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the-hidden-pages · 3 years

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Misread Affections - Laszlo Kreizler/Fem!Reader SMUT

I started at midnight. I had 0 words. It’s 4:30am. I have 4643 words because I have fallen deeply for Doctor Laszlo Kreizler. Forgive me for this.

Synopsis: With all your history together, you and Doctor Kreizler believe you understand each other. Yet when you believe him to be infatuated with Karen Stratton, and he believes you to have affection for Marcus Isaacson, you’re both stunned when you find yourselves to be proven wrong.

Warnings: NSFW. Desk Sex. Dirty Talk. Patient-to-Friend-to-Lover. Definite depression and general self-loathing.

SPOILERS FOR THE SECOND SEASON!!!!!!

You had always admired the man Doctor Laszlo Kreizler was.

He championed those who could not champion themselves. He worked tirelessly to understand the minds of criminals. To those very same criminals, and many others that lived as outcasts to society, he would offer kindness and understanding. At his best he was beyond intelligent and, daresay, sweet.

At his worst, he was ruthless, and his own self-loathing would have him come across as unempathetic most days. While preaching to others to care for himself, he would often forego his own care. While offering an ear and a receptive mind, he would refuse to offer himself the same.

You knew this within mere days of knowing Doctor Kreizler. And such facts made you rather fond of him.

A fondness that was not helped by his handsome build, his dark locks, his scrutinizing gaze.

And yet no part of you could justify ever acting upon this fondness.

You had come to him both as a patient and a colleague. You had always been aware of a darkness within yourself, ever since you were a child. This darkness had only grown, too often all-consuming, leaving you. a dysfunction wreck of a human being. However, you had an obligation to keep going, a promise you had sworn to your sister to continue your own existence. So, exist you did.

While your family’s fortune wasn’t enough to send you to Harvard, like the Doctor himself, it did allow for you to be a reasonably educated woman of the times. A deep fascination in understanding your own darkness led you to the work of alienists, and eventually to the work of Doctor Kreizler.

While you couldn’t often justify breaking societal rules to such an extent, you found yourself motivated enough to call upon the Doctor with a proposition – should he aide you in understanding your own illness of the brain, you would offer any services you could to the Kreizler Institute.

You could tell he was curious of you. A woman of your standing did not often make such demands with such authority, nor so blatantly admit to her own illnesses. He quickly agreed, eager to study why you considered yourself so damaged, and happy to take on an extra set of hands with the children he looked after.

Over time, you begun to slip effortlessly into Doctor Kreizler’s life.

You met the likes of Cyrus and Stevie, along with many others that worked at the Institute. You were then blown away by the strength within Miss Sara Howard, and the pure, undiluted love that Mister John Schuyler Moore could show others. You were even called upon on several occasions to be a fresh set of eyes, the murders of young boy prostitutes and kidnappings of babies not deterring you, to the surprise and reluctant joy of the Doctor.

And as Doctor Kreizler studied you, you studied him.

You slowly learned of all the emotion he kept hidden behind the façade of professionalism. The kindness, the love, the anger, the fear. While he showed none of these most days, occasionally a concoction of such feeling would burst in an overwhelming outpour.

In offering him a platonic safe space, a place for him to talk through such outbursts should he wish, he in turn aided you.

The darkness you felt for so long began to subside some days, and between the efforts of him and a passing remark from John, you learned of an outlet for your darker thoughts – writing.

While expressing your own emotions and turmoil did not come easy, you found it far simpler when written down on paper, as opposed to spoken aloud to a judging room.

Doctor Kreizler gifted you a beautiful leather-bound journal a mere day after this revelation, with the request that you record your thoughts. He promised he would not read it unless you requested him to as an act of therapy.

For many days, you allowed him to read any thoughts that came to mind.

Thoughts of blood, of death, of pain and anger. Thoughts of a stolen childhood, of worthlessness, of longing.

Many days when he read your pages, you would be silently crying as he did, fearful of his judgement. But it never came.

Instead, he would close the book silently, and offer you professional advice.

One particularly rough day, in which your narrative was beyond vicious to you, he closed the book before finishing, and offered you something you didn’t expect – an embrace.

He hugged you so tightly, that for once…

Your inner monologue ceased.

His own, however, raged on.

