! I should never have allowed it.”

“Graham—”

“And then the way you were looking at him earlier—he’s not worth it, Emma! Whatever you think you feel for him, he’s not worth it.” Graham swallowed hard and turned back to face the steering wheel. “I’m not saying this out of jealousy.” His voice was low and rough. “I know that’s what you’re thinking, and I won’t deny that I wish there could be something between us. But I'd be happy just to see you happy, and Killian—all he’ll do is hurt you.”

“He won’t,” she replied. Not intentionally, anyway. “He wouldn’t.”

Graham slammed his fists on the steering wheel. “For fuck’s sake!” he cried. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?”

“Every one.” Emma was surprised by how calm she felt, though the ache grew with every beat of her heart and tears hovered at the back of her throat. “I know how hard it was for Killian to lose your friendship, but it must have been even harder for you. Seeing what he became, knowing there was nothing you could do to stop it.”

“I—” He nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. It was.”

“He hasn’t changed as much as you think. He’s still a good man at his core, despite everything."

“Emma—”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to—” her voice broke “—to see him again. I know I can’t trust him.” She put her hand on Graham’s and squeezed gently, leaning forward to catch his eye. “But there is one thing I can tell you with absolute certainty, and that is that Killian Jones would never, ever hurt me.”

Graham stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head. “I hope you’re right,” he muttered.

Gold pled guilty to Felix’s murder, along with a dozen other charges of money laundering, fraud, and larceny. His plea came as a surprise to the district attorney, who had offered him no deal. The case against him was solid and she was hoping to make a landmark of it, expecting Gold to use all the resources at his disposal to fight the charges.

“So why didn’t he?” Emma asked Graham.

“Once his wife found out what he’d been doing, she threatened to leave him if he didn’t confess everything and accept the consequences, no strings attached,” he replied.

“Wow.” Emma gave a low whistle. “I think I like this woman.”

When Gold was sentenced to life imprisonment with no possibility of parole—the district attorney could smell blood in the water and pushed for the maximum sentence—Emma was in the courtroom to witness it. She had testified before the grand jury, coolly recounting what she had witnessed in the gallery with her eyes on Gold the whole time, unflinching even under his icy, furious glare. She thought about Killian and how his staunch support had helped her through the worst of her trauma, had brought her to this place where she could stand strong, look evil in the eye and see justice done.

You’re a tough lass, he’d said, and she was determined to live up to that.

As the judge’s gavel fell, Emma was filled with a deep, primal satisfaction, and when Gold turned as he was being led away and his eyes found hers in the crowd, she couldn’t resist a smirk. This time at least there would be no escape from that justice. Not for Robert Gold.

Killian wasn’t at the grand jury or the sentencing. She hadn’t really expected him to be, of course, but still she’d hoped… she’d hoped.

Days passed and then weeks, weeks Emma thought would dull the ache in her chest and soothe away the itch beneath her skin, the one that urged her just to call him. But the time only weighed more heavily the longer it stretched, and with each day that went by the itch to call him grew both stronger and easier to resist. She knew his number, of course, and of course he must know she did. If he wanted to hear from her he would have said so. He would have left a message with Graham, or called her his damn self. She knew that he must have her number too.

She went back to work, back to chasing criminals and deadbeats. The old thrill she felt at catching them was undiminished, but every time one spat at her or called her a cunt she couldn’t help remembering Killian when he’d been in their shoes, the challenge of sparring with him and how exhilarating it was, even when she’d hated him.

Killian was rarely far from her thoughts. She thought of him when she was bored on stakeouts and found herself wishing for a book, when she ate a piece of the fruit she now found herself buying and when she put cinnamon creamer in her coffee. She thought of him when she slipped her fingers between her legs at night and when she cried herself to sleep afterwards.

She thought of Killian every time she didn’t ask Graham if he’d heard from him, every time she resisted the urge to drive past his house and every time she bought a new romance novel, because damn it she was hooked on them now and she wasn’t giving them up just because every one reminded her of how damned much she missed Killian Jones.

Feel what you’re feeling, Killian had said to her. It’s the only way to heal.

Emma had a lot of un-felt feelings—more than a decade of them, from as far back as the day she’d refused to hold her baby though his newborn wails tore at her heart. She’d refused to feel the loss of her son or of his father, refused to mourn Neal or acknowledge the traces of love she still had for him. Refused to let anyone else get close enough to make her feel—until Killian smashed through the walls she’d built around her heart without even trying, catching her off guard with kindness and bone-deep decency from the last person on Earth she’d expected to show either.

It made her wonder if she might have misjudged other people in her life and if maybe, possibly, letting some of those people in might not be so bad. As much as missing Killian hurt—and it hurt, with an agony that sank its claws into the very deepest depths of her—she couldn’t regret the time she’d spent with him. And maybe, she thought, possibly, that was what he’d meant by healing. Feeling her feelings didn’t lessen the pain of them, but it gave her the tools she needed to manage it.

She felt guilty for giving up her baby. She felt stupid for letting Neal manipulate her but still sorry he’d died in the jail cell she’d put him in, sorry she’d never told him about their son. She felt angry at her own parents for abandoning her, and not even properly—not given her up for adoption just tossed her on the side of the road like a piece of trash. She felt weak for how hurt that made her feel and how worthless, and she felt angry at the system that allowed her to fall through the cracks of it, angry at a society that forced her to become hard just to hold on to herself.

She felt. And then she began to heal.

A month after the sentencing an envelope arrived in Emma’s mailbox. A plain manila one without much in the way of identifying markings but thick and heavy. She tossed it onto her kitchen table with the rest of the bills and junk and then promptly forgot about it, her mind all on the deadbeat father she was hunting—the one who owed over $80,000 in alimony and child support to his two ex-wives and the five kids they had between them—and there were few people Emma relished nailing more than a shitty-ass parent.

When she got home that night it was late and she was tired, looking forward to some Chinese takeout or maybe just instant ramen and her bed. She tossed her keys at the table where they missed the little bowl she kept there to hold them, landing instead on the envelope. Emma frowned at it as she retrieved them, and after depositing them firmly in the bowl picked up the envelope and examined it. The postmark was local but there was no return address, no company name or any other information about the sender.

Graham would tell her not to touch it. But even if there were any associates of Gold’s still lurking out there seeking revenge on her, Emma figured they’d just shoot her and not send mysterious envelopes through the mail. She sat down at the table and ripped it open, and instantly she was wide awake.

Within the envelope were records, financial ones, page upon page of them. Business records, bank accounts, tax documents. All in the name of Killian Jones, and each one helpfully annotated with notes and arrows and little diagrams, so that even her inexpert eye could recognise the picture that they painted.

Emma stared at them in shock. This was everything she had spent months looking for, the hidden money that lay behind his legitimate businesses. Offshore accounts, shell corporations, all so skilfully concealed that she could never have hoped to uncover them. This was what he had refused to tell her about at the cabin.

The papers wrinkled beneath the pressure of her fingers as she realised what this meant. Killian had given her every scrap of evidence the police would need to pursue charges against him. She could take it to them now and he would be arrested, and she knew that if she chose to do that he would go quietly, with no complaints and no resentment against her. He wouldn’t try to run or use clever lawyers and legal tricks to escape the consequences. She could send him to jail, where they both knew he belonged.

Or she could… not.

Something at the bottom of the stack of papers caught her eye—another, slightly smaller envelope. Emma opened it somewhat warily and stared again, this time in astonishment. Inside were more documents but these ones contained no evidence of crime; very much the opposite, in fact. One of them gave details of a foundation that had been set up to provide free shelter, counselling, and legal services to help teenagers escape abusive homes, while another described a college scholarship fund for kids in the foster system. This included money for tutoring, application advice, and SAT/ACT prep courses that would put the foster kids on a more equal footing with wealthier ones whose parents could afford such things.

There were others too, women’s shelters and free clinics, and Emma wondered how the hell Killian had managed to pay for all of this. He was rich, sure, but most of his assets were tied up in his businesses; this level of investment was well beyond what he could afford on what he had that was legal and liquid.

Her answer came in the last document in the pile. Short and straightforward, it outlined the liquidation of every single thing he owned that wasn’t strictly aboveboard, and how that money had been funnelled into the charities he’d set up. Millions of dollars, just given away, leaving him with a decent income from his remaining concerns but nothing at all like the wealth he’d had before. And it was done so neatly, Emma realised, all but tied up with a pretty red bow. The charities were funded with money that was sparkling clean, laundered so well it would take experts years to sort out how he’d done it. She could still turn him in using the other evidence he’d given her, without endangering any of the good things he’d done with his dirty money.

Killian had placed his fate entirely in her hands.

Emma laid the papers down on the table, let her head fall into those hands and sobbed. Her emotions, wild and confused for so long now, resolved themselves, solidified and crystallised into one shining and inescapable certainty. She was in love, for the second time in her life, and once again with a man on the wrong side of the law. It was history repeating itself, the one thing she’d sought to protect her heart against, but with two crucial differences: Killian was not Neal, and this time her eyes were wide fucking open.

“William Smee?”

The little man appeared at the railing of his boat, smiling much less nervously than at their first meeting and wearing a red knit cap that struck Emma as oddly whimsical. “Miss Swan, is it?” he called.

“Yes.”

“Come aboard.”

It hadn’t taken long to find him. The owner of the boat Killian had borrowed was indeed one of his employees—his, never Pan’s. Though it seemed that Smee had once worked for Gold, until he’d messed up a job and nearly lost his life for it, until Killian had given him a reason to take on a different kind of employment.

People who owe me considerable debts and loyalty, he’d said, and he’d said the man’s name as well, loudly and clearly enunciated and within her hearing.

Emma climbed up to the deck to find Smee waiting for her, still smiling, his expression polite and expectant.

“How can I help you ma’am?” he asked.

I’m pretty sure you know how, Emma thought, but she stated the obvious anyway. “I need you to tell me how to find the place where Killian moors his boat,” she said. “When he needs a bit of an escape.”

Smee’s smile widened. “I’ll do you one better,” he said. “I’ll take you there.”

Killian’s boat was there at the pier when they arrived, long and sleek and very unoccupied. Smee moored his own next to it, then turned to Emma with another smile and a proffered hand.

“Is there anything more I can do for you, ma’am?” he asked.

Emma took his hand and shook it firmly. “Nope, I can take it from here. But thank you.”

“My pleasure,” said Smee, and handed her a life vest. “Take this too,” he advised. “Or Mr Jones will have my head.”

Emma strapped the vest on securely before boarding the motorboat that was just where she expected to find it, though somewhat cleaner and with a newer engine than she recalled. It started up with a rumbling purr and Emma gripped the tiller carefully, steering the boat in a wide arc, less smoothly than Killian had but then she’d only done this once before—in an old boat belonging to August’s boyfriend’s cousin and for no longer than it took to master the basics.

She aimed the boat as best she could for where she thought the river was, altering her course twice before she found it then nearly running aground on its narrow banks. But she stayed afloat and soon found herself emerging into the lake, rounding its curve and heading for the pier, pulling the motorboat up with what she thought was impressive smoothness and securing it to the piling, right next to another motorboat of a similar style.

It took her a good fifteen minutes to locate the mouth of the stream, but once she had and had followed it a little ways up the mountain she spotted a Jeep parked along its banks. A newer model than Killian’s and in a different shade of green, but the keys were beneath the visor and Emma felt no trace of surprise at finding them there.

She was better at driving cars than boats and it wasn’t hard to follow the path of the stream, a path she remembered quite well from her trip down it several months before. Soon she spotted the cottage off to her right and turned away from the stream, navigating carefully through the trees and into the little clearing.

She got out of the Jeep and retrieved a large duffel bag from the back, withdrew from that the large manila envelope and a Zippo lighter and headed for the fire pit. Selecting a few from Killian’s store of seasoned logs, she arranged them in the pit as she had seen him do, tucking dry twigs in around them for kindling but adding no tinder. Instead she held the lighter to a corner of the envelope and watched it catch, watched the flames lick up and spread across it, devouring the papers inside. She held it up to the twigs until they caught fire then nestled it beneath them and the logs and watched the flames grow, leaping high in the air, the sparks rising up to meet the streaks of sunset just visible through the trees.

“I hope you meant to do that, love, because I don’t have any other copies,” said a voice behind her, and though she was expecting it, waiting for it, longing for it, she still gave a little start at the sound. “Do you?”

Emma turned, her heart in her throat, to see Killian standing just to the side of the porch, watching her with soft eyes and a heartbreaking smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she retorted.

His smile widened. “I definitely would.”

Her feet carried her towards him, around the pit and across the small distance that separated them, then launched her into his arms. “No other copies,” she said. “Though I kept the papers in the smaller envelope. All of them but one.”

He stroked her cheek, fingers tangling in her hair. “Emma, I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“For what?”

“Leaving you like that, at the station. I just—I couldn’t—”

“You had things you needed to do,” she said. “And so did I. But we’ve done them now, right?”

“Yes,” he said fiercely. “I swear to you, I—”

“I believe you,” she interrupted. “I trust you.”

He made a strangled noise, his eyes blazing with joy and awe and wonder. “You do?” he croaked.

“Yeah.” She smiled softly. “And I love you.”

“Bloody hell.” He pulled her closer, too roughly, his arms too tight around her, and buried his face in her hair. “I love you so much, Emma,” he whispered hoarsely. “But I wasn’t sure—I didn’t know—”

“Shhh,” she soothed, stroking his head until he relaxed and loosened his hold on her, pulling back to wipe his eyes.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said. “Even after… after everything, I wasn’t sure you could take the risk. It’s been—well, it’s not been an easy past few weeks. Months, really.”

“For me either,” she agreed. “But we both needed it, I think. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking actually and there’s so much I need to tell you. But first…” She draped her arms around his neck and gave him a saucy grin.

“Mmmm?” he murmured, nuzzling at her cheek. “First what?”

“First I’ve got a duffel bag full of marshmallows and chocolate and you, Killian Jones, are going to make a s’more. And eat it.”

His chuckle sounded low in her ear, the voice that followed it light and happy. “For you, my love? Anything.”

“Good,” said Emma, and kissed him.

—

@thisonesatellite @ohmightydevviepuu @kmomof4 @mariakov81 @katie-dub@spartanguard @darkcolinodonorgasm @courtorderedcake @squidvisious @cluttermind @teamhook @lfh1226-linda @shireness-says @stahlop

#cs fic #cs ff #cs ff au #captain swan #captain swan ff #enemies to lovers #finally at the lovers bit #okay it's still a bit angsty #not sorry about that tho #gotta earn that happy ending #the bend of the arc #profdanglaisstuff

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prolestariwrites · 3 years

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The Wish [5]

Fandom: Devil May Cry Characters: Dante, Vergil, Nero, V, Lady, Eva, Sparda, OC Rating: General Tags: Family, Humor, Fluff, Angst, Typical demon hunting violence

Summary: A demon gives Dante the chance to have his greatest desires made real. When he finds himself in a seemingly idyllic life, all seems well until it starts to unravel. Will he sacrifice himself to save the family he lost, or will he choose to give them up for the truth?

Now posted: Chapter 5, in which Dante puts his foot in his mouth and talks to a cat.

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Chapter 4: Dante Fucks Up

Dante grins when the door to the shop opens and his father enters, Nero and V following. He’s already had a great day: a good night’s sleep after pizza and a movie with Lir last night, and today he’s already changed an air filter on a bike and ordered a set of new tires for a customer. Running the repair shop is a lot like running the Devil May Cry, he has learned over the course of the morning, except less blood and killing and more money.

Vergil had texted that Sparda was bringing his nephews by, and as promised they arrive and come straight into the garage. “Hey there boys!” he says happily. “Hope you’re ready to work. I got a set of brakes to replace, and there’s a Harley that needs a new carburetor.”

“Cool,” Nero says, and to his surprise, V looks interested too.

“We can help?” V asks.

“Sure,” Dante replies. “I’ll get the parts and then we’ll get to cleaning everything before putting the new brakes on.”

Sparda clears his throat. “Before you get started, can I speak with you?” he asks.

Dante nods, and Nero says, “We can get the stuff together. Come on, V.”

The boys go into the back to the supply room, and Dante is a bit impressed they know what to do. “What’s up?” he asks. “Did you and mom have fun the other night?”

“Yes… but…” Sparda folds his arms. “Did you uh… make any phone calls yesterday, Dante?”

They stare at one another, and Dante shakes himself, remembering his father is waiting for an answer. He has a darn good guess what Sparda is hinting at, so he rubs the back of his head and says, “Uh, maybe? Why?”

Sparda looks around, as if to see if anyone is listening. But there’s no one there but the two of them, so he tilts his head in and says quietly, “An old friend of mine called me last night. Said she received a call from Dante, son of Sparda. Now I don’t know how you got her phone number, but…” Dante frowns as Sparda looks uncertain. “Well, let’s just say it was a shock. I had not expected to hear that name again.”

“You mean Matier?” he asks. “Why not? She’s cool.”

His father looks at him in surprise. “So you’ve met her?”

“Um…” Dante shifts uncomfortably. “Kind of? It’s hard to explain.”

Sparda’s eyes narrow, examining him closely, and suddenly he feels like he is six years old and trying to convince him that he didn’t break the lamp in the front room. “How do you know Matier?”

He decides to take a chance and give some truth. “What would you say if I told you I’ve been to Dumary?”

“Impossible,” Sparda hisses. “How would you have gone there? When?”

Dante shakes his head. “I can explain. I think?”

“Yes, you’ll explain.” Sparda’s voice goes sharp, scolding, and Dante frowns. Why is he so upset about this? “You’ll explain that, and more. Like Nevan? Have you been spying on me?”

“Spying? What, no!”

“Reading my journals?”

“No! Pop, what…” He studies his father, wondering what the big deal is, when it dawns on him: Sparda never told any of them anything. “Wait,” he says, leaning in closer. “Does Mom know?”

Sparda snaps back, his eyes open in alarm. “Enough of this,” he says. “Come over tonight. We need to discuss this.” His eyes dart to the back room, where they can hear the boys chattering. “You’re going to tell me everything you know, and how you know it, understand?”

The tone of his voice gets under his skin. It’s not as if Dante did anything wrong, and he huffs with a wave of his hand. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll come over. And you’re gonna do some explaining too, got it?”

Sparda mutters something under his breath as he turns on his heel and stalks out of the shop. “Uncle Dante!” V calls. “Nero mixed up all the lug nuts!”

“I did not!”