How could you think so lowly of yourself, he wondered? While he could understand mindsets built from trauma, he couldn’t help but wish you could see yourself through his own eyes. Your empathy when you cared for the children in the Institute. Your intelligence when conversing with Miss Howard. Your artistic delight when laughing with John. And the perspective, the warmth you offered such a broken man such as himself.

Neither of you knew, in that exact moment, that the other was realizing the fondness you both held in your hearts for each other.

And neither of you knew how truly broken the other felt at their core.

Two souls, believing themselves to be undeserving of love, finding it in their hearts for the other.

When the beautiful, cunning Doctor Karen Stratton entered the picture, you asked Doctor Kreizler to refrain from reading your journal.

He was hurt by this, but profession and courtesy claimed that he could not show it.

You began to withdraw from him, placing your entire focus on the case of the stolen babies and your focus on the children in the Institute. Kreizler, in his own difficulties of potentially losing the said Institute, took notice of your own withdrawal from your sessions, but held enough hope that you had found stability to care for yourself. You still conversed with Sara, you smiled with John. You had even been introduced to the Isaacsons, and he had wondered if you had taken a liking to Marcus.

You deserved a young man such as him, he told himself, heart heavy. A whole, young man with enough strength to support you.

And on the night of Marcus’ death, he believed it to be confirmed.

He found you alone, in his study where you so often had your sessions with him. You were curled inwards on yourself, clutching your journal as though it were your lifeline, sobbing uncontrollably.

He moved to console you, arms holding you tightly.

“It’s all too much,” you choked out, unable to articulate much more.

Doctor Kreizler nodded, waiting for you to be able to go on.

You regained some breath with difficulty. “I just…I can’t stand to lose a friend. Not after everything else lately.”

“I know how difficult it can be, to lose one you love…” Kreizler began, not noticing how your sobs stopped in confusion. “After Mary, I…Well I swore I would never again…The point is, I-“ he stopped short.

You had spluttered out a laugh.

Your hand covered your mouth immediately, noticing what had just happened. You immediately moved to cover it up, wiping away your tears and standing up away from him. “No, no, Doctor. Heavens, Marcus…well, he was loved but, I saw…I see the Isaacsons as brothers I never had. He was dear to me but…not in the sense I suspect that Mary was to you.”

“I…see…” Doctor Kreizler pulled back, sitting in his study chair as he gazed at you. “Apologies, I seem to have misread your relationship. Nonetheless, his death has greatly affected you, as it has all of us. I suspect it will be a very difficult grieving process, but…” he manages a soft, rare smile that warmed your heart. “We will endure it together, as we have these cases.”

“Will we?” your voice grew empty as your thoughts swirled.

He titled his head, unsure of where this was leading. You gathered your courage to question him.

“Rumour has it, Doctor Stratton has asked you to join her in Vienna. I wonder if you’ll go.”

Silence falls over the room.

Laszlo couldn’t understand what this had to do with anything. Your crying, your distress over Marcus. What did his leaving have to do with any of your distress?

“You’re greatly upset by something,” he eventually said, gazing at you with a more analytical eye than before. “I’m afraid you give me too much credit, if you think I know the specifics of it.”

“I-“ you stopped, clearing your throat as you choked up. Your knuckles turned white on your journal’s edges, hands shaking. “Doctor Kreizler-“

“It’s been months since we’ve known each other,” he interrupts, “and we haven’t held a session together in nearly five weeks. Would it pain you to call me Laszlo? Are we not…friends?”

You gaped at him, but his face remained unreadable.

You shake your head. “Yes, it…it would pain me. It would pain me a great deal, Doctor – it does pain me a great deal to hear you call me a friend when…”

“When what?” he prompts you sharply, and you inhale quickly.

“When I feel I’ve been dishonest with you, unkind to you…” had the room not been dead still, Laszlo might have missed the next words you whispered. “I feel I’ve been perverse to you.”

If he was confused, he didn’t show it. And you were talking now, the words spilling out, a cascade unable to end.

“I feel as though…had Marcus not…died…tonight, I might never have done this. But then my mind, it began spinning so quickly I couldn’t stop it, and I couldn’t help but imagine countless scenarios in which Libby, in which the Dusters, in which…well, in which any number of causes might take your life as well. In which you might die before…before I can confess…” You huff, your words getting caught once again. With a determined move, your arm shot out to pass your journal to him, and Kreizler takes note of a particular page being creased.

He looks up at you, but you don’t meet his eye.

“I’ve marked where I want you to start reading. Just…go from there. Inform me when you’re finished.”