He sighs as the door shuts with a slam. “Stop touching shit,” he calls, turning his attention to his nephews.

After they get the lug nuts resorted, he hustles the boys out of the storage room to get started. They sit as he starts taking things apart, Nero handing him tools as V takes and sorts the parts Dante hands him. They actually work together pretty well, which surprises him. Nero is all energy, talking every chance he gets to fidget, even looping the tools through his fingers before handing them over. Meanwhile V is quieter, methodical, even huffing over the mess when Nero accidentally kicks the neat rows of parts askew. Dante just chuckles to himself, thinking that they remind him of himself and Vergil. But maybe that’s the point?

Before long he hands over the pieces for them to clean while he goes to his office to grab some drinks. With three sodas in hand, he hands them out before cracking open his own, leaning on the reception desk as he watches. “How come you guys don’t have school today?” he asks.

“It’s summer,” V says, and they both laugh.

“Right.” Dante thinks as he takes a sip. Maybe these two can answer some questions, especially if this is all a made-up place? Best to do this subtly, he decides, thinking about how Lir had grown suspicious of his questions. “So your parents. What’s up with them?”

Nero and V glance at one another. “Huh?”

“What are they like? Gotta be weird having them as parents, hm?”

Nero laughs. “Why is that weird?”

“Well, you know, because Vergil is… I mean, your mom is…” Dante frowns, realizing he has no idea what they do, and guesses it’s got nothing to do with demon hunting. “They uh… happy?”

Nero makes a face but V frowns. “Why are you asking? What’s going on?”

“Nothing! Nothing. I mean…”

“Are they getting a divorce?” Nero asks, his voice going tight.

“No! At least, I don’t think so…” Dante makes an aggravated noise in his throat and rubs his face. “No, I was just asking. Everything’s fine.”

Neither looks convinced, so Dante tries a new tactic. “Hey Nero, got any girlfriends?”

He turns bright red as V laughs. “He wishes!” V exclaims. “There is this one girl—”

“No there’s not—”

“And he spends all day and all night—”

“I do not!!”

“Just going oh, oh, I love her so much!” V mimics him with a sad, dramatic voice. “I’ll never be good enough for her, boo hoo—”

“Cut it out!” Nero shouts, aiming a kick at V that he easily dodges.

Dante just laughs. “Okay, lay off. This girl got you bad, hm, Nero? But I bet Kyrie likes you just fine.”

Nero stops glaring at V long enough to give him a confused look. “Who’s Kyrie?”

“Isn’t that… nevermind.”

He finishes off his soda, wondering what else to talk about, when V asks, “Why so many questions?”

“Huh?”

“Why are you asking so many questions?” V repeats. “You never do.”

Dante huffs. “Yes I do. I’m very involved.”

They both laugh at that, and Dante tosses his soda can away as he grumbles, “Okay, enough out of you two. Go back to work or I ain’t paying you.”

“Like you have money,” V says, and both boys set off in another round of laughter. Dante makes a face and folds his arms, thinking how much he can’t stand kids. This is probably why he and Lir haven’t had any. Can’t catch a break, even in his own ideal world.

Vergil picks them up at five on the dot. They’ve managed to get the brake pads changed and bled, and Dante has them labelling inventory when he arrives. “Are they in one piece?” he asks as he approaches the desk.

Dante sits in his chair, his elbows on the desk and his chin in his hands. All afternoon he thought about his father and the look on his face when he mentioned Dalmary. It doesn’t make sense: if Sparda is still who he is, which he seems to be, then why hide it? Maybe the outside world didn’t know about the Legendary Knight living in their midst, but he had never kept it a secret from Eva, or from them.

“Yeah… but Vergil, I need to ask you something,” he says.

Before they can continue Nero hops over. “Dad, Uncle Dante said you and mom were getting a divorce.”

Vergil shouts “What?” just as Dante protests, “I did not!”

“He did, I heard him too,” V says with a smile.

“You brats,” mumbles Dante.

Vergil looks ready to kill as he glares at him. “Why would you say something like that?”

“I said I didn’t!” Dante insists. “I was just asking how you guys were. Like if you were…” He swallows thickly, dreading Vergil’s reaction. “Happy.”

His brother narrows his eyes. “What game is this?”

“Huh?”

“First you wanted me to come over to talk,” Vergil says. “Now you’re asking about if I’m happy? What’s going on?”

His first instinct is to deny, but then he decides against it. “Something is, but…” He side-eyes the twins, who are watching expectantly. “I’m going over to see Dad tonight. Can you come with me? Please?”

Vergil presses his lips together into a thin line. “What does this have to do with him?”

“I can’t exactly tell you now,” he hisses.

Luckily Vergil gets his meaning and nods. But Nero and V immediately protest, “No! We want to know too!”

“Go get in the car,” Vergil orders.

With some grumbling Nero heads out, V following behind. But before they head out the door V turns and says, “Hey Uncle Dante? Everyone’s happy, you know. You should be too.”

Dante frowns. That’s a weird thing for a kid to say, isn’t it?

Vergil sighs when they are gone. “Now tell me what this is about.”

“Dad has been…” Dante rubs the back of his neck. “Keeping secrets, I guess? But you should hear it from him.”

“What kind of secrets?” asks Vergil suspiciously.

“Like I said, hear it from him.” Dante picks up his keys, moving to shut off the lights in the shop. “Meet me there at eight, okay?”

Vergil agrees, but reluctantly, and when he’s gone Dante takes a walk through the shop to make sure everything is turned off before he locks up. On the way home, he wonders if his suspicions are correct, and Sparda has kept the truth a secret. And what will Vergil do when he finds out?

He can’t shake the feeling of unease when he gets home, where Lir is putting chicken in the oven. “How was your day?” she asks cheerily when he moves to wash his hands.

“Fine.”

Dante grabs a kitchen towel to dry them when she moves closer and rubs his arm. “Hey, are you okay? Were the kids too much?”

“No, they were fine.” He glances at Lir and says, “I need to run over to my parents’ tonight. Dad wants to show me and Vergil something.”

“Okay.”

Dante goes to move away, but Lir stretches up to slide her arms around his neck. Dante chuckles to himself at how short she is, and when she smiles and nudges him closer, his hands go to her waist as he follows her pull. She kisses him sweetly, tugging on his lower lip a bit, and in spite of himself he responds, giving her a teasing bite that has her lips curling into a smile against his. They linger like this for another moment, and Dante refuses to feel badly about it. She might not be real, but it’s nice to have someone to take care of him, and he never realized how much he likes the simple affection. It’s something he hasn’t had since he was a kid, and Dante is almost sorry when Lir eases back to return to making dinner.

She launches into a story about water damage in the storage room and some missing labels, which he only half listens to as he sits and watches her cook. Really he uses the time to debate if digging into all this is really worth it. Dante had read the paper that morning, picking it up on his way into the shop. There was nothing in the news that would indicate a demon attack; everything was normal human crime and chaos, so he had to assume that demons didn’t exist in this place. But if there were no demons, then how was he here?

“He did what?” Lir’s voice pulls him from his thoughts, and when he looks up, she is giving him a funny look as she talks on her cell phone. “I have no idea,” she laughs, turning back to stir the vegetables on the stovetop.

She hangs up a minute later, setting something on the stove before walking over to him. “Did you really tell the boys that Vergil and Mary are getting divorced?” she laughs.

“No,” he sighs. “They took it all wrong.”

“Well what did you say?”

Dante shrugs. “I just asked if they were happy.”

Lir gives him another strange look before taking the seat next to his at the little kitchen table. “Why would you ask that?”

“I guess I was curious,” he replies.

“Dante.” Lir sucks in a deep breath before she leans forward, resting her elbow on the table. “You’ve been so different lately. Acting like… I don’t know. Like you aren’t you, somehow. Is something wrong?”

He opens his mouth to assure her that he’s fine, but hesitates. “I don’t know,” he answers truthfully.

“Okay.” Lir’s brows draw in as she thinks. “When do you feel like it started?”

“Two days ago,” he replies. “The day of the dinner for my uh, parents.”

“That’s specific,” she chuckles. “Did anything happen to make you feel this way?”

He considers telling her the truth: he fought a demon that granted him a wish and sent him to this weird reality. Would Lir even believe him? Does he even believe it? “It’s hard to explain,” he says.

Lir considers that for a moment before asking, “I guess the important question is, are you happy?”

“What?”

She shrugs. “Simple enough question. Are you happy? Or do you feel like you need something else?”

Dante studies her for a moment. “No,” he answers finally. “I like it enough here.”

“Like it enough?” Lir looks hurt, and that makes him feel bad. And confused, too, because she’s a demon, right? Or made up by a demon. Either way, he shouldn’t care about what she thinks, even though he does.

“That’s not what I meant,” he hurries on.

For a second he’s worried she’s going to cry: a woman crying was never something he handles well. But instead she stands and moves to sit on his lap. Immediately his arms go around her waist as she strokes his cheek, and Dante has to admit it feels nice. “I love you,” Lir murmurs. Then she tilts his face up to look at her, and he can see the real concern in her eyes. “More than anything.”

His heart is beating loudly in his chest as he swallows thickly. Dante thinks of them in bed together, when she was the perfect combination of sweet and sexy. He had thought this was a dream then, and maybe it is… but does he want to wake up?

“I love you too,” he replies, the words feeling both right and wrong.

“Good.” Something beeps on the stove and Lir looks over. “Why don’t you go get changed out of those dirty clothes while I finish getting everything ready?”

Dante mutters an agreement and heads upstairs, the uneasy feeling following him. Until now, he had been trying to figure out what was going on, and find a way back. But now he thinks: should he even be looking for answers at this point?

There’s got to be something you’d rather be doing than this.

He splashes some water on his face and looks in the mirror. Why is he trying to figure this out? Here he has Vergil, and his parents, and Nero. And Lir… he has to admit, he is growing a soft spot for her. If he finds a way back, it’s just back to debt and demons and being alone.

“Fine,” he decides, giving himself a stern look. “I’ll just stay for now. See what happens.”

A clatter startles him, and when he looks down, the damn cat has jumped on the counter, sending Lir’s makeup and the soap everywhere. “Shoo,” he says, swatting at the feline, but it just sits and looks at him.

Dante huffs. “You I could do without.” The cat blinks at him and he shakes his head. “Figures something would be a pain in my ass. Guess this place isn’t perfect, hm?”

“Humans are too fickle. If it was perfect, you wouldn’t be happy,” the cat replies.

He jumps, staring at the cat with wide eyes. “What the fuck did you just say?”

But the cat doesn’t answer, just licks its paw, as Dante’s heart pounds loudly in his chest.

#dmc #devil may cry #dmc dante #dmc vergil #dmc nero #dmc v #dmc sparda #dmc oc #fanfiction #my fic #the wish

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themissingmarvel · 4 years

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Kind Regards, Detective [Part 5] -Prelude to Deepest Sympathies

(I don’t usually trigger warn or content warn, but this might be a triggering chapter. I’m including the Reader’s Drabble I wrote a little while back as recommended reading prior to this, [Drabble 2] but if it’s hard to read about family death then maybe avoid it. This chapter was hard, but important. And I think sets up a truly important dynamic. I’m a slow-burn romantic kind of lady, and I wanted their relationship to be powerful and important, not just one of lust. Or even basic attraction. I needed it to be human. Anyway I liked writing it, and feedback is always appreciated and loved and treasured ((i seriously reread any feedback and comments)) and as always, ask to be tagged or removed from tagging.

Pairing: Detective Loki x fbi!Reader

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: Death, emotional anguish, PTSD flashbacks, language)

Catch up: [Part 1] // [Part 2] // [Drabble] // [Part 3] // [Part 4] // [Drabble2]

She didn’t sleep last night, which was no surprise. She had spent much of the night awake and poring over documents and cataloged pieces. Her own theories had been spun and while some might have felt outlandish in her head, she understood that this was an outlandish case. It had been hard enough to put on those headphones and let herself fall into a trance. Remember her sister. But not directly. She remembered remembering. Buying that damn CD she would play over and over. Peter Gabriel was her sister’s favorite, not that she’d ever tell anyone. Neither would. Her sister touted her love for System of a Down and Trust Company back when those bands made you cool.

For years after her sister passed she had found the only thing that felt vaguely satisfying was leaving that CD on her sister’s grave. And when CDs started becoming scarce, she had spent a few hundred dollars on Amazon buying all of the CDs she could find with that song on it. She’d be damned if she ever missed a single anniversary. Never went on the day of her passing, though. No. That felt sacrilegious. She went on her sister’s birthday, played the song on her headphones, along with a few others, but Heroes was the one that she played most. It was the one she’d leave behind after telling her how her parents had finally divorced, or how her dad had been ‘thinking’ about retiring again. For the hundredth time. Or how she’d been accepted as an Agent and two weeks ago, about how she was feeling so fucking lost.

But memories of memories are easier to put away, and much like her locker that held Detective Loki, her sister’s, much more ornate and much larger, she put those memories of memories away.

Her bag was hanging off her form lazily and her hair was done just enough to be presentable. By no means was she falling apart, but she was working. Working hard meant she lost focus on other parts of herself. It meant she had zeroed in on certain aspects of the case. Like how all of the individuals abducted had been on the same phone carrier, Radius, or how the TV was a model made by the company Source that had been discontinued three years ago, but at the time had been beyond revolutionary. Even now it was considered brilliant. She had found no traces of the nerve agent were discovered at the scene which meant they were probably injected with the pure form. Which meant someone had a lot of it.

Her theories meant that this man was not just dangerous but he had resources. He had access to things that people shouldn’t have access to and maybe he worked with Radius? Had access to their systems? The generator powering the church had been a Source item as well, meaning both were connected. Who used Source and Radius?

The precinct was still somewhat quiet, at 8am, slightly later than yesterday. Shift change had taken place and the detectives were still filtering in. Except for Detective Loki who was hunched at his desk, a long sleeved, form fitting black shirt on his form and black pants hanging off his hips. He looked sleek. Dangerous, even. She could see how someone might fall for someone like him.

Placing her bag down in the conference room, having actually remembered her coffee traveler this time, she glanced up as one of the cops walked in with a box, “Agent Y/L/N, this was left here about an hour ago for you. UPS dropped it off.”

The 2-PAM. She smiled and took it, “Thanks. Kind of nice when things work out like they’re supposed to for once,” she chuckled, curious why the box was so damn light.

The officer left and Y/N looked down, noticing that the label wasn’t stamped ‘FBI’ and in fact the sender name was absent, save for an address in Pennsylvania that didn’t look familiar. Maybe not the FBI?

Her heart suddenly began to race, carefully putting the box down as she looked to the side, seeing Detective Loki still hunched over. The man was on a mission.

Reaching behind herself she withdrew the small switchblade she kept tucked into her waist line, the one that no one ever saw. That was small. Cold and awkward at times but useful. Like now.

Why did this feel like defusing a bomb?

The blade clicked and she carefully began to open the box. She was aware it didn’t matter anymore who touched it, or if she damaged it. She knew whatever was inside the box was key. And with a final tug, the lid opened and she peered inside.

Time stopping had always felt like kind of an exaggeration to Y/N. How does time even ‘stop’? What, does the world freeze? Well, it did.

Staring inside the box she could see the face of a man she knew well, a man who cradled her soul and her heart and sang brilliant love songs to her, who had kept her connected to her sister, even in death. The black CD cover with two red forms on it, her sister claimed them red blood cells but said they looked like rose petals.

Her hand was surprisingly steady as she picked up the note inside, reading the immaculate cursive written on some kind of specialty papyrus paper, “My deepest sympathies, Agent. Your triumph through tragedy only enhances your beauty.”

And with that, she ran for the plastic trash bin nearby and fell to it, retching hard as she threw up the entire contents of her breakfast, causing the box, the note, and the Peter Gabriel CD with Heroes on it to tumble to the floor.

Immediately David heard the noise and jumped, running inside the room as the precinct suddenly jumped to life, turning to take in the scene. The note, CD, and box were on the floor and Y/N was kneeling by the small, cheap plastic trash bin puking.

“What the fu-” David was almost able to spit the words out before a strangely animalistic sound came from her lips, screaming into the bin that she had already emptied the contents of her stomach into.

The world grew quiet as the scream died down, leaving Y/N on her knees with her eyes closed, knuckles white as she gripped the bin as though it were the only thing keeping her alive right now. Stable. Present. Here.

“Get me gloves and bags for the items, now!” David yelled out, to no one in particular as he knelt by the woman in a kind of distress he didn’t know a person could experience from a simple box, “Hey, talk to me, what happened? Are you OK?”

Her face snapped, wiping her lips as she glared, “Do I look OK to you, Detective? Do I fucking look OK?” Her voice was raised, though not yelling.

Snapping back David glared, “Do we need to decontaminate the room? Is there anything infectious?” He looked at her seriously.

Taking a breath her eyes pulled away, “No. No chemicals. But it’s toxic none the less.”

Her voice was quiet as she spoke the words, closing her eyes and trying to forget what she had just seen. Experienced. Felt in her gut. Her soul had been torn forth in that moment and the timing of the CD was so tragically horrifying. For a brief moment of paranoia she wondered if perhaps someone had been able to access her personal phone, heard what she was listening to. The artist. The song.

Getting up rather quickly, Y/N stumbled slightly as she made her way through the people that had clustered, watching as two other detectives came rushing forward with evidence collecting items. Forensics would get it. They’d dust it for fingerprints and they would come up with hers, the delivery driver’s, the handlers at the warehouse… maybe a dozen people. And none would be the culprits. David would direct people to track the package and they would. They’d track it to some nondescript location where cameras weren’t installed and it’d been paid for with cash. She knew it like she knew the songlist on that CD.

Heading for the door of the precinct her head felt light, woozy, and she was struggling for something stable. Something to keep her grounded. Even as she threw open the doors of the building, those glass doors lined with metal, solid as hell, heavy as fuck, she ran out into the bitter air, feeling the cold devour her skin.

More.

She didn’t realize it but she was running now, into the parking lot, David not far behind, though he didn’t exist right now. Her sister’s smile was there, a true memory in its purest form, the smile she had wanted to see last night but didn’t want tainted and tied to this psychopath now.

Unthinking and perhaps uncaring, her hands grabbed at the hem of her sweater, pulling it up and over her head, tossing it to the ground of the parking lot filled only with cars, otherwise without a soul. The air was frigid as it enveloped her and tore her from reality. She gasped as the item fell, leaving her in her form-fitted white t-shirt and jeans alone, able to see her breath as she felt it stopping her from hyperventilating, the cold burning her skin, tearing at her and pulling her out of this other reality.

Once, during training, she had been shot. Not with a real bullet, of course, but shot none the less. A rubber bullet the academy insisted they feel the impact of to know what they might use in certain circumstances. And, perhaps, be prepared for since it’d be similar to a bullet hitting a bulletproof vest. The bullet had been fired by some complete and utter asshole Thomas Engleson, a man who didn’t think women could hack it. He shot her in the ribcage, instead of the stomach. He hit her directly. Not indirectly. And of course he was excused for it.

The pain of the shot had been incredible but she had gritted her teeth and taken it in. A cracked rib meant she was out for a bit, but it didn’t actually stop her. She kept training. Moving. Not exacerbating the damage but doing just enough to keep going. But the pain of that moment had been etched into her body’s memory.

This hurt worse.

Her skin was covered in goosebumps from the cold, beginning to shiver as she stood, perhaps for ten minutes, David standing behind her as he looked at her. This woman unshaken by so much, who had taken in twelve dead bodies and kept going, who took information meant to terrify and had kept pushing. Whatever had been in that note, in that box, had been meant just for her on a level those notes for David never touched.

It felt like an ache, standing in the cold as he watched the woman he had found himself so fond of suddenly pushing out the entire world as though it might infect her. He wanted to grab her sweater, wrap her in it, and pull her close. He’d swear to god he’d get the guy. And he would, even if he didn’t tell her that. He swore as he watched her, that finding this man would be his only task. He wouldn’t sleep. Wouldn’t eat. This was Dover and Birch, but now he was the onve involved. His own life was on the line.

“Do you ever wonder what it feels like to die, David?” The words were loud enough for him to hear, the wind suddenly picking up as she stared ahead to the road leading into the precinct, fairly empty though cars scattered about, the day cloudy and bitter.

He took a moment to consider it. He had. He had wondered once, when the kid in his backseat was frothing at the mouth, if maybe he prayed hard enough her poison would go into his body. He could take it, he thought. Better let the child live. He had seen enough, “Yes.” He answered simply. Now was not the time for banter.

A sort of dark chuckle left her lips, “I used to wonder what it might be like to die. After my sister was killed, I thought it was the only thing left that could actually scare me. The world couldn’t hurt me any more than it did when I was seventeen. I didn’t want to die, I still don’t, but I knew I could face that fear.

“But now? God, David… I wish I was fucking dead.” She fell to her knees so suddenly it caught David by surprise, running to her as he grabbed her sweater, saying ‘fuck it’ to the world as he wrapped his arms around her, pressing her body to his as he tried to finagle a way to keep her sweater on her as well.

No sobs or cries escaped her lips as her body went lax, falling against him as she wondered, perhaps, if maybe just giving in to this would be best. This felt so goddamn dramatic, and maybe it was, but for good reason. This man had found out one of her most intimate details of her life and sent it to her in a box. He had delivered to her a piece of her, and what scared her most was the fact that this man, this murderer, thought he was showing some sort of deranged compassion.

Time seemed to stop and David was grateful for the fact that they were far enough away, and behind most of the cars in the lot, that the world wouldn’t see them like this. He could smell the free, nondescript shampoo offered by the hotel, unsurprised that she wasn’t doused in perfume. But she did smell of something. Her own personal brand of herself. Pushing back some of her hair he spoke, “You can’t go anywhere yet. You can’t possibly trust me to finish this case by myself,” he grinned, stopping himself from pressing his lips against her head.

Chuckling, despite her desire not to, she shook her head, “I sure as hell don’t expect you to solve this alone. You need my theories, Detective Loki. I came up with a bunch last night.” It was tragic in a way, how fast she was working to compartmentalize. Whoever it was that had sent her the letter had done a bang-up job scaring the shit out of her. He had opened the locker that held her sister and emptied the contents without permission. But Y/N was cleaning it up. She was fixing it. In her mind she was already putting herself and all those pieces back together.

Looking confused David pulled away slightly, “Don’t you think you should go get coffee or something? Take a- Ah, fuck, who am I kidding. You’re not listening to me, are you?”

The ghost of a smile crept onto her lips as she raised an eyebrow, looking at David now, “Not really. And I mean, what’s stopping going to do? We both know I’m invested. He… he may have targeted you and those other detectives, and honed onto you, but with me… I’m a happy accident. He picked me. I don’t want to be another body in a church, David,” her eyes changed as she looked at him, suddenly fragile and vulnerable, opening her heart to this man. Detective. The one holding her in the parking lot of the precinct while both tried to put together what they just went through.

Stroking her cheek lightly David whispered, “And you won’t be. You’re gonna get up, put your sweater on, and go back inside. And when everyone looks at you, or asks if you’re OK, you’re not gonna smile or fake it, you stare at them. Through them. None of them matter now. Not a single soul inside. We’re gonna find this asshole, and we’re gonna stop him. Now get up.”

He pulled away, nothing truly romantic in the gesture but one that broke her just the same. They were words that felt charged with something more than a pep talk, but instead felt like a true demand. David understood she wasn’t some person who just fell over because they were pushed. She’d stumble. She’d fall. And he knew she could get right back up and go back to bat. And as she stood, David doing the same, he watched her eyes as she put the sweater on. Something had changed, briefly, something else. Something oddly dark that he couldn’t put his finger on, but understood she perhaps needed. The same thing he had needed in his time.

Turning her back to him, Y/N made her way back towards the precinct, her feet marching with purpose, her eyes focused, laser focused, as she understood what this was. This man chose people. Always. He had a reason and a purpose and it was never an accident. He had found the CD she brought to her sister’s grave (though she suspected it wasn’t the same one), he had written a detailed note, and he had found the one thing in this world she was still so very vulnerable to.

Now she was going to find him.

( @escapingthoughtsandsecrets @is-it-madness @detecellie @oscarflysaac @peccobagnaia @fgtakbrjbdl @doritosandavocados @miss-missing-patd

104 notes · View notes

chilling-seavey · 4 years

Note

For “Anything But Mine” blurb – first meeting between Florence and Daniel ~T

Yess...this one has a special place in my heart. This is the song that inspired it x

Word Count: 5.4k (yikes)

The house party was farther into the downtown core, set on a calm street near the university campus but the night brought rowdiness to the neighbourhood. Aidan helped Florence out of the car and they stood arm in arm on the curb, staring up at the house. Late aged teenagers were spread around the lawn and taking up all the space on the porch in a cloud of smoke. The loud music thudded the foundation of the old house and Florence could have sworn the windows were about to burst.

It took a lot of convincing to Aidan’s dad to let them go, especially in Florence’s condition, but they assured him they would stick together and be home in good time.

“How did you hear about this party again?” Florence asked Aidan slowly without taking her eyes off the house.

“Just someone in my kinesiology class.” Aidan mumbled. He turned to her and smiled. “It’ll be fine.”

“I know.” Florence returned his comforting smile and they headed for the porch. She was wearing blue jeans and a white t-shirt with a grey cardigan, her growing baby bump projecting under the material of the shirt. Of course, it got her a few stares, a group of guys who were smoking on the porch staring at her stomach as she walked into the house. It was staring she was all too used to while going out in public, so she didn’t let it phase her.

“What do you want to do?” Aidan asked her loudly as they made their way into the foyer of the house.

“I’ll just find a place to sit and enjoy the ambiance.” Florence giggled.

“Are you sure?” Aidan asked.

“Yeah! You go have fun…find your friends. I’ll text you if I need you.”

“I’ll make sure to keep my ringer on.” Aidan said. He set his backpack down and shuffled through it to find her virgin margarita in a can. She took it with a soft ‘thank you’ and he gave her a quick one-armed hug and a smile before he headed off to find his friends, bag slung over one shoulder.

Florence took a deep breath and look around the area, seeing the house absolutely packed with university students. It was an unknown house to her, but she walked slowly through the crowd, the cool can secure in her hand. Her other hand was set over her sweater, trying to hide her condition to the onlookers as she squeezed past groups as she entered the kitchen. It was a little less busy there although some girl in limited clothing had her tongue down some guy’s throat. Florence cringed to herself, scanning the room to find a place to sit. The breakfast area that was attached to the kitchen had an L-shaped couch in the corner by the windows leading to the backyard and she placed herself down with her drink. She watched the loud party-goers move around the house as she cracked open her drink and took a small sip.

It was refreshing to finally be out of the Clifford’s house but Florence still felt nervous being around so many unfamiliar people. She started to scold herself for ever thinking it was a good idea to be there. Before she could send a text to Aidan, someone approached her.

“Can I sit here?”

Florence looked up at the brunette boy beside her. He had a can in his hand and a friendly smile on his lips, staring down at her with piercing blue eyes.

“Uh…sure.” Florence nodded, shuffling over a little to he could join her.

“Thanks.” he sat down with a sigh, leaving a good amount of space between them. He took a sip from his can before turning to her. “Not the party type?”

Florence scoffed and simply shrugged, looking to her lap. She was worried this was some sort of dare that his drunk friends put him up to; someone else walking around and ready to take advantage of her.

“This isn’t usually my scene either.” The boy spoke gently. “I don’t drink. Or party.”

Florence eyed the drink in his hands.

“This is only my second.” He assured her as if that was supposed to make her more comfortable to be around him. “And probably my last since I can’t seem to shut my mouth.”

He leaned forward and set the almost empty can on the floor by the leg of the bench before sitting back and facing her. Florence’s eyes followed his every move.

“I’m Daniel.” he offered her an outstretched hand.

“Florence.” She answered slowly, returning his handshake.

“Nice to meet you, Florence.” he smiled softly, genuinely. “Were you forced here by your friends too?”

“No. It was my idea. A dumb idea but…mine.”

“You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“I’m really not.” Florence scoffed.

“Me neither.” Daniel sighed, slouching back against the couch. “I’ve had two beers that honestly did not taste good and my friends are out back having the time of their lives but honestly they’re all plastered already and I’m feeling pretty lonely. Gosh, I swear I’m usually not this talkative. But I’m not drunk; I feel totally sober.”

“Yeah, right.” Florence chuckled.

Daniel shot a smile her way, crossing his arms lazily over his chest, head resting back against the wall, staring at her with those vibrant blue eyes that seemed to shine through the dark house.

“I don’t get the desire to be so drunk, you know? Do they enjoy throwing up everything up in their stomachs at the end of the night?”

“I don’t get it either.” Florence chuckled lightly, picking at her fingernails nervously on her lap, looking away from his intense stare shyly.

Silence fell between them.

“Sorry if I’m bothering you.” Daniel said. “I can leave you alone if you want.”

“No, you’re not bothering me.” Florence looked back up at him. “I guess I’m just not used to people…boys…wanting to talk to me.”

“Why not?”

“I dunno.” Florence shrugged, discreetly setting her hands on her stomach. She hoped he wouldn’t notice.

He did, eyes dropping to her swollen belly under her white t-shirt as she pulled her cardigan over herself to cover it. He didn’t say anything, looking back up to her straight-lined expression.

“They don’t give me a second glance usually. Of if they do its for the wrong reasons. I’m more of a self-directed type of person, I suppose.”

“I get that.” Daniel whispered, turning his body to face her, resting his head on his hand leaning against the back of the couch. “I’ve been too focused on music these past few years to even look at girls and moving across the country last month didn’t help my anxiety. If it wasn’t for the two drinks I’ve had tonight, I wouldn’t be sitting here with enough guts to talk to you.”

“You’re in music?” Florence asked, looking back to him.

“Yeah. I want to be a music producer. Mum and Dad said trying to be a famous singer is unrealistic, so I settled for this.” Daniel shrugged. “It’s really fun though. I’m glad I took the leap of faith.”

“That’s really cool.” Florence smiled softly.

“What are you studying?”

“Uhm,” Florence dropped her gaze again, “I’m not in school. I graduated high school and now I’m living with family friends.”

“That’s okay too.” Daniel said quickly. “Not everyone fits into the insane university lifestyle.”

“I wanted to.” Florence mumbled. “I really did. But unforeseen circumstances arrive, and you can never expect those.”

“Yeah.” Daniel breathed, eyeing her small bump under her cardigan. “How far along are you?”

He spoke softly, nothing but gentle, but Florence’s cheeks flushed a terrible red and she looked the opposite direction.

“Sorry…I shouldn’t have…I’m sorry.” Daniel sighed, running a hand over his face. “God, I can’t seem to shut up.”

Florence couldn’t help but chuckle a little at his exasperation.

“It’s okay.” She said. “No one’s really asked before…no one seems to care. I’m seven months.”

“Wow.” Daniel’s eyes went wide. “And you’re here?”

“I got bored of sitting at home alone.” Florence shrugged. “I wanted to feel like a normal eighteen-year-old for one night, I guess.”

“Yeah.” Daniel sighed.

“Got my virgin mango margarita to keep me entertained.” Florence wiggled her can in her hand to show him.

“I’m trying really hard to shut up but I’m a little tipsy and I literally cannot repress this anymore so I’m sorry if this is weird, I just really love babies; can I touch your belly?”

“Oh…sure.” Florence mumbled, slowly dropping her cardigan that hid her from him.

Daniel met her gaze to make sure it was really okay, and she gave him a quick nod. He reached his one hand out and set it on top ever so gently.

“We might get a kick.” Florence whispered, tapping her finger tips along the curve of her stomach.

Sure enough, Daniel felt a tiny nudge against his palm and his face broke into a beaming smile.

“Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl yet?”

“A girl.” Florence sighed. Daniel glanced at her face when she sighed, her soft smile suddenly disappeared.

“Did you not want a girl?” he asked, taking his hand back.

“No, I did. I’m really happy about that. I just…” Florence waved her hand, “Don’t worry about it.”

Daniel nodded once as he knew to let it go. It wasn’t the right time to pry into her personal life, especially when his mental filter wasn’t working. They sat in silence together, staring out at the bustling party around them.

“Florence DiCaprio?”

Her head snapped up to the boy who was approaching them, the dark curly hair easily recognizable to the girl.

“Hey…Patrick.” Florence mumbled, quickly tugging the cardigan back around her, covering her belly as if it wasn’t even there.

“I didn’t expect to see you at a frat party.” Patrick laughed.

Daniel flicked his eyes between the two, his body still turned towards Florence and he could sense her sudden switch from calm to tense. Her jaw was clenched tightly, wide eyes staring up at the curly haired boy as if waiting for him to attack her.

“Yeah. I’m here with Aidan.” Florence spoke as strongly as she could.

Patrick’s eyes fell on Daniel and he looked him up and down before smiling tightly, “This doesn’t look like Aidan.”

“Daniel.” The brunette boy offered out his hand.

“Nice to meet you, bro.” Patrick chuckled, taking his handshake. He looked back to Florence, “This your new boyfriend?”

“I don’t think it’s really any of your business what we are or aren’t.” Daniel blurted out. Florence dropped her nervous gaze to her lap.

“Relax, man.” Patrick mumbled. “We went to high school together…I’m just catching up.”

“She clearly doesn’t want to ‘catch up’ if you couldn’t tell.” Daniel narrowed his eyes at him, setting his hand on Florence’s hand that was on her lap.

“Yeah, I know. Things obviously haven’t changed.” Patrick chuckled, shaking his head, before stalking off into the crowd.

“Sorry.” Daniel took his hand back from hers, hesitantly glancing at her in case he crossed a line.

“Thank you.” Florence said at the same time.

“Who is that?” Daniel asked.

“Some idiot who bullied my twin brother in high school.” Florence shrugged, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Thank you for getting him gone.”

“Don’t thank me, thank this warm can of Canadian.” Daniel picked up his beer from the floor again and took another sip, making a face. “Yep…still disgusting.”

Florence laughed lightly, finally relaxing into her new company. She tucked her leg up under her on the couch, so she was facing him too, “So, where did you move here from?”

“The one and only rainy and mountainous Vancouver, British Columbia.”

“Ah. West coast represents.” Florence smiled.

“Did I find the only other west-coaster in this entire party?” Daniel gaped.

“LA born.” Florence shrugged. “Definitely identify as Canadian though. Had to get me the hell out of there as soon as I could.”

“Oh, good. Canadians are superior.” Daniel nodded matter-of-factly.

“Some of them.” Florence rolled her eyes in the direction that Patrick left in.

“He’s clearly not from here.” Daniel assured her playfully.

Florence smiled lightly. He returned it, showing a little gap between his two front teeth that made her drawn to him that much more…his uniqueness.

“Let me think of a question to ask you.” Daniel leaned his head back against the couch and squeezed his eyes closed in thought. A few long seconds passed before he was looking back at her, “What’s your middle name?”

“Guess.” Florence shrugged.

“No, I’m bad at guessing!” Daniel whined dramatically.

“Well I’m not telling you until you get it right.”

“Olivia.”

“No.”

“Rose.”

“No.”

“Marie.”

“Stop guessing basic white girl middle names.” Florence scoffed through a laugh.

“We’re going to be here a while.”

“Alright, Florence Margret, one apple juice shot for you and one for me.” Daniel shouted loudly over the music as he shut the fridge and turned back to her. They stood in the kitchen with two filled plastic shot glasses, a good hour of friendly conversation under their belts.

“Thank you, Daniel James.” Florence giggled, clinking the little cup in her hand against his.

They both tossed it back before slamming the plastic empty shots against the granite island.

“Oh, wow, that’s strong.” Daniel choked dramatically, pressing a hand to his mouth and pulled a disgusted face. “I think it’s getting to my head already.” He leaned heavily against the island.

“I doubt the apple juice will have much effect on you. You were already tipsy to start.” Florence teased.

“Am not.” Daniel stuck his tongue out at her.

“You definitely are.” Florence chuckled.

“I’m just…happy.”

“Happy on alcohol.”

“Two beers.” Daniel whined in his defence. “Just two. Don’t bully me.”

“It’s not my problem that you’re a lightweight.”

Daniel gasped, pressing a hand to his chest in mock hurt, “I am no such thing.”

Florence only shrugged, shooting him a teasing smile as she grabbed their disposable shot glasses and tossed them in the garbage bag by the sink.

“Bet you can’t handle alcohol any better.” Daniel scoffed playfully.

“I don’t. How do you think I got pregnant?” Florence smirked.

Daniel’s sharp gasp made her laugh.

“That’s ruthless.” Daniel finally broke into a smile, mirroring hers.

“If you can’t laugh at your bad situations what else do you have?”

“Come on.” Daniel said suddenly as he grabbed her hand. “Let’s go dance or something.”

“Oh,” Florence mumbled, “I don’t…I can’t dance.”

“You think I can?” Daniel snorted, pulling her through the crowd to the living room where the speaker was located, music booming through the room louder than it was in the back of the house.

Of course, no one else was dancing; the university students simply stuck in their small social groups, at most swaying lightly to the music. Some Coldplay song was playing, the bass shaking the walls of the empty room. Daniel went right into it, belting out the lyrics at the top of his lungs, hands thrown out as he jumped around.

“Oh my God.” Florence laughed, pressing her hand to her mouth.

A few other party-goers looked over at the free-living boy and gave him weird looks.

“Come on!” Daniel grabbed both of her hands in his and pulled her to the middle of the room.

“Daniel…I can’t…” Florence mumbled, her cheeks going pink as everyone’s eyes were on them.

“Who cares what they think?” Daniel shouted over the music, starting to spin them in circles as the chorus began, throwing his head back and singing loudly. She couldn’t deny that he was a good singer, even in his drunken state he could hit those high notes perfectly. His smile was infectious, and she laughed along with him, finding herself melting into their present state, twirling herself like a ballerina under his one hand.

Daniel pulled her against him, one hand falling around her back and the other still holding tightly to hers, twirling around the tight living room in some sort of messily waltz through the second verse of the upbeat song. She shrieked giddily as they almost crashed into multiple people, but he kept her steady, not even stepping on her feet once despite his almost ungraceful pace. He caught her as she stumbled out of their waltz, laughing loudly, high on nothing but life and her newfound friendship. They screamed the lyrics of the next chorus together, twirling around the living room breathlessly.

Their moment didn’t last long before Florence felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. She stopped her dancing and pulled it out, seeing Michael’s name flashing on the screen.

“Who is it?” Daniel asked with concern.

“Michael.” Florence grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the living room after her to the kitchen and out to the backyard where it was a bit quieter.

“Who’s Michael?” Daniel asked cautiously.

“The family friend I’m staying with.” Florence answered, scanning the area for Aidan. The tall boy stood out easily and Florence answered the call as she made her way over to him, still holding onto Daniel.

“Hey, Mikey.” She answered loud enough to make Aidan look over at her.

“Hey, sunshine. You doing okay?” Michael asked.

“Just fine. I’m having fun.” Florence said quickly.

“That’s good. Is Aidan there?”

“Yeah. One sec.” Florence thrust the phone at Aidan.

He kept his stare on her as he pressed the phone to his ear. “Hey, dad.”

Daniel looked between them, his eyebrows furrowed with slight confusion as to who all of these people were in relation to the girl he had met only a few short hours before.

“Yeah.” Aidan rolled his eyes at whatever his father said on the other line. “She’s good, dad. We’re fine…yes I know: home by 3…we will…okay…yeah…love you too.”

Aidan blushed furiously as he gave Florence her phone back. His two friends didn’t think anything of him telling his father he loves him, simply smiling at Florence as she spoke to Michael again. She had only met his friends once or twice when they came past the house.

When Michael was reassured that everything was under control Florence sighed deeply and pushed her phone back into her pocket.

“I didn’t think he was actually going to call.” Florence said.

“Me neither.” Aidan tisked, taking a long sip from his can. He eyed Daniel. “Who’s this?”

“This is Daniel.” Florence introduced them, suddenly a little shyer than she was when she was dancing in front of everyone at the party.

Like usual, Daniel held out his hand to Aidan who smirked at him and shook his hand.

“Aidan.” He introduced himself before gesturing to the other two guys with him. “These are my friends Jonah and Corbyn.”

They all fell into a small silence.

“Okay well…we’re going to go. You’re boring.” Florence said, linking her arm in Daniel’s who offered the guys a grin.

“You’re one to talk.” Aidan teased.

“See you around, guys.” Florence called over her shoulder as she pulled Daniel away and across the grass.

“You seem to know a lot of people for someone who was sitting alone.” Daniel said.

“They’re all Aidan’s friends.” Florence shrugged.

“And Aidan is…?”

“Family friend.” Florence finished, “Kind of dated my twin brother earlier this year before my family moved back to LA. I stayed back and the Clifford’s gave me their guest room until I get myself on my feet.” Florence sighed, finding a bench at the far edge of the backyard under a large tree and they sat down together.

“And why aren’t you with them?” Daniel asked quietly.

“Got priorities that they wouldn’t understand.” Florence shrugged, pointing to her belly.

“Yeah.” Daniel sighed, keeping his eyes focussed on the busy house across the lawn.

It was almost dark where they sat if it wasn’t for the string of little lights thrown throughout the tree branches above them. The autumn night was chilly and Florence tucked her arms around herself to keep a little warm. Daniel shuffled closer to her and put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into him. Her cheeks flushed pink at the simple action, her head almost against his in their close proximity and the feeling of his hand on her was so foreign.

“I’m glad you’re not in LA.” Daniel mumbled.

Florence looked to him a smiled softly, “Me too.”

He met her gaze, their noses almost touching. She looked to her lap.

“You smell really nice.” he whispered before he could think. He pressed a hand to his face, “Oh my gosh…sorry. That’s weird.”

“It’s fine.” Florence chuckled.

“I think…I’m still a little drunk.” Daniel mumbled, ruffling a hand through his hair.

“I thought you weren’t drunk?” Florence raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, no, I’m not.” he shook his head.

“But you just said you were.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“I think you definitely did.” Florence laughed.

“I think you’re hearing things.” Daniel shrugged, looking away from her casually.

“You’re ridiculous.” Florence rolled her eyes playfully, tossing her own arm over his shoulders.

He looked back at her and smiled calmly. His eyes were on hers, his smile fading a little as the seconds passed, the distance between them almost non-existent and his fingers twisted the material of her grey cardigan lazily.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Florence breathed, her heart beating hard in her chest at just how his eyes were on hers.

“I’m too tipsy for this.” Daniel mumbled.

“For what?” Florence asked.

His other hand went to her cheek and he started to lean in to kiss her.

She turned her head away from him, pressing a hand to his chest to keep him away from her, “Yeah. You’re definitely too tipsy to do that.”

“I-I’m sorry.” Daniel stammered. “Shit…fuck…I’m so sorry. I thought…”

He shifted to face forward, the two of them stunned into silence, eyes wide and looking anywhere but at each other.

“I’m so sorry.” Daniel breathed.

“Stop saying that. It’s fine.” Florence ran a hand through her hair.

“Please don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad.” She chuckled lightly, glancing over at him.

“You’re just…really pretty and really nice and I don’t…I got too excited, I guess?” he shifted nervously on the bench, eyes focussed on the grass below his feet. “It was a mistake so let’s forget that happened. I mean, I’m not saying kissing you would be a mistake because that would be great. I just never kissed anyone before and you’re just…amazing and beautiful and really sweet and…amazing…and like I can see myself marrying you one day, I just…” he hid his red face in his hands, resting his elbows on his knees, “God dammit, Daniel, shut the hell up.”

Florence laughed lightly, not quite knowing what to say to that.

“I’m just going to go.” he stood up, avoiding looking at her at all costs, running his hand through his hair as if he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“Sit down.” Florence chuckled, grabbing the hem of his white t-shirt and pulled him back onto the bench.

“I don’t drink.” Daniel mumbled.

“I can tell.” Florence set her hand on his leg.

They sat in silence a moment.

“I don’t even know your birthday.” Florence said. “I’m not going to jump right into something so fast because last time I did that look where it got me.”

Daniel cracked a small smile.

She moved closer to him and set a hand on the side of his face as she pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“I don’t think you’re getting rid of me after tonight.” Florence whispered.

“Florence!” Aidan called from across the backyard. “We need to go.”

“Coming!” she shouted back. She pushed her cellphone into Daniel’s hands. “I’ll text you, okay?”

He typed his number with shaking hands before handing it back, watching her stand up with wide eyes.

“Sorry I have to leave so soon. Thank you for a fun night.” Florence beamed.

“You too.” Was all he could stammer out as she walked quickly across the lawn to where Aidan was waiting to take her home.

Daniel was sure he had ruined any and all chances with her once she left the party and he spent the remainder of the night with his best friend, Jack, downing a little too much vodka until he was vomiting behind a tree on their walk back to their dormitory at 5am. He rambled on about being single and lonely for the rest of his life as Jack had to nearly carry him home.

“It’s only you to fall for a pregnant girl, Dan.” Jack groaned, needing to almost pull him up the stone stairs of the old building.

“She’s all alone in the world.” Daniel blubbered, clinging onto him.

“I’m sure she’s just fine.” Jack said.

“Not anymore! Not after I ruined it!” Daniel wailed, his voice echoing down the hallway.

“Shh! It’s 5 fucking am, Daniel. Jesus Christ.” Jack scolded him as he swiped their key-card at their room door and pushed him inside.

“She’s not going to text me.” Daniel grumbled, kicking off his white Vans and haphazardly shimmying out of his jeans, his eyes already starting to close.

“You don’t know that. She probably fell asleep when she got home and will send you something later.” Jack said, keeping his hands on either side of his best friend as he climbed shakily up the ladder to his twin size loft bed.

“I’m going to die alone. No one loves me.” Daniel whimpered, pulling his blankets over himself as he laid down.

“I love you, bro.” Jack sighed, stepping up on top of the desk to make sure his friend was safely tucked. “Even when you ruin the entire night by throwing up everywhere.”

“I don’t drink.” Daniel mumbled sleepily, his lips set in a pout and his eyes already closed.

“Yeah. I know. I’m not taking you out ever again.” Jack rolled his eyes, starting to get himself ready for bed.

Sure enough, when Daniel woke up around mid-afternoon, he had a text waiting for him from an unknown number. He squinted at his screen through a pounding headache to read it.

Good morning, Daniel James. Hope your hangover isn’t too bad this morning :) Let me know when you want to go get something to eat and I’ll bring the Advil

He woke up Jack with his way-too high-pitched excited scream and got a pillow whipped at him from across the room.

#anything but mine #blurbs #why dont we imagines #why dont we

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ikesenhell · 4 years

Text

American Dream

AMERICAN DREAM, Chapter 1. You can find all other IkeSen works of mine here. NOTES: HOLY SHIT IT HAS BEEN A MINUTE. Thank you so much to @missjudge-me, who commissioned this whole piece. You have them to thank. I’m sorry it took so long for me to get back up, but being homeless and in grad school and working and getting formally diagnosed with an autoimmune illness and being in a pandemic and moving kinda takes it out of you. This was very fun to write. Enjoy!

---

Masamune wasn’t used to his childhood bedroom anymore. His mother had converted his loft bed desk into her scrapbooking station. That was fine, in theory, except that it meant two things: one, she hadn’t changed the sheets in actual years, and two, the loft bed was still there.

“Sweet!” He announced with a laugh, scaling the ladder in a single bound. It’d felt so tall once. He ducked low against the ceiling, pressing his back flat. “Holy hell, I was smaller then.”

“Duh.” His brother, Kojiro, smirked from the door. Time changed everything. Masamune felt so big when he was in high school himself, but looking at his teen brother changed his perspective. “You’re a big lunk now. You eat like The Rock.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Masamune kicked off his boots and army-crawled into the loft.

“How much clearance you got?”

“Eh. Six inches from my chest to the ceiling?” He tried to roll onto his back and failed, laughing against the drywall. “Did you know about the time that I knocked myself out up here?”

Kojiro’s luminous blue eyes appeared over the lip of the bed. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah. Got too excited freshman year of high school, bolted straight up when the alarm went off.” He motioned at a dent in the ceiling. “I was late. Dad didn't stop laughing for about, I dunno—”

“—the whole ride there.” Kojiro chuckled. “Yeah. Sounds like him.”

The funeral wasn’t so far behind them that it didn't hurt, but it sure as hell hurt less. Masamune checked his knuckles into the dent. It was the whole reason for his coming home. His mother needed someone to sort out all of the old things, all the memories and bills she couldn’t bear to look at. It didn't matter that they’d never gotten along. Kojiro was her favorite; that was obvious (and Masamune couldn’t blame her for that, Kojiro was a joy by anyone’s standards). Even then he couldn’t let her hang in the lurch. His dad taught him better than that.

Damn. He missed his dad. Everywhere he looked in this old town, in this old house, were reminders. There was the trashy diner where they used to get the world’s best milkshakes once a week. There was the old stove with the broken burner they’d never replaced (because it was ‘perfectly good’) where he’d learned how to cook. And it wasn’t just his father he felt the absence of. Masamune fingered along the space between the wall and the loft bed where he’d pasted all the pictures and keepsakes from his friends. Him and Nobunaga, posing in a picture by the beach with matching glasses. Hideyoshi and Mitsunari peering at homework, Mitsuhide poised to drop an ice cube down his shirt. (Nobunaga was a broker in New York City, conquering Wall Street with Hideyoshi. Those two shared an apartment in SoHo, all the way across the country on the other coast. Hideyoshi worked with Nobunaga now, and no one knew what Mitsuhide did. Mitsunari was off in the Peace Corps.) There was a snapshot of Masamune and Ieyasu squished together in the back of an old 1960s Volkswagen Beetle his mom had for decades, Ieyasu frowning over a mouthful of jalapeno poppers. Ieyasu was a doctor in Maryland now. He was terrible at texting back, too. Masamune made a mental note to call.

And then there was Her.

Even after all this time, he missed their friendship. He fingered the worn photograph; After-Prom senior year, her in a bikini that made his stomach somersault, him holding her on his shoulders. She was laughing. He still wore the fake eye back then, and it sat oddly in the socket, but even that didn't take away from the sheer joy as he gazed up at her. When she lived with her parents in the little green house across the street, he used to build paper airplanes with stupid jokes scrawled in the folds and fling it at her window, hoping that they’d hit and knowing they never would. They’d measure how far it got from his front door and compare their poorly-kept notes, misremembering all the numbers.

Now she was out there in the world.

Kojiro craned his neck over the loft edge. “What’cha got up there?”

Masamune didn't answer that. Instead he wondered if she was happy. “If I’m gonna stay here for now, we gotta fix this situation. I’m too manly and brawny to fit up here. Wanna swap beds?”

“No! This thing is so uncool, you can’t get—” And the teenager furtively checked the doorway, lowering his voice. “You can’t get anyone up here with you.”

As an adult, Masamune rolled his eyes. As a brother, he snapped back, “I promise, you can.”

“Gross, why the fuck would I trade with you now—!?”

Downstairs, their mother shouted, “Who is swearing up there!?” Kojiro paled. Masamune, bolstered with smug elder brother energy, kicked him from the ladder.

“Move, punk! Run for your life! You fucked up!”

His mother, louder now. “Who said that?!”

“That was Masa!” Kojiro bellowed, fleeing the scene of the crime. “Masa said it that time!”

“That time!? Kojiro—!”

Masamune finally wriggled himself free from the narrow confines of the loft. On the way down, he pocketed the picture of Her.

---

The only reason he remembered the day his dad bought the ‘85 Camaro was his mother was well and truly pissed about it. It wasn’t a pretty looking thing then. Masamune later sussed out that his dad had picked it off a side road out in the country because it was ‘a nice looking car’ and ‘could be fixed up’. Of course it could. Maybe it was his time in the military, but there wasn’t a damn car under the sun that his dad couldn’t fix. The Camaro was better than new, but his mom drove a newer Hyundai, so it sat neglected in the garage, shiny and electric blue and begging for a test run. When Masamune backed it into the driveway, his mother sighed ragged.

“I ought to sell that thing,” she announced.

Masamune bit back his reflex answer of ‘not on my watch’ and replied, “Kojiro’s gonna need a car when he can drive.”

“I’m going to get him something new. A nice car. That one is too old for anything now.”

“I could take it.”

“You already have that infernal death trap.” She thumbed at the Harley parked in the grass, right where she hated it most. In the name of getting along, neither of them had mentioned it. “You don’t need another car payment. Besides, don’t you have anything better to do right now? We have all sorts of things to settle with your dad’s estate.”

“Ma, the car is paid off.” But she was right in one way; he did already have a vehicle, and paying the taxes and insurance on both was a waste. It was sort of pointless, keeping the car in the garage forever. “I can’t do anything until I get the extra copies of his death certificate, and that’s gonna be a minute. I ordered them today. Did you want me to put the car on Craigslist or something?”

She gazed at it, her steel expression softening. Ah, yes. There was his mother. His parents loved each other dearly. It just took moments like this to remember it.

“Would you?” She replied. Her feather soft voice broke his heart. “I can’t bear to do it.”

“Yeah, Ma. I’ll get it to a good home.”

---

All it really needed was a wash and an oil change. The guys at the auto parts store whistled enviously when they handed over the filters. No; it wouldn’t be hard to sell at all. No doubt he could post it on some Reddit forum and get a hundred hits in an hour.

Masamune was about to post the listing when fate intervened.

The driveway was warm on his bare back, the first chill wind of autumn cooling his shoulders. His phone was stark against the sharp blue sky, his shirt rolled under his hair.

A shadow fell over him. “Masa?”

He blinked his only good eye, floundering against the sudden contrast. The woman murmured an apology, stepped away, and blinded him with sunlight again.

“Hey!” He laugh-yelped, rolling onto his stomach. “Goddamn!”

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry—”

“No, no, it’s fine.” He clutched at the Camaro’s bumper and pulled himself up, blinking sundots away. “Gimme a sec, hang on.”

And then—she swam into view, all bright eyes and curves and nothing like she used to be and everything like she used to be and so much better. Was this his friend, this fully grown woman with a face like all his best memories? Where his words? He was usually so good with them.

“That you, Masamune?” She asked, the ghost of a smile on her mouth.

“Well, hell.” SAY SOMETHING, YOU STUPID BASTARD. He forced a grin back—but then it arrived all on its own. “Wow. Damn. Where have you been this whole time, Kitten, Hollywood? You runnin’ everyone out of a job out there? Puttin’ those Hadids out of work?”

Her laugh was the same. Good God, it sent shivers all the way down his spine and into his toes. Her eyes crinkled and he wondered if he could bottle that expression. “You’re still calling me Kitten, huh?”

“Your fault for wearing cat socks all the time. I don’t see a reason to stop now, ‘specially now that you blinded me in my own driveway.”

Even her eye roll was a shot of nostalgia to the veins. What now? Did he shake hands? Masamune stared at his oil-slicked palms from changing the filter. “Well, if you don’t mind me smearing grease all over you… Shit, what am I asking for?”

“Oh my God, Masamune, do not rub motor oil on me!”

“Too late!” He charged forward. She squealed but didn't run; he caught her around the waist and squashed her against him, bringing her feet from the ground. Those eyes were wide with surprise and delight and so much joy. Something smelled of cinnamon and cloves. “God, is that your shampoo?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s great. You look great.”

She batted against his chest, wriggling in his grasp. “And you bulked up. What, you one of those CrossFit junkies or something now?”

“C’mon, don’t insult me like that. Their form is terrible.”

“And you ditched the glass eye.”

“It was hurting. Figured I might as well let the lid close up and deal with it. Not like I could see from it anyway.”

But she laced her hands around the back of his neck and tapped just above his brow. Such easy physical intimacy. Oh, how he’d missed that! They’d always been the most handsy of the friend group, never shying away from each other. “I wasn’t complaining. You rock the pirate look, Captain.”

Masamune snickered and clicked his tongue. “I’ll own that. I love some booty.”

With a roll of her eyes, she let the comment slide. “You busy? Wanna catch up?”

At last he let her slide from his arms, setting her feet on the ground. Why was the world so much colder when her body parted from his? “Hell yeah. Let me make you some gyoza and we’ll chat.”

#American Dream #commission #ikesen masamune #modern au #roadtrip story #angst #death mention tw

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florenceandthemachine · 4 years

Note

since we’re back on our bullshit pls consider: jackson in glasses and stiles losing his mind at how soft he looks in them thank u and goodnight

now that we.... back on our bullshit?

“hey Siri were we ever not on our bullshit?” “no”

“ok ty”

anyway here’s a little short thing because the only thing Stiles loves more than Jackson is Jackson in some big handsome dorky frames, ahahaha ha h a!!!!!! what a nerd, am I right? h haha hahahhahhh!!!

Jackson would probably get them in college. He’s getting his pre-law stuff out of the way so he can get into law school a year early, and taking an accelerated program even then so he can graduate at the same time as Stiles does with his masters in criminal justice.

(And partially because his parents said that they would pay for his schooling, which in Jackson’s mind meant the sooner he was done with school, the sooner he could burn that bridge and never look back.)

He got accepted into UCLA, and accepted because he wanted to go there, thank you very much, not because most of the pack had been accepted there as well. And Stilinski, for some reason, how had such a weird level of scholarship fuckery that he basically had a full ride—Jackson could admit that was impressive, because if anyone knew what it was like to fuck the system so successfully, it was Jackson.

As great as college would be, as great as it would be for Jackson to become more independent, and more reliant on himself and the pack, as great as it would be for Jackson to have his own “great bi awakening” (”shut the fuck up, Stilinski, I swear to Christ—”).... college would be a whole new realm of issues for him.

The most annoying was easily the least problematic—staring at screens for ten hours a day hurt his fucking eyes.

It didn’t seem to be something that could be helped, either—staring away from the screen helped his supernatural healing kick in, sure, but the irritation came back as soon as he was looking at his laptop.

Old Jackson would have probably shut up and stared at his laptop screen until he went blind, because he was NOT one to deal with things in a healthy manner.

New Jackson was.... a little better, in that it only took him a few weeks before he asked Derek what the fuck was up.

As it turned out, blue light was an issue for werewolves, so that was cool.

It was an easy fix, but that didn’t mean that Jackson was thrilled about it. He had never had to wear glasses before—he had kind of hoped that becoming a werewolf was going to head that off at the pass before even age would affect his vision—so he was less than looking forward to the next pack study session.

As usual, he was one of the last people to show up to the huge table they had basically claimed in the Darling Law Library (it was his week, next week would be in the Biomedical library for Lydia), and he slunk to the furthest end of the table before pulling out his glasses, glaring daggers at anyone who dared to make a remark.

They weren’t bad looking, of course. Jackson had basically picked out the nicest designer frames he could find, ignored anything having to do with a prescription, and paid extra for the blue light filters. The result was something he could live with—a nice dark frame, thick enough to add credibility to his profile without being bulky, stylish in a timeless way instead of something trendy that would be out of season in a year.

By the time Stiles showed up, they had already broken into their little teams—Allison and Lydia were flipping flash cards at a frankly impressive rate, Scott and Isaac were busy working on translations that neither of them were getting quite right (seriously the formal vous was not that difficult) and Jackson was nearly buried behind a pile of books.

Truth be told, he had literally taken less than a minute to forget about the glasses—the relief from his headache was great, but nothing he could really focus on. So when Stiles sat beside him and Jackson looked up, catching his gaze, he literally had no idea why Stiles cut himself off and started to gape at him like a fish.

Jackson did the worlds slowest double take when, typing up several more passages from law textbook, he saw Stiles still staring at him. He moved to push his glasses up, and—oh fuck, that’s right, he was wearing glasses—and suddenly Stiles’ staring took on a whole new tone.

“Can I help you?” he snapped, his self consciousness coming out in a sneered whisper that would probably have been much curler sounding if he had any volume in his voice. Stiles, for what it was worth, seemed to shake out of his stupor.

“No, no, Jackson, you just... I mean... you have really nice eyes. I can’t believe I didn’t notice before.”

Jackson frowns, scanning the heartbeat for a lie, but Stiles is being honest... and that’s something that he’s not sure how to deal with quite yet, so he just shrugs it off.

“All of me is pretty, Stilinski, now get to work.”

As Stiles was so fond of saying, once was an incident, twice was a coincidence, and three times was a pattern, and Jackson was pretty sure that he was up to six times and counting where he had adjusted his glasses, or pushed them up into his hair, or even tapped at the side of the frame, and had Stiles immediately snap his attention to him.

Which wasn’t a bad thing, he figured. He was man enough to admit that he had definitely grown to appreciate how Stilinski grew into himself over their first year of college—gone was the awkward, s scrawny teenager, and in his place was a more confident, self respecting, young adult...

... who just seemed to revert back into a teenager whenever Jackson did something like, take off his glasses. Or clean his glasses. Or push his glasses up. Stiles would always falter in his step, or trail off in his speech, or—as Jackson noted, pulling his glasses off as he pretended to read and sticking one of the arms in his mouth—literally walk into a doorways.

And it just. Kept. Happening.

It got to the point where Stiles got a B on his midterm (which was NOT the end of the world, like Scott kept reassuring him, but for a perfectionist like Jackson... well, he could definitely relate to how stressed out Stiles got about it).

He even started to try to leave his glasses at home when he could, but that was always a recipe for disaster. Because now that Jackson had noticed Stiles looking at him, it was all he could notice, even without his glasses off. The only difference was that he now had a headache, so he was already irritable, which meant he usually started snapping between the second and third time he caught Stiles staring at him, which meant that there was more than one study session where Lydia had sent them all home early.

The most recent of which ended in Jackson, sitting in his car, rubbing his temples and growling, as if that would help the headache. He had all but threatened to gut Stiles if he looked over one more time, and Lydia had taken a minute after declaring the session was over to mentally shake Jackson to death.

“You two get to study alone next week until you can play nice. Whatever the fuck is going on, fix it. With him. Immediately.”

Jackson hated Lydia. Mostly because she was always right.

Since they had been banned from the library by She who Wields the Table Reservations, Jackson had decided to announce that they would be taking a study break—Stiles only seemed too happy to oblige, especially if Jackson’s idea of a night off was terrible food and bad movies. He had threatened Stiles under risk of bodily injury to secure the good couch on the fourth floor of the student union while he went and picked up far too much fast food for two growing boys, even if one was a bottomless pit and one was a werewolf.

“So, are you finally going to ask me out or what?” Jackson asked, an hour into their “study session” where neither of them had even attempted to crack a book yet. After giving up on forgoing the frames, he had started wearing the glasses more and more often—even when there wasn’t a laptop in sight, just a couch and a table littered with wrappers from their greasy, delicious haul.

He figured it was the safest way to address the tension between them. Either Stiles would snap at him and storm off, or laugh about it and shrug things away, or they could actually fucking get somewhere like adults—Jackson wasn’t picky, he just wanted something to fucking progress.

Stiles promptly choked on a curly fry, looking at Jackson like he was crazy, opening his mouth to prepare for what Jackson knew was going to be a protest—so he was surprised when Stiles closed his mouth again, tilting his head.

“Fine, but you better be taking me somewhere nice.”

Jackson laughed and threw another fry at him, shaking his head. “Fucking finally. Here I thought you just liked me for my glasses.” he said with a smirk, looking at Stiles over the rim of his glasses in a way that he knew would have Stiles blushing so prettily in no time flat.

Stiles tiled his head a little at that, a small smile on his face. “Don’t get me wrong, the glasses look is definitely... I mean, it’s.... god, you’re so pretty, but dude, just ask Lydia. I’ve been gazing longingly at you ever since you announced you wanted to go into family law to help make sure no kids wind up in your situation.”

Jackson frowned—that was at the beginning of freshman year, just over a year ago, there was no way—but Stiles heart was ringing true.

Oh.

“Oh.”

Jackson pinked up, and Stiles crooned.

(On Halloween, Stiles talks Jackson into doing a couples costume—Batman and Superman. Jackson shows up to Stiles’ apartment in a suit, tie, and his glasses, and Stiles—clad in his Batman suit—is pissed. All Jackson has to do is open his button down shirt to reveal the big “S” underneath and Stiles has to pick his jaw up off the floor.

“My hero.” he breathes.

They barely make it to Lydias party before midnight.)

#stackson #stiles stilinski #jackson whittemore #teen wolf #prompt #late night writing for the bae #because I forgot I had a fucking ask #because I'm what?#a garbage person #college au #flospeaks #mutually assured devotion

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petri808 · 5 years

Note

Izuku dated Shoto and they broke up on bad terms and he didn't date anyone for a year or two and then he met Katsuki and he fell in love with him and wanted to date him and he asked him out and they got together and he wanted to make peace with Shoto so he went and talked things out with him and told him about katsuki and then he left but Shoto isn't able to move on and now he is sad that he let izuku go

A Painful Reunion

It had been a year since Izuku Midoriya had broken up with his boyfriend Shouto Todoroki and he really didn’t think he’d be able to keep going this way. The breakup had been painful for both of them, ending with such a massive fight over such a stupid little thing. He could throw himself into his work all he wanted to avoid the sadness, but at the end of the day he returned to an empty apartment.

“You need to get out again, Midoriya,” his co-worker Tenya Iida counsels the stricken man. “How about the new guy, I saw you looking at him the other day; interested?”

Quickly, Izuku’s ear start to burn. Yes, he had in fact noticed their newest partner at the firm. A man named Katsuki Bakugou had just been brought in as a junior partner, and something about the man’s feisty personality intrigued him because it was so different from Shouto’s cooler disposition.

“I take that as a yes,” Iida chuckles, settling back in his desk chair as he watches the cherry expression bloom on Izuku’s face. “In that case, as senior partner I am putting you both to work on the T.A.Y. merger.” He pushes a folder across the desk. “It should give you plenty of opportunities to get to know each other better.”

“Are you serious! I-I’m gonna be so nervous working with him!”

“Just think of it as any other case you’ve worked on with others. He’s new so it’ll be good for someone with experience in our style to partner with him for his first major case.”

Izuku runs a hand down his face, “I’ll do my best boss.”

“You’ll thank me later.”

He takes the folder and walks it down the hall to Bakugou’s office, knocking before entering.

“Hey,” Izuku holds the folder up, “Iida gave us a merger to work on.”

“We?” The man leans forward in his chair, narrowing his eyes. “I thought they weren’t gonna give me any till I pass probation?”

Oh crap, Iida didn’t mention that! “I don’t know bout that, but that’s the instructions he gave me. Could be why he has me working with you.”

Katsuki motions towards the chair across from him. “Sit, you’re making me nervous just standing there.” Holding out his hand, “let me see the file.”

Midoriya does as he’s asked, handing over the folder. He sits there quietly, fidgeting with his fingers in his lap while Bakugou peruses the folder. But Bakugou wasn’t blind to the other man’s plights.

“Do I make ya nervous?” Bakugou asks without looking up from the paperwork.

“No,” Izuku sits up straighter in the chair, trying though failing to be nonchalant about it.

“Tch, right.” He places the folder on his desk. “Well, where do we begin?”

“I know one of the CEO’s, I could call to set up a meeting.”

“Not bad,” Bakugou nods, “connections in high places, you’re one to stay close to Midoriya.”

Izuku flushes, scratching the back of his head with a wide smile, “nah, I just happened to have met him at a function.”

For the next several days, Izuku and Katsuki work at the details of the merger. Their client, T.A.Y. Corp. was moving to purchase a competitor, but that company A.F.O Inc. was trying to renege on the deal, despite the fact it would save them from bankruptcy. This merger would net their firm a sizable closing fee, so, many eyes were watching the pair. Some thought they were an odd match up. Izuku known more for his softer, meticulous approaches, and Katsuki as a bold, plan-as-he-went kind of guy. Both had impressive resume’s despite the differences, but it really was like watching two opposites somehow attracting like a magnet. Maybe their styles complimented each other, brought a balance they could tag team off of, at least, that’s what their bosses hoped for.

Their best bet to push things along smoothly, was to find leverage, and that took research, something Izuku specialized in. Katsuki knew he wasn’t very strong in that area, so he just stayed back and watched, lending a hand wherever he could. Negotiation was more of his strong suit, and that’s where he’ll come into play. He had to admit that despite being a nervous and nerdy guy, Izuku was overly sweet which normally irritated Katsuki, but this man was endearing to him. Every morning the man would show up in his office with coffee and snacks for the both of them. It was even odd how Izuku had guessed his coffee preference. Black, no cream, just a couple of sugar packets. But when asked, Izuku just shrugged and said it was just a lucky guess.

It took a week to get everything together, and a meeting set up between the two companies at their firm’s conference room. Izuku and Katsuki planned out their strategy, which came down to a good cop, bad cop routine. Izuku would handle pushing the facts, and Bakugou would focus on ratcheting up the pressure. Their client was on-board with the plan because all they cared about was gaining A.F.O. and in reality, shutting down some of its questionable operations.

And it worked!

Izuku had been so worried that Katsuki’s pushy behavior might make things difficult, but in the end watching that man work was like a really good thriller movie that you couldn’t keep your eyes off of! He was probably the only one in the room actually starstruck, but that was it for him. Izuku was in love. The exhilaration was palpable by the flash of Katsuki’s eyes, his fiery prose demanding yet coolly calculated. Katsuki was clearly a lion stalking its prey when he worked, and even Izuku fell victim to his deadly reproach. He, they couldn’t take their eyes off the man, and when it was finally over, it was Katsuki standing over A.F.O.’s CEO as the delegate signed on the dotted line.

“You were really amazing to watch in action Bakugou,” a darkening tinge filtering onto Izuku’s cheeks. “I could never be so bold as you.”

“Yeah, well I ain’t as good with all that research and stuff, so you did well on your part too Midoriya.”

‘Is that a blush on Katsuki’s face?’ Izuku wondered as they stood there, awkwardly complimenting each other. They were the last ones in the conference room, their bosses having led the client and other parties out by that time. So, there was no other reason to evoke embarrassment out of the brash man. “I guess… we make a good team?” he asks hesitantly, sweeping his eyes to floor in order not to see Katsuki’s response or reaction if it wasn’t a favorable one.

“Right…. Team…” Katsuki rubs the back of his neck, “speaking of team… we-well, I mean…. oi look at me when I’m talking to you!” Izuku’s eyes, widened by the sudden scolding, snap back to Katsuki. “Tch, better. I was gonna ask you if, you’d like to maybe go, you know, out to dinner or something to celebrate the win… with me?”

If Izuku’s eyes were big earlier, at that moment, he was pretty sure they could see space now. He couldn’t fathom that this man, this polar opposite in so many ways, would ever be interested in going on a date with a nerd like him. I mean sure, they got along fine working on the merger, and it wasn’t for a lack of wanting on his end, but he never any inkling that Katsuki would be interested in more than just a working relationship.

“Well? You gonna answer me or just keep staring?”

Right! He needed an answer! “S-Sorry, yes, Yes! I’d love to go on a date with you.”

Katsuki looks at his watch, “Then I’ll meet you by your car at 6?”

“T-That’ll be fine with me.”

“Good, and don’t be late,” Katsuki pats Izuku on the shoulder and walks out of the room.

Izuku follows not long after, beelining it for his office. Once inside he shuts the door and braces against it. The rush of adrenaline still funneled through his system, and he needed to calm down. He was going on a date with Bakugou tonight! Was this all a dream? Izuku pinches his arm only to find himself still standing, clutching the completed merger files in his hands, with his back against the door. It’s been a long time since he’s had such a rush of romantic emotions, sending his heart soaring, and anxieties through the roof. He didn’t want to hold out too much hope lest his heart be broken a second time in a year, but it did feel good to be wanted again.

That evening at dinner, Izuku did his best to reign in his nerves, and enjoy their time together outside of work. Two men in business suits didn’t quite look very romantic but, there was definitely electricity in the air between them and when Katsuki suggested winding down with a stroll in the park across the street, Izuku jumped at the opportunity. The glass of wine to Katsuki’s whiskey giving him a rosy glow.

At first, it was just the two of them walking along the path in idle conversation until they hit a more secluded area, further from the prying eyes of the lit sidewalks and city street. Katsuki reaches over, taking hold of Izuku’s hand, intertwining their fingers. If not for the shadowed lighting, they would have been able to see the darkening patches on each other’s cheeks. But they could feel a spike in temperature, warming the cooling night air that surrounded them. Neither said a word as the continued along the pathway, simply allowing the excitement to build and tension melt away. It was a step towards a new beginning.

The next several months were a whirlwind.

At the firm, they maintained a professional level, becoming the seamless team envied by other partners, but heralded by their bosses as the perfect storm, able to utilize their differences to affect great results. They really were very different in so many ways, yet once they married those divergent styles and personalities, they truly were a sight to be seen in a conference room. Iida couldn’t be more pleased with himself for pushing them together in the first place.

Outside of work was another story. In the confines of privacy, the bolder Katsuki drew out the quieter Izuku, pulling him not only out of his shell, but showing the shy man that happiness may actually be achievable. After the first couple of months, they were at each other’s apartments on a daily basis, switching back and forth on a whim. They took turns doing things to cater to each other’s desires, maybe a quiet movie at home for Izuku, or even a game of laser tag for Katsuki. Whatever one wanted, the other tried to make it happen.

“I want you to move in with me Izuku,” Katsuki places his arm over the man’s shoulder, pulling his attention away from the television screen. “You mentioned your lease coming due in a month, so it makes sense to just come here instead.”

A whole year had gone by, barely noticed really by Izuku. He’d been so happy about this relationship, but to move in together was a big step. What if things went wrong? His worried lip and furrowed brows trigger a sneer from his boyfriend.

“What? You don’t wanna live with me or something?”

“Huh?” Izuku flushes, “no I do! It’s just, its what killed my last relationship and…” moistures starts to gather in his eyes, “I-I’m afraid.”

“Tch, what’ll really change? I mean half your clothes are here already. You know my habits probably better than I do cause you’re so damn organized.” Katsuki laughs, and leans over, letting his cheek rest against Izuku’s. “I know it’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” Izuku breathes out. “I’ll put in my notice to the landlord,” he turns his face to Katsuki, peering up into the man’s crimson eyes. “And move in with you.”

“You sure?”

The flash in Katsuki’s eyes sends a shiver racing up Izuku’s spine. Was he? “Yes,” he nods adding a physical reminder of his determination.

“Good,” Katsuki kisses Izuku on the lips, then letting his trail over the man’s cheek. He whispers close to Izuku’s ear, “we should celebrate tonight, would you agree?” Katsuki places kisses along the nape, lingering at the junction of the shoulder, his canines dragging over the skin’s pulse.

Izuku could only nod and give in to his boyfriends demands…

If the bounce in his step didn’t relay to onlookers the cloud-nine feelings surging through Izuku’s heart, or maybe the ear to ear grin he sported at the idea that today was the day! He was officially moving in with Katsuki! Everything had been packed and moved already, but today was the final walk through, so he’d taken off to deal with it. Izuku pauses at the entrance of the apartment building and stares up at the imposing structure. He really likes it here. It was quiet, friendly, and close to work.

Well, Izuku glances at his watch, Katsuki should be home in a couple of hours, he should get dinner going, maybe even get a little more unpacked. He reaches for the handle of the double door, when another pair of hands grabs it first.

“Oh! I’m sorry,” he looks over. He’d been so absorbed with his own thoughts he’d missed another tenant right behind him. But as soon as he sees the man, all the blood drains from his face. “Shouto?! What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t ask you the same question, I live here.”

Izuku cracks a half smile, hoping to break the tension, “I-I’ve moved in too, today is officially my first day.”

Shouto’s eyes widen, “by yourself?” Had his luck improved, that the man he was still in love with would end up moving into the same building as him? He’d moved into this building to get away from the memories that lingered in their old shared one, and every day he kicked himself for not trying to stop Izuku from walking out the door.

“No, no,” Izuku waves his hands excitedly, “I moved in with my boyfriend.”

“Oh.” The man deflates but catches himself quickly not wanting to show his despair. “Congratulations.” Shouto opens the door, gesturing towards it.

“Thanks,” Izuku blushes and walks through. “So, how have things been going with you?” He makes idle conversation on their way to the elevators. Shouto responds with short answers, the whole time doing his best to avoid eye contact. When the doors open on the 5th floor, Izuku steps out. “Well it was nice seeing you, take care!”

“Yeah, you too,” Shouto gives a half wave as the doors close.

As soon as he makes it into the apartment, Izuku braces himself against the front door. Of all the people to run into here, his ex, but you know what? It wasn’t so bad. All this time, he’d been so worried about how he would react to seeing Shouto again, but now he knew the answer. It didn’t bother him. No racing heart, no lingering emotions for his ex, nothing. Izuku smiles, things really were going to be okay.

But, one floor above, Shouto Todoroki felt like his world had completely shattered. Izuku looked so happy the moment he’d mentioned a boyfriend. It was obvious his ex-boyfriend had moved on and that thought just killed him. He drops onto the cold tile floor, with barely the strength to keep himself propped up. Tears well up and he grits his teeth against the stabbing pains, turning his heart into a broken vessel. Stupid! Stupid! He punches the floor. “I should have chased after him!” It was too late now.

A few hours later, Izuku hear the tell-tale sounds of his boyfriend’s keys in the door. He walks out of the kitchen where he’d been finishing a roast to greet the man. “Hey babe,” he smiles wide and kisses Katsuki on the lips. “welcome home…”

#bakudeku #tododekubaku #angst n fluff #bakudeku fan fic #bakudeku drabble #bakugou katsuki #izuku midoriya #shouto todoroki #bnha #au story #bakudeku au #request

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itsbuckysworld · 5 years

Text

Yoga 101 | pt 2

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader Guest Appearance: Natasha World: AU.

Warnings: fluffy, mentions of smut in the form of thinking too much about how sexy bucky is, language.

Summary: Yoga would be the perfect activity for relaxing and just letting your mind go blank, if the yoga instructor wasn’t so fucking nice and so damn hot.

A/N: written for the #omnomwritingchallenge1.1k. My word choice was yoga, so I present to you, Yoga with Bucky, part two. @omnomsauruswrites

Smooches! xoxo L

REQUESTS ARE CLOSED

Huge huge huge thanks to @delicatelyherdreams, @caitfairwrites and @sunmoonandbucky. Through the almost a month that took me to write this, they helped me with typos, cheering me on and assuring me this was worth writing. I will forever be so grateful to them, and they are now stuck with me loving them too much so whoops. NOT MY GIFS

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PART ONE HERE

a recap:

Your best friend Natasha leaves you, to fend for yourself and try to survive an open air, one-on-one class with Bucky, the hot yogi you’re crushing hard on, that you met by pure mistake in your search for a stress relieving activity.

»»————-　　-————««

Your hands are trembling when Bucky walks you back to your car. Natasha is nowhere to be seen and you don’t know if that’s good or bad.

He taught you the basic movements, keeping it simple yet entertaining. This time around you did feel a bit more relaxed after the session. There was a lot of learning involved and a lot of long sighs when a stretch felt like it was doing its job, even at a beginner level. Bucky would grin at you every time, making your cheeks feel warmer and warmer, not only from the afternoon sun, but because he was Bucky, and that was enough to have you hot and bothered to begin with.

Bucky made jokes here and there, as if it wasn’t hard enough for you to focus on the task at hand. Each time he switched positions, he had to run a hand through his hair and you’d be lying if it didn’t make you feel some type of way – horny, that’s the type of way – but you had to give yourself a medal for keeping it cool despite the long looks he’d throw at you and the husky voice he would speak in when giving you directions.

As you neared your car, you were a little sad the afternoon was coming to an end. As hard as it was to make sense of the english language when he was around, you wanted to spend more time with him. He was funny, kind, nice, gentle, and hot. Honestly a dream come true. A man like that doesn’t come by easily. But another little detail the afternoon had brought to your attention was exactly that. A man like that didn’t stay single for long; there was no way he didn’t have someone waiting for him back home – you could only hope you were wrong to think that.

“Well, I hope to see you again soon” his cheerful tone snapped you out of your thoughts and you spied Natasha leaning against your car as you approached. Her all knowing grin was still there, perfect teeth and silently mocking, as usual.

“Uh, yeah, maybe. I feel a little better now, thanks for today.”

“I’m glad you do. And I’m here to help, anytime.” the warmth in his eyes was almost as unbearable as the summer sun: too bright, too consuming, too much to handle. You’re thanking the universe that you are close enough to your car to get support, because once more, this man has turned your legs to jelly with a single phrase.

“Hmm, fun session?” Nat interjected, her tone filled with mischief and playfulness, the smirk now twisting upwards and you could smell trouble. “Say, Bucky, We’re going for coffee now, would you like to join us?” She throws her arm around your shoulders very casually, her perfectly manicured nails tapping at your arm while you fisted her shirt on her back, trying to get her to stop.

Did you want to spend more time with Bucky? Sure. Did you want it to be with Natasha around playing mind games? Hell to the no. As much as you loved her and knew her glances and smirks seemed harmless – to Bucky at least – you knew her looks are a double edged sword, and you wouldn’t survive getting coffee with both of them. Not when Bucky is a little sweaty and looking very, very good; and Natasha has some sort of unknown plan she’s dying to set in motion, that you don’t want any part of.

To your relief Bucky is quick to chuckle and shake his head, excusing himself.

“That sounds wonderful, but I have some business to attend to.”

“Oh well –” Nat’s dismissal is cheeky, you know her too well –“some other time” There’s another pinch to her side, a warning to stop right now, and you give Bucky a tight-lipped smile. “Some other time” He nods and waves goodbye “Hope to see you Wednesday, Y/N?” he says as he begins walking away, still facing the two of you.

“We’ll see,” you tell him back jokingly, and he rolls his eyes at you in mock annoyance.

“Don’t make me beg, please.” he laughs and shoots you a wink, before finally turning around and being on his way.

Your brain is stuck processing what just happened. Between the one on one time with him, the friendly banter, Natasha and her schemes and that wink. Specially the wink. How come someone looks so hot when winking? Damn this man.

You’re too busy replaying that in your head – and saving it to daydream about during your break at work – to hear the beginning of Natasha’s teasing. She’s holding you by your shoulders at arms length before you know it.

“I never understood the concept of hot yoga, but I think I do now.” You shrug off her hands and open your car door, getting all your things inside and sitting on the driver’s side. Nat is quick to run around and hop in, eager to continue messing with you, you assume.

“Shut up.”

“No way! Here I was thinking I had sold you on yoga when in reality Mr. Amazing-Ass was the one to rope you in – oh, wait, you’d like that”

“Oh my god!” You bury your face in your hands at her words. She’s unbelievable. Note to self, never tell Natasha about any fantasies, ever again. “That’s not it!” “Psh, you’re going to tell me you’re not considering yoga anymore?” You remain silent. “You’re seriously going to pretend you’re not going to class on Wednesday to see his fine ass?” She clicks her tongue and her eyebrows arch in that ‘you can’t fool me’ way of hers, her nails tapping over the console, annoying the hell out of you – not the nails, but the fact that she knows she’s right.

“Ugh, whatever,” you mutter, setting the car into drive and pulling out of the parking space and into the not so busy roads.

“Ok then. I’ll let Scott know you’re not making it to his dinner on Wednesday”

You open your mouth to protest, to bite back, anything… But who are you kidding? You’re going to that class.

»»————-　　————-««

You were resting in Corpse as the last few minutes of Wednesday’s class went by. It had been three full weeks of coming to Bucky’s intermediate classes and Saturdays at the park and your progress was incredible. Not only were you learning poses by their name, you felt more relaxed, well rested and flexible – back ache be gone!

Natasha tagged along for a second Saturday, the teasing strong as ever, but she’d thankfully skipped last time. You hoped it would stay that way, there was only so much you could take of her cunning tone. Good thing you didn’t have to deal with her sassy grin at the center on Wednesdays and Fridays. No, those were the days you got Bucky all to yourself… And another 9 people.

But for a moment before class, at Bucky’s request, you and him would go over poses and your progress, so yeah, you did get him a little bit to yourself here and there, and it was both joy and sorrow.

Time with Bucky was great, he just kept adding to the “reasons this man is amazing” list you had started in your head, with his jokes, and his kindness, and, his warm, inviting smile. All of those things were also incredibly hard to ignore, thus making you crush on him harder, which lead to you always stuttering in his presence. Seeing him so much meant more chances to embarrass yourself. A tricky feat for sure.

The class finished up, people filtering out of the room and spilling out into the lobby feeling refreshed. Any other day and you would have waited for Bucky a little longer – discreetly though, always discreetly – but today there were… Some distractions.

He had let his hair down again, oh what you’d give to hold on to it, and his beard was a little trimmed, making him appear stronger if that was even possible, and he’d decided to wear a tank top, showcasing his arms; tempting, mouthwatering, lean muscle. Neither of those could be good for your blood pressure, or your way too imaginative mind.

Besides yoga poses and breathing exercises, you’d also learned, these past weeks, how to shift your focus from Bucky’s body to something else, but just like with your Camel Pose, you still had to practice more to get it perfect.

Thunder and rain greeted you when you walked outside and stood at the entrance. People opening umbrellas and skipping to their cars to get back to their daily activities. You could have sworn the weather app on your phone said sunny, so your umbrella was nowhere to be found, no matter how many times you rummaged your bag in search of it. You groan, right as Bucky walks out and whistles, surprised at the rain. He’d put on a zip up jacket – thank heavens – no hoodie in sight, though.

“Jeez, my phone said it’d be sunny,” he stands there, hands on his hips as he takes in the environment. It’s not too violent of a storm, but definitely strong enough to know you’d be drenched before you made it to your car. A small laugh escapes your lips at his comment.

“Yeah, mine too. Liars.”

“Looks like it’ll be a while…” Bucky says, reaching a hand out of the cover under the entrance of the rec center, getting the tips of his metal fingers wet under the rain. He smiles at the sensation and you’re entranced by how ethereal he looks. The juxtaposition of his hard metal edges, and his soft flesh curves; his chiseled jaw, and tender looks; the authoritative husky voice, giving soft commands... Bucky Barnes was a living poem you wanted to devour.

A shake of your head to get rid of your thoughts, and you wrap your arms around yourself, as if trying to keep all of that in your chest, warning it not to go anywhere without your permission.

Bucky looks at you, and then past you, the smile on his face growing, the now familiar crinkles by his eyes making their grand appearance, and he lifts his chin, as if pointing. There’s a café in the plaza across the street, about half a block away.

“You mind getting a little wet?”

More than I am? You think, and are quick to scold yourself; this is not the time for such thoughts, Bucky just asked you to get coffee with him.

Wait, what? Bucky had asked you to join him for a coffee? You blink, drawing a complete blank. You should say something, and not just any thing. You should say yes. Why are you not speaking?

“Uh, it’s fine, sure,” you eventually spit out, praying the silence wasn’t awkward while your brain rebooted to answer his simple invitation. If he notices your nerves, he doesn’t mention it, instead he shakes his hand, ridding it of the rain droplets, and walks up to you.

Like two teenagers, giggling and hopping over puddles, you huddle under your bags – now makeshift rain covers – rushing to cross the street, and you’re very focused on not slipping and cracking your skull with how clumsy you can be.

No one gets injured in the venture, and you and Bucky enter the warmth of the quaint café, shaking droplets off your hair and shirts on the welcome mat. He bellies up to the counter when it’s your time to order, his hands busy putting his hair up in a bun, and then they rest on the marble, all veins and yet so delicate – you fight away memories from times he’s helped you into positions, his warm hands touching your arm to remind you to straighten or bend it. The coffee shop suddenly feels a little warmer.

He bites his lip as he studies the menu, your eyes running over his side profile. From the tip of his brow bone, down the curve of his nose and the dip of his lips, you follow a single raindrop as it disappears down its course over his cheek. When his azure orbs settle on you, meeting yours, you’re not so gently reminded that staring is creepy, and you should snap out of the trance he puts you in.

Orders are placed, you insist on splitting the bill, and Bucky laughs as he agrees and guides you to a booth. For a while now, all your one on one interactions happen with a heavy chant of a mantra: “focus on something other than Bucky”.

This time around, it’s different.

Sitting in front of him, at a café, really sends you for a loop. There’s no space for any distractions, all that’s left is focusing on Bucky, and with good reason, because before you know it he’s talking, asking about your day and getting to know you, and you’re surprised at how well you manage the nerves and bat away images of him in that tank top doing Crane – you’re going to categorise that as a crime. That man doing anything resembling that pose, is an actual felony.

The rain continues to fall outside, whenever you need a breather from looking at Bucky’s pretty face, you turn to see the cars whizz by, the droplets racing down the windows of the café, and then you stare at your hands, wrapped around a warm beverage, mimicking his hands.

You don’t know how long it’s been, but it’s after endless rounds of jokes and questions, two mugs of something warm for each, and a slice of pie, when you dare ask more about him. So far he’s been doing most of the asking, with you throwing the same question back at him or laughing at his stories. More specifically, you wanted to know how it all happened.

“So how did you end up here? Teaching yoga, loving it so much, tricking me into joining...”

He laughs at that last part, putting his hands up after he places his fork down, tongue poking out to collect crumbs of pie, and you’re almost spiraling. “Hey, no trickery.” There’s that soft smile of his again, his body leaning in, elbows anchoring over the table and he looks adorable with his cheek smushed against his palm when he rests it there. “Well, I guess I have to tell you about this guy,” his flesh hand points to the metal appendage. Black shiny hardware and delicate golden lines. “So, when I was around 20, I joined the army.”

Your eyes widen at the thought.

Bucky is so gentle, so soft and chill. He’s like that jock in college that, despite looking strong, you might find him with a butterfly perched on his index finger as he tells you he’s actually an english major who writes poetry before every game. Maybe that’s an exaggeration, but regardless of that, Bucky is just… Not the type you could see fighting a war, handling guns and having to witness or cause terrible bloodshed on the field.

“It was… Chilling. Wrong place, wrong time kind of thing. A moment of hesitation, and before I knew it… Well, long story short –” he coughs a bit and shifts in his seat – “I got sent back home with less limbs and more confusion than when I left.” He pauses, trying to find the right words, but instead he chuckles and shakes his head, licking his lips. You feel bad for even asking, and reach out an arm to stop him, tell him he doesn’t have to say anything else. His metal hand covers yours on his forearm.

“Bucky…”

“It’s fine, really. I was lucky. A friend of a friend knows the Tony Stark, got a sweet arm and, well… Yoga helped… a lot.” He smiles then, squeezing your hand before letting go. You can sense how the mood shifts, now more relaxed, his shoulders drop back down and his hand isn’t almost clenching into a fist. The smile on his face seems more genuinely happy, and now that you know what not-so-happy Bucky looks like, you can tell with certainty that happiness is your favourite look on him. “It helped me relax, it helped me re-learn my body, this black and gold intruder. I fell in love with it, with how good it could make me feel physically and mentally.”

“That’s why you want people to try it so badly?” he nods.

“I don’t mean to act like I know everything about you, but you looked tense,” he shrugged nonchalantly, “and if anything yoga sets out to do, is remove tension, so I just pushed, and I’m glad!” The two of you laugh at that, you finally let go of his forearm, but it’s not long before Bucky reaches out himself, to grab your hand again. There’s goosebumps raising all over your skin and his smile lets you know it’s all okay.

“I’m glad as well. I really like it, and I can’t lie… It’s helped me a lot.”

He shrugs casually. “Then my job has been done”

“Done? Are you breaking up with me?” You place a hand on your chest, faking offense and his head throws back in laughter at this.

“Never! There’s still a lot more for you to learn. You can’t leave until you can hold King Pigeon for 20 seconds.”

“Gee, I can barely do Table for 10, take it easy, soldier.”

He bursts into laughter again, and now the mood has truly changed.

»»————-　　————-««

You’re glad it keeps raining for another 30 minutes, and that they sell drinks other than coffee at the shop, because you and Bucky are ordering smoothies and chatting away until the sun is almost gone and the puddles on the road are the only proof that there was ever any rain.

Bucky walks you back to your car, still in the middle of a story about his best friend Steve and their college roommate Sam, the first time he saw Bucky with his prosthetic. Your belly aches, maybe because of the butterflies, maybe because of the long time spent in Plank back in class, maybe it hurts of laughter, from your afternoon with Bucky. Either way, it’s a pleasant little burn that you’re taking home with you to dream about, along with images of Bucky biting his lip, and having whipped cream from his coffee, on the tip of his nose.

It’s your turn to bite your lip, when you finally reach your car and it’s time to part ways. After a day like this, it almost hurts to say goodbye, but the day has been too perfect to complain.

“Hey, so… Got any plans Saturday?” He asks, leaning his body over the side of your car. It’s not the best moment to think about how he looks like a model, but the thought runs through your head at the speed of light, too fast to catch it before it makes a ruckus.

“Uh, not really–” you giggle, remembering – “Oh well, duh, yoga. At the park.” Bucky laughs along with you, a hand coming up to scratch the back of his head as he stares at his feet. It’s a little dark but you can see a faint tint of red cover his features.

“Well, yeah, I just…” he stumbles over his next words, and you don’t mind one bit. Seeing him a little flustered, when it’s always you scrambling to find words to say, it’s a nice change of pace, though you can’t imagine why he would be flustered. “I was thinking, maybe I can take you up on that offer for coffee after class next Saturday? Like your friend said? I just- uh… You know, j-just us?”

It’s suddenly hard to breathe. None of the techniques come to mind now, and the belly ache is definitely because of the butterflies, because they are wild right now. Out of the blue they have multiplied to thousands and thousands.

“Sure.” You’re 100% sure that your smile reaches from ear to ear and it makes it hard for you to pronounce the short word properly, but Bucky seems to have understood whatever you chirped, and there’s a smile of his, mirroring yours.

“Cool… Uhm, well, see you Friday?”

You nod eagerly. “See you Friday”

You had gotten used to a certain kind of proximity from Bucky. Either because of a pose you weren’t holding right, or had just learned and he was there supervising, or from moments like today, when you somewhat held hands over the table as you sipped your drinks. But none of that compared or could have prepared you for the close proximity that was Bucky leaning in to kiss your cheek. His warmth suddenly almost suffocating, his scent filling your nostrils, the slight stubble tickling you in the most delicious of ways, and the chills running up and down, and up and down your spine.

Soft pink lips, warm and tender, pressing a gentle peck to your cheek, the tip of his nose caressing your face – that’s a memory you want burned into your brain.

It’s over way too quickly, but you’ve registered every detail, and it costs you a lot not to hop on the balls of your feet right there and then. Bucky is waving you goodbye, walking over to his own car, parked on the other end of the lot and you fake cool as you open the door and slide inside.

You wait until the door is closed and allow your brain and your heart a few moments to process what just happened – not just this last bit, the entire afternoon – before you let out a scream, a kick, and a squeal, praying to the world Bucky didn’t see that.

In your thrashing about you almost miss his silhouette punching the air in celebration before he gets in his car as well.

All in all yoga had been a wonderful decision.

Fin.

»»————-　　————-««

Hope you guys liked this! Hnnngg isn’t yogi Bucky the absolute sweetest? You’re welcome to sound off about how you think their coffee date went, I wanna hear your ideas.

I want to hear what you thought of this in general! Please, pretty please, let me know, anything counts! Call me beep me if you wanna reach me.

Have a good day lovelies!

HERES MY ASK (please don’t be rude) ||| here’s my Masterlist

xoxo, L.

#yoga 101 #part 2 #bucky barnes x reader #yoga au #fluff #au #bucky barnes #my writing #little l masterlist #fanfic #Yoga

111 notes · View notes

ashfountainfanfics · 5 years

Text

“Mr. Harrington?” the nurse at the doctor’s office asks.

Steve startles and drops the old magazine he’d been pretending to look at. Billy is at his eight week check up and there’s no telling if he’s going to come out with a cast or not. Steve’s spent God knows how long in the lobby weighing both outcomes. If the cast stays on then that objectively sucks and if it comes off then great! Right?

But they had developed a routine in the past few weeks and that routine has been running through Steve’s mind.They’d wake up and Billy would try to bark out instructions to Steve on how to make a proper breakfast. Steve knows how to fry an egg now but he still burns the bacon. Billy gives him shit for it every time but sometimes he mutters a compliment on the eggs.

Billy then naps while Robin comes over for pool time. Billy fixes up lunch and leaves Steve’s out on the coffee table while Steve showers. Billy then showers while Steve eats. Steve and Billy play a game of cards; sometimes poker. It depends on whether Dustin’s over for dinner or not and, surprise, Dustin’s amazing at poker.

Then Billy and Steve settle in on the couch. They watch TV and talk. Sometimes they talk about their childhoods. Sometimes it’s about their pasts. Sometimes it’s just giving each other shit but in a good way. Other times they just let the TV do the talking for them. It ends the same, they both fall asleep on that same couch. They don’t talk about that part though because Billy’s always waiting in the kitchen by the time Steve wakes up.

“Mr. Harrington,” the nurse repeats, “Your friend asked me to give you his discharge paperwork.”

“Discharge? Is he-”

“Read the paper, Mr. Harrington,” the Nurse replies.

Steve does just that but his eyes are manic as they haphazardly search for an answer.

Ibuprofen as needed.

Follow up in two weeks.

Low level activity.

...low level activity!

The door opens and Billy’s standing on the other side, cast free. Billy smiles brightly at Steve and slowly makes his way across the lobby. He has a limp and he’s carrying both cruthces in one hand.

“Doc says he’s never seen someone recover so well,” he smiles, “and my teachers always said I’d amount to shit.”

“Mr. Hargrove,” the nurse warns with an even temper, “language please.”

Billy’s previously injured leg looks so pale and it’s leaner than the other. It’s not a dramatic difference and maybe it’s just Steve’s brain overcompensating for the bulky cast. Billy’s wearing both of his boots now and it looks hilarious paired with his shorts.

“You need jeans,” Steve laughs.

“Ya think?” Billy bites back.

The biting and snapping is so different now than it was before. Before it felt like handling the violent outbursts of a wild animal. Now it’s harmless, playful even. It reminds Steve of how puppies play with each other. Not that he would dare tell Billy that he makes Steve think of puppies. Teasing aside there’s still boundaries.

Steve keeps an eye on Billy and matches his pace. He can’t help it. He’s gotten accustomed to going Billy’s speed. They get to the car.

“Keys,” Billy demands, “I’m driving.”

Steve doesn’t question it and tosses them over. They load up and Steve has butterflies in his stomach. Billy adjusts the radio and then peels out from the parking lot.

Steve’s chest feels heavy because he isn’t sure where they’re going.

He doubts that Billy is going back to his dad’s place. For a while, Steve thought he might go back for Max but he doesn’t need to. Billy understood that since she was willing to stand up to him she is definitely prepared to stand up to her father too. But even then, if that excuse for a father figure ever lays a finger on Max, Billy’s going to do something about it.

‘I’m not afraid of shit anymore’ Steve remembers him saying one night. Steve made him promise not to do anything that would send him to prison. Billy found a compromise; he wouldn’t do anything that would get him life in prison. That was the best Steve could hope for.

Steve feels his breath hitch whenever they come to a turn but so far they’re following the same route back. There’s a little thrill as the car curves around the corner the way he hoped it would.

“You okay?” Billy asks before taking a drag of his cigarette.

“Yeah.”

“Then why do you have your head out the window like a dog?”

Steve brings himself back to an appropriate position.

“I’m trying to not to throw up,” he covers, “You drive like a maniac.”

Billy laughs and speeds up. They come up to a light and it turns yellow but Billy doesn’t slow down.

“Billy...” Steve warns.

The light turns red and Billy floors it.

“BILLY!”

Billy whoops in excitement as they get through the light unscathed. A series of angry car horns sing behind them. Steve unfolds his arms and legs from the ball he’d formed on instinct.

“You’re insane!”

“Nah, I’m free, baby!”

So much for being harmless, Steve thinks as his heart rate goes back to normal.

Billy pulls up to the Harrington residence. He shuts off the car and the radio cuts off leaving a silence between them. Neither of them gets out of the car right away. Billy squeezes the steering wheel and Steve taps his fingers on his knees.

“So you’re better now,” Steve tests the waters.

“Yup.”

“You’ve got both legs.”

Billy nods but his eyebrow is raised in suspicion. Steve can tell he’s irritating him but he can’t stop.

“You can go anywhere and do whatever.”

“Is there a point here?” Billy says with a tight jaw.

“So stay.”

It comes out quick and painfully on the nose. Steve catches a quick glance at Billy and the wide eyes looking back make him want to curl back into a ball. He could be setting himself up for a different kind of collision and unlike Billy there’s no sense of high in it.

“If you want,” Steve tries to tone it down, “You don’t have to but- you staying would be, uh, good.”

I used to be smooth once, Steve laments internally, I used to be cool.

“I’m not sleeping on the couch anymore,” Billy says after a moment passes.

“Yeah. Yeah sure.”

Steve’s chest is no longer heavy but instead has the curious sensation of being split right down the middle. Billy’s refusing the couch which must mean he’s not staying. It was stupid to think he would. Did Steve honestly think they were... well, at minimum, friends? He must have misread something along the way. Maybe all their routine came down to was tolerance. Now there’s no reason to tolerate anything anymore. Billy’s free to be wherever he wants to be.

“You can’t make up the bed tight either,” Billy complains, “That shit looked like military quarters on one side. If I wanted to sleep in some rigid crap like that I’d have joined the army.”

“...what?”

“I’m not spelling it out for you,” Billy gets out the car and slams the door shut behind him.

God knows Billy never does. Steve does understand what he’s saying though. He’s gotten good at decoding the way Billy expresses things. Everything comes out in sharp edges but if it’s filtered right Steve can hear some amazing and unexpected things; sympathy, kindness, affection… vulnerability. At the moment, it sounds like Billy is wanting to stay and not like he was staying before.

Steve knows what the bed reference is towards. The night that Billy was high and he needed a different bed Steve absolutely stayed in that bed with him. It may have seemed like a weird impulse given the kiss that preceded it but Steve was worried. It didn’t seem right to leave Billy alone. He slept on top of the covers though. He didn’t want them touching then. He didn’t trust it.

Steve fumbles over his seatbelt and manages to meet up with Billy. He’s leaning against the front door and already smoking a second cigarette. He puffs away at it anxiously but the expression on his face is stern. Steve gets closer than he’s dared to before, maybe an inch away. He’s close enough to touch him and he finds it infuriating that he wants to.

“Look,” Steve says, trying to wear Billy down with a serious gaze, “I know that you’re not good at saying what you mean and normally I get it anyway. And I think I get what you’re saying now but I need to know because if I do this, if we do this, it has to be for sure.”

“Know what?” Billy say before taking another drag.

Steve’s been dancing around his own feelings for two months, constantly in and out of what can only be described as a gay panic. It had been exhausting. Ultimately, he settled on acknowledging what Billy makes him feel but not acting on it unless Billy initiates it again. It felt less complicated that way. Now that initial move has been made… probably. Steve needs the clarity and for the first time in their new rapport he’s demanding it.

“Did you just ask to sleep in my bed? With me?”

Billy puts on his best ‘fuck you’ grin before blowing out a slow, steady stream of smoke into Steve’s face.

“Okay,” Steve rolls his eyes and starts to turn away.

It could have been easy to stop right there. They could let all of this go and write it off as a bad joke. Steve could go back into that house and dance around hidden signals and off remarks for God knows how many more months. Or maybe that was the clarity he needed. Billy doesn’t reciprocate and his cryptic shit really isn’t so cryptic.

Fuck that, Steve decides.

He literally grabs the cigarette out of Billy’s mouth and before Billy can be pissed about it he pins him to the door with his forearm. The cigarette lands in the dirt and Steve can’t tell why his blood is boiling. Is it because he’s mad? Or because he’s finally touching Billy? Or both?

“Tell me what you want,” Steve growls, “or get the fuck out of my house.”

Billy looks furious but Steve stands his ground. Even if Billy decides to kick his ass and take off with his car at least Steve will know where they stand. He’s done playing games.

“Kiss me,” Billy says through bared teeth.

Steve does a mental double take. He brings his arm down so Billy isn’t trapped against the door anymore.

“Really?”

“Am I speaking goddamn Spanish!?” Billy shouts, “Fucking do it alre-”

Billy doesn’t get to finish because Steve’s lips are on his mouth and it feels good. It feels better than the last time and different. Billy isn’t playing casanova. In fact, the something almost shy about him.

Steve stick a leg in between Billy’s as he plants his hands on either side of his head. Billy moans into the movement and Steve swears that he’s melting like butter under him. Billy hooks a hand into the front of Steve’s jeans and pulls him even closer.

This is happening. In broad daylight. With everyone sober. Steve’s whole body wants to crash into Billy’s. It’s a hunger and an inevitable gravity.

Steve detours his kisses along Billy’s jaw and lands on his neck. He gets to work on leaving a mark because Steve can’t stand the idea of not marking him. That primal part of his mind goads him into it. He’s gentle at first but builds into a hard bite. The animal in him pushes further and he starts rutting against Billy.

“Fuck,” Billy murmurs pleasantly.

God yes, Steve thinks as Billy’s sounds curl up into him and caresses his every nerve.

“Fuck,” Billy groans again before his tone shifts, “Wait. Fuck! No, hey!”

Billy pushes Steve away hard. It feels like being cut off in the middle of a current. He doesn’t understand at first. He tries to think why Billy would stop. What in God’s name could have stopped that?

Did...did someone see us? Is someone else here!?

Steve panics. He knows what it means to have a certain kind of hate. He knows how violent that hate can get. He looks around frantically and steps back.

“I am NOT your bitch, Harrington!” Billy screams out, “You touch me like that again and I’ll fucking kill you!”

Dumbstruck, Steve tries to cultivate a response. This wasn’t even in the realm of possible reasons to stop what they were doing but here it is anyway. No danger. Just insecurity.

“I didn’t- I wasn’t-”

“Fuck you!”

The heartbreak settles in now. He wasn’t trying to treat Billy in any kind of way except well. What did he do wrong? Was he too aggressive? Too dominant? The last thing he wanted to do was give Billy a reason to push him away and then he literally pushes him away. Billy’s back to biting and clawing and not in the good way. He’s feral again and Steve desperately wants to go back just a handful of seconds. Billy was so close to being okay with all of this.

“Billy... I’m sorry,” Steve says quietly, “We can do this different. Or not at all if you’re not okay. I don’t- I never ever want to make you feel shitty, okay? Never.”

Billy takes this in and lights up another cigarette. He sits down on the front steps leading up to the door and blows a puff of smoke out the side of his mouth. Steve cautiously sits down next to him. The concrete is hot under him and he imagines that it’s not very comfortable for Billy either. But Billy doesn’t let on.

“What do you wanna do?” Steve asks.

Billy straightens out his formerly injured leg. He very slowly and purposefully moves the toe of his shoe out and back. Another long drag and Steve’s wondering if Billy’s ever going to talk again.

“-ry,” Billy whispers so quietly that only the last syllable is audible.

“What?”

“I’m sorry.”

It’s an apology. Steve was expecting another argument, another round of silence. He’s not sure how to respond yet.

“I’m new to this gay shit,” Billy continues.

“Me too,” Steve chimes in quickly.

Billy drops his cigarette down and grinds it out with his boot. He turns toward Steve and attempts eye contact. He then immediately drops it and turns back.

“I’ve never-” he looks like talking is both embarrassing and painful, “I don’t get involved with people. Y’know, with feelings and shit. I think it’s fucking stupid.”

This isn’t helping Steve’s heartache at all.

“But you’re not stupid.”

Billy offers his hand palm up, fingers spread. He doesn’t look at Steve but his hand stays open and waiting. They could have more of a conversation but this feels pretty clear.

Steve mimics Billy’s eye line. They both stare off into the distance with cool expressions. Steve then crosses his wrist on top of Billy’s and laces their fingers together.

—-

“I have a job!”

Steve shouts his news as he enters his parent’s house. He races to the living room and manages to hop over the back of the couch. He lands with a flop next to Billy who’s got his nose in a newspaper.

“I have a job,” Steve repeats with a smile, “and my only uniform is a vest.”

“Don’t phrase shit like that. Sounds like you’re only wearing a vest. Like no pants or something.”

“I didn’t think of it like that but not wearing pants would sweeten the deal.”

“You don’t have the balls to go out naked in public,” Billy mutters as circles one of the ads in the paper.

Steve laughs.

“I used to,” he points out, “but streaking lost its high in junior year.”

Steve moves in closer to Billy. The spaces between them always feel so heavy and there’s only ever room between them for conversation or kissing.

Last night they slept together in Steve’s bed and before they drifted off they had made out for hours. They didn’t speak a word to each other though and that was for the better. Talking about it muddled things by bringing attention to details Steve wasn’t sure they could handle. Or more accurately details that Billy can’t handle. Steve feels like he’s adjusting fairly well to the whole liking another guy thing.

Nonetheless, Steve can recall the heat and sweat of last night in quick flashes. Billy still smells the same, a sweet sort of musk. Steve wants so badly to press his lips into where Billy’s shoulder meets neck but he has to be cautious. Now isn’t the right time.

“You find some leads?” Steve distracts himself with the task at hand.

A few spots have been circled on the wanted page: box boy for the local grocery store, assistant to a mechanic, and-

“Police officer?” Steve asks incredulously.

Billy snaps the newspaper back to himself. He wasn’t expecting Steve to read over his shoulder. He hadn’t been expecting him to be so close really.

“You don’t think I could be a cop?”

“I didn’t know you wanted-“

“Who fucking says I want to?”

There are days where it feels like it’s never going to get easier with him. In fact, Steve catches himself wondering briefly if they ever really move forward at all. Any time he thinks he’s getting close enough toward- well whatever it is they’re gravitating toward - they slip back a bit. It’s always Billy too. Steve tries but it’s like Billy gets skittish… in a loud and yelling sort of way.

“I think it might be helpful. To be a cop. That’s all.”

“How?”

“You’re a real dumbass sometimes,” Billy narrows his eyes but settles down:

“Then enlighten me, oh wise one,” Steve bites back with just the right amount of sarcasm.

It works and Billy relaxes.

“Shit happens here. A lot. The only cop any of you know is dead so-“

“You want to replace Hop?”

“I want to be useful,” he says it quietly and stares at the floor intently.

“I’ve been on the other end of your right hook. You’re more than useful.”

Billy mumbles something but Steve can’t catch it under the gravel of the other boy’s natural tone. He leans into Billy’s space to hear him better.

“What?”

“You heard me,” Billy notes quickly while keeping still.

“I really didn’t.”

“Fucking hell! I said-“

Billy turns to face Steve and he’s suddenly very close. So often he moves in wild and unpredictable ways but the speed with which he moves and the suddenness he’s stopped could give a man whiplash. His nose is just an inch from Steve’s. When he meets his eyes they become soft, almost bashful.

“- I’m sorry…for hitting you back then. I’m sorry”

Steve doesn’t dare to break their shared gaze. It has that hot and thick feeling to it. It’s both intoxicating and important. He swears there’s a cheesy love song playing distantly in the background but he waves it off as just being in his mind.

This is the second apology Steve’s gotten. Something about Billy saying sorry knocks the air out of Steve. Even now he’s trying to steady himself in the wake of it and the sudden tension.

“Make it up to me,” Steve finds the perfect tone between a demand and a request.

Billy responds to it by cupping a hand to Steve’s face. His fingers feel warm against Steve’s cheek and he wants more.

“You got my eye pretty bad,” he elaborates.

Billy guides the back of Steve’s head into a slight tilt down. He gives a gentle kiss over his left brow.

“And the mouth. You drew blood.”

Billy moves gracefully to the corner of Steve’s mouth. He leaves a kiss there before moving to the middle and kissing Steve softly and languidly.

“And my ribs,” Steve complains between kisses.

“I know.”

It’s a tender concession. Steve is enthralled by this version of Billy: the side of him that is sweet, compliant even, and wanting.

Billy presses his body weight into Steve and Steve adjusts so he’s lying on his back. Billy’s on top of him. Steve allows it as Billy follows the map Steve’s given him. He lifts Steve’s shirt and wordlessly leaves his apologies on his rib cage. He then starts moves to his abs and Steve can’t deny the growing arousal and how Billy is purposeful getting closer to it.

Steve’s head is swimming. He can only hope for what he thinks is coming to him but he doesn’t dare interrupt or confirm. He’s letting Billy set the pace. Billy has the power here and Steve’s okay with that. Steve doesn’t need power like Billy does.

If Steve had been paying more attention he would have known that the music he heard earlier was not in his head. In fact it had been playing in the other room. If he wasn’t letting his thoughts wander into less PG territory he would have heard that music shut off or he would have heard a door open and maybe he would have heard footsteps. But he didn’t. The only thing Steve and Billy hear is the very loud outburst from Max as El stands next to her watching the two of them with a confused expression.

“OH MY GOD!” Max keeps yelling, “OH MY GOD! OH GOD!”

So much for third base.

—-

Steve can hear Billy and Max having it out downstairs. Steve thought the girl’s massive freak out would make it difficult to pull her best friend away but it didn’t. El seems to understand that the siblings needed to talk- or yell technically.

Now El is sitting at Steve’s lifelong neglected study desk with the chair spun out so she can see him leaning against the wall by the door. Neither of them can make out words from the noises downstairs but the emotions are certainly audible.

“So,” Steve begins, “You and Max hanging out here now?”

“Not enough room at Joyce’s house,” El notes, “And Max’s house is too empty. She says it is like a ghost house.”

Steve feels a sharp pain at the idea of Max being lonely. He knows that Billy wasn’t great company but he was company nonetheless.

“Billy said it is okay. Is it okay?”

Steve doesn’t mind any of his gaggle of children hanging around. In fact, he feels better with them here instead of getting into trouble. He wasn’t expecting Billy to offer their place up to Max and El as a retreat though.

“Of course you can hang out here. Our casa es su casa.”

A confusing wave of feelings smack into Steve has he realizes that he just self referred to his home as belonging to both himself and Billy.

El brings her legs up to sit crisscross in the chair. She’s got a scraped knee on her left side. She’s that age. The age where you can have a boyfriend and a scraped knee. Steve is awkwardly aware of how little she may know about what she saw. Or worse, how much she does know.

“So, Billy and I-“

“Is Max okay?”

“She will be. She’s just surprised.”

“Bad surprise?”

“Well,” Steve attempts to explain, “Not bad. Maybe bad for her? But it’s not bad. I don’t think.”

Steve realizes how hard it is to explain something when the person explaining isn’t even sure about the explanation.

Steve sighs and slides down to sitting on the floor. El has a calculating look on her face. Steve wishes that her weird intuition would fill in the blanks for him. When she starts to speak, Steve puts hope in that silly wish.

“Max did not know that you and Billy want to get married?”

Steve manages to choke on air.

“What!?”

El explains that Chief Hopper once sat down with her and explained that sometimes adults who aren’t married sometimes date. That dating sometimes leads to living together. Usually when that happens the adults want to get married and sometimes do.

“...and then sometimes they do something only adults do and there is a baby,” El concludes.

Steve holds his head up with a hand covering his mouth. He’s nodding like El is making perfect sense but internally he’s screaming.

“You are Billy are adults-“

God that sounds weird out loud to Steve but she’s right. Billy and Steve are both eighteen. A few more months and Steve will actually be nineteen. Steve doesn’t necessarily feel like an adult though. He’s had sex and worked a job. Neither of those things feel exclusive to adulthood. How do you know you’re a real adult?

“-and you live together,” El continues.

It occurs to Steve that maybe Hopper never used the words ‘man and woman’ in his talk. He must have leaned on the word ‘adult’ in the hopes of El taking home the message that only grown ups do these things and she’s a child therefore she can’t do them. Not the best or most informed sex talk but that had to have been the intent.

“Ah! Yes okay,” Steve decides to define it more, “So, yes we live together-“

“And you were kissing.”

“Billy and I can’t get married,” Steve says quickly to gloss over El’s interjection.

This gives the girl pause. She sits up a bit straighter and fixes Steve with a concerned look.

“Can’t?”

“Well… no. It’s against the law.”

El looks completely lost. He brow is knit. Steve is starting to sweat and he wants so badly to leave this conversation. El doesn’t see the problem with Billy and Steve kissing and living together. Hell, she thinks they might get married. Steve wishes more people were like her. He wishes he was like her.

“Most people,” his voice wavers a little, “are used to only boys and girls, men and women, kissing. That’s what they call normal.”

Steve doesn’t want to talk about this. He doesn’t want to face that reality. He wants it to stay quarantined in his bedroom. It’s safe there and the world outside is so… not safe.

“They don’t understand when boys like other boys or girls like girls or a man with a man or- you get it?”

El nods.

“So if they see that or they hear about it or they even think it, they get really angry.”

This is my life now. This is what can happen if we stay together.

Steve’s throat is closing up and he struggles hard to keep going. El gets up from her chair and sits in front of Steve.

“Sometimes they get so angry that they hurt people. People like…me. And they get really angry, like kill someone angry. I know because I used to be angry too.”

Steve wants a time machine. He wants to take back every single utterance of the words “queer” and “fag.” God, what if they actually were gay? He made them feel like this. Like nothing feels safe. Like wanting to die.

Steve feels tears crawling up through the limited space in his throat. He holds them there. He doesn’t like to cry. He won’t do it.

“It’s called being gay,” he forces himself to breathe, “and people call you bad words for it. Fag. Queer.”

Steve drops his chin to his chest. He grabs fistfuls if his hair. He wants to scream. He wants to beat the shit out of himself. Because he’s been the asshole throwing punches and calling names. And now he’ll be on the other end.

“I’m such a piece of shit” he finally laments.

“No.”

Steve looks up. His nose is congested and his ears feel hot and tired. On reflex he eases the grip on his hair.

“No?” he asks.

“You are not shit.”

It’s hilarious really; how she can say that with such a serious face. It’s even funnier how the phrase give Steve permission to breathe again.

“They are shit. They are bullies. You are not a bully. You are nice. You are my friend. You protect my friends and give us snacks. Bullies don’t share snacks.”

If it were possible Steve would adopt this child. He can see what Hopper saw in her. She’s complicated and naive but she’s kind. She’s just a good kid. One that any parent would be proud of.

“You’re right,” Steve laughs mostly to himself, “bullies don’t share snacks.”

El laughs with him and she does it legitimately. She’s right about the other stuff too. Steve isn’t a bully, at least not anymore. Even before Billy, he managed to put his old shit aside and accept Robin. His old self would have been enraged that he’d been rejected. He absolutely would have passive aggressively slipped that information to someone shittier than him. There would have been a mob in a matter of days, torches and all. The old Steve would have let her burn and acted like he hadn’t handed them the matches to do it.

That’s not who he is now.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Steve says, “Billy and I are a secret.”

“Friends don’t lie,” El says, looking almost hurt by the assumption that she’s being asked to.

“It’s not lying. If too many people know it can put us in danger. It’s like-“

His eyes light up.

“Your super powers! Those had to be a secret right? So you’d be safe. It’s like that.”

El understands this perfectly.

“I will keep you and Billy safe,” she says with a mild determination, “I promise.”

Steve realizes that the fighting has stopped downstairs. He wonders if that’s a good thing or not. He stands up and offers a hand to help El up.

“We should check on them,” Steve notes as El pulls on his arm.

As Steve prepares himself for whatever scene awaits him downstairs, he makes it a point to stay in front of El. Her powers had made her strong but with or without them Steve is going to protect this kid. Even if it’s just keeping her safe from little bull shit things.

Speaking of bull shit, he’s going to have to figure out a way to let Joyce know that El needs an actual sex talk but that’s a problem for another day.

#stranger things have happened ff #Chapter 3: Stay or Go #sthhch3 #harringrove

47 notes · View notes

despairdiseases · 5 years

Text

Tutoring Session

oof okay so here you have a human au with dyscalculic Logan and dysgraphic Virgil because I can (note that I do not know any dysgraphic people and that Logan’s dyscalculia is based on my experience with it)

Pairings: one-sided analogical, background anxceit

Word count: 1,580

Warnings: deceit but he’s not in there for the most part, one-sided love I guess

Summary: Logan gets a tutor and catches feelings, then The Sad ensures

Logan sighed, "Are you sure I need tutoring?" he rubbed his hand uncomfortably, shifting in the driver's seat of his brother's car.

"Logan, you're failing your classes, yes, you need tutoring," Damon put his hand on the shorter one's shoulder, "Now get out, you're already late."

Logan stepped out of the car, getting out his phone as it buzzed. He heard the car pull out of the driveway and drive off as he checked his messages:

im here

nd ur late

He didn't bother typing out a response. Logan put the phone back into his pocket and opened the door to the library. Ruth, the librarian, glanced up at him and smiled, "Good day, Logan, nice to see you again so soon. Out of murder mysteries already?"

"No, I am supposed to have a tutoring session here, but thank you," Logan returned the smile and walked closer to the counter.

"Now, why would such a smart boy need tutoring?"

Logan felt a surge of panic flood him, quickly making up an excuse, good thing he learned from Damon, "No, I am supposed to tutor them."

Ruth quietly chuckled, "I see then, I think you're looking for the boy in the back. He's been sitting here for a few minutes now."

"Ah, yes, thank you, Ruth, I should get going," Logan walked through the towering shelves, looking at some people sitting against them, books discarded around them. Some of them were taking notes, some were reading, some were on their phone.

He reached the tables, most of them empty or with a large group of people. There were only a few with one or two people. Logan glanced around and tried to figure out who the tutor could be.

"You're late."

The deep voice behind him made Logan jerk and look around. Huh, the guy looked quite familiar, perhaps he saw him in the school or when he walked into Damon's room while he was having friends over. Nevertheless, that didn't make him any less intimidating, "I, uh, I apologize, it won't happen again."

The punk scoffed, "Yeah, I hope so. Look, just because Damon asked me to tutor you doesn't mean I will," he walked past Logan and over to an empty table with a few books on it. Logan followed, sitting opposite to the taller male.

Logan glanced at the covers of a few of the books, furrowing his eyebrows, "Most of these are from the 9th and 8th-grade curriculum."

"Well yeah, you gotta build up the basics," the pale man shrugged, pulling out a notebook out of his bag along with a pen titled 'notes' in messy handwriting.

Logan scoffed and rolled his eyes, "This is ridiculous," embarrassment and annoyance already building up in his chest. The punk didn't seem to be phased, other than raising his eyebrows, opening the notebook and sliding it across the table to Logan.

"Can you solve any of this?" Logan looked at a bunch of equations, none of them made sense to him. He furrowed his eyebrows, trying to find the easiest to solve, but the numbers seemed to be just a bunch of random symbols that he could vaguely recognize. He knew them. He understood them, the teacher explained it to him multiple times. He should know this. The other one sighed, "That's what I thought," he slid the notebook back and Logan watched his only chance to escape this hell slide away into the taller man's hands.

"Fine, you win, I am bad at math," Logan refused to look at the other, instead looking down at the empty spot where the notebook once was.

"You're not bad at math, you have dyscalculia."

That's even worse, Logan thought. Why couldn't he just get a normal tutor? Oh, right, he already tried that, but then his parents either couldn't afford it so he had to get a cheaper one, or the tutor 'just wasn't used to tutoring someone with a learning disability'. He hated when people called it that. Technically, he knows there's so shame in having one, but he just can't help but feel that other's view him at 'stupid' or 'lazy' because of it. He tries, he really does. He excels in history, has a B+ in economics, the English teacher uses his papers as an example of perfect grammar, but he just has to have an F in algebra and geometry. He just had to have a D in chemistry.

Fingers with black nail polish snap in front of his face, "Hey, specs, you listening?"

"Uh, yes, of course. I apologize," Logan adjusted his glasses, "What were you saying?"

"I asked you what you wanna start with," the punk put a hand under his chin and squinted his eyes, "I would pick the one you struggle the least with."

"I suppose, geometry it is then."

The other's eyes widened a bit at that, "You, uh, you sure specs?" the hand that wasn't supporting his head began fiddling with the pen. Logan nodded. The taller one opened the notebook and filtered through a few of the pages until finally settling on an empty one. He clicked the pen, then paused for a second before bringing it to the page and writing what Logan thought was a math problem. After he repeated the process a few times, he flipped the notebook to face Logan, "Alright, the first three should be fine for an 8th grader. So, the first one is a graph-"

"Yes, I can see that but your handwriting is just horrendous, I can't read anything," Logan glanced over the page, the problems being randomly scattered across the page, completely ignoring the lines, being shaky in some places and words misspelled. One would think a 3rd grader wrote this.

The pale one looked away, somehow growing even paler if Logan could see correctly, "Well, yeah I guess, I have dysgraphia. I can dictate it to you if you wanna..."

It was Logan's turn to be shocked, "Oh, I apologize. I didn't know, uhh..." Logan wondered at the other's name, realizing that neither he or his brother told him.

"Virgil, it's Virgil."

"What a charming name..." Logan mumbled in a barely audible voice before he could stop himself. He hopes Virgil didn't hear it. If he did, he does not mention it, "Y-yes, as I was saying, I am sorry. Virgil."

Virgil looked at the notebook, "Yeah, it's whatever, I'm used to it. I could, like, dictate it to you and you could write it? That'll kill to flies with one rock," he reached his hand with the pen in it over to Logan, waiting for him to take it.

Logan's lips twitched up involuntarily for a moment, before taking the pen in his hand, "Yes, I suppose that would be satisfactory," he bought over Virgil's notebook, turning to a clear page, "So, could you repeat the problems?"

Virgil smiled, what a sight to see, "Right so, the first one is a graph..." Virgil leaned on the table as Logan wrote. Seeing such clear handwriting was kinda cool. They sent the rest of the session doing geometry, only touching on algebra by the end.

Logan averted his head from the worksheet Virgil had brought when he heard his phone buzz, "Sorry, just a second," he unlocked the phone, reading a text from Damon.

times up, L, i am here to save u.

"It's from Damon, looks like the session is over," Logan said to Virgil as he typed out a response before turning his phone off:

Just a minute.

"Damn, it really is late. Well, guess I'll see you later specs, remind your mom to pay me," he looked up to find Virgil doing the two-finger salute and walking away.

"Logan."

Virgil stopped and turned around, "What?" he raised an eyebrow.

"My name. It's Logan."

Virgil smirked, "Yeah, specs, I already know," he already turned on his heel and walked away behind the bookshelves before Logan could say another thing. Speaking of Logan, he had begun walking to the exit, saying a quick goodbye to Ruth and pushing the door open. In the parking lot of the library was already standing the yellow sedan that belonged to his brother. He walked over and opened the door.

"So, how was it? Not that bad, huh?"

Logan rolled his eyes and shut the door, "I suppose so..." his phone buzzed again. Logan looked at the new message.

i thnk u clud read my 13 wnter by samnta abeeel its rlly good

i thnk yull like it

lso th number snse is cool

Logan smiled and replied back:

Sure will do, thank you for the recommendation.

He didn't need to wait even a minute for the response:

no prblm

"Who's that?" Damon glanced over at Logan's phone.

"Oh," Logan saved his number as 'Virge' "Just my tutor."

Damon laughed and pulled out of the driveway, "Just don't steal him away from me."

Logan gripped his phone tighter, "He's your boyfriend?" some part he represses pray that he's not. Damon nods. Logan feels his heart sink.

"Yeah, the only one who lasted more than a year. Can you believe that? He actually likes me for me," Logan spotted the subconscious smile on his older brother's face. Of course, he had to like a taken guy. Just Logan's luck.

"Good for you. Also, he told me to remind mom to pay him," Logan renames the contact to 'Tutor' then puts the phone away, ignoring the buzzing of a new message.

#sanders sides #logan sandes #virgil sanders #deceit sanders #human au #anxceit #analogical #one sided love #again im sorry for grammar mistakes #this is so sad cortana play logans rap bit #oof it really is two in the morning but here i am #enjoy #also note i do not know how dysgraphic people text #and internet didnt show me anything #so im sorry if its not accurate #also #Ruth #we stand a librarian queen

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