You walk over to the window, desperate to be distracted, as Doctor Kreizler opens the book and reads at your request.

He can’t comprehend what he’s reading at first.

While he had grown accustomed to your twisted perception of yourself, he hadn’t realized just how ruthless the self-loathing could take you. Endless doubt of your friendships with the team, with your position as a caretaker, in your abilities to be a friend. And as words continue, he realizes your doubts in being a partner, a lover.

If he grows flustered at the words he reads, he’s determined not to show it to you.

He reads your envy of women like Sara Howard, able to move forward with such strength and certainty, and of Karen Stratton, so brash, so forward. Your envy is strong towards her, in her abilities to understand sexuality, passion, human desire, and in…

In her connection to himself.

His eyes widen as your own ramblings seem to uncover a truth you hadn’t explored before – your attraction to the Doctor that had aided you, offered you employment. The pure taboo of such affections, yet your inability to stop it. Your adoration, your admiration for the intimidating, raw man that he was. How you felt unworthy, that you would hold him back, that he deserved a woman as delightful as Doctor Stratton, a woman who could stimulate him academically, that could pleasure him physically. How you felt so deeply ashamed of harbouring such elicit fantasies of the man that had been nothing but kind to you. How you loved him so deeply it made you want to die, because you would never be deserving –

You heard the journal snapping shut, and you couldn’t bring yourself to face the Doctor, knowing what he must’ve read, dreading what he must now be thinking.

The silence lasted far longer than you would’ve liked, but you couldn’t bring yourself to speak.

“I find myself taken aback more often than I like,” Kreizler’s voice shatters the still air. “I believe myself to be so wise, so understanding of the mind, and yet I come across a mind such as yours that I…I truly cannot fathom how you think what you think.”

“I’m sorry,” you start, voice breaking as tears begin to flow again.

You nearly jump out of your skin when you feel a hand on your own. You don’t dare to turn around, frozen like a rabbit having been sniffed out by a hound.

“You think me to be attracted to Doctor Stratton, am I correct?”

You nod. Of course, he was. Was it not obvious?

“Karen and I are colleagues, and friends, should I be too bold to assume so. I can recognize that she is a physically beautiful woman, yes, and I’m sure some day she will make a man a very happy husband, should she wish. But her and I have a kinship, a partnership, not unlike what I believe you and Marcus might have had, that I too misinterpreted as love.”

You sniff, closing your eyes tightly. What was he trying to tell you?

Doctor Kreizler spins you around slowly, leading you to face him.

“I do not harbour half the affection in my heart for Doctor Stratton as I do for you.”

You freeze. “Doctor-“

“Please,” he reaches up to cup your face, wiping away several of the tears that had fallen. “Please call me Laszlo. You are not the only one to have an epiphany after the loss of our friend, my dear. If you are being so honest with me, I feel it only right to offer you the same.”

“Laszlo…” you whisper, meeting his eyes for the first time since he read your words. His heart breaks with the pain within them. “How can you do this? Look at me, hold me, when you see how broken I am? I’m undeserving-“

“You would choose to love, to care for a cripple, a shell of a man in the eyes of society. A man who has too often neglected the children he cares for, often spat in the face of those he dares to call his friends. If either of us is undeserving of the other’s love, my dear, it’s me.”

Your brows furrow angrily, reaching up to mirror him, cupping his own face with both of yours. “Laszlo Kreizler you stop that right now, I won’t hear any more of…you’re smiling. How could you be smiling?”

He leans into one of your hands affectionately, a rare, dashing smile lighting up his features in a way you cherished to see, despite the circumstances. “Perhaps we are both wrong. Perhaps…perhaps we need each other, to use each other’s eyes and hearts to understand who we truly are. We both have such lowly opinions of ourselves but…perhaps it was meant to be.”

Your own smile was beginning to form, despite your best efforts, as your brain’s screaming of all that could go wrong began to quieten.

“I hesitate to believe in fate, Doctor…” you trail off, taking a step closer, your heart filled with hope and eyes filled with wonder. “I hesitate further to admit to needing someone, and yet…my brain is only ever kind and quiet when I’m around you.”

Laszlo’s weaker arm rests on your hip, while the thumb of the hand caressing your face moves to trace your chin. “My language is not as…poetic, as yours, my dear,” he confesses, and you both chuckle, “but I very much would like to kiss you, with your permission.”

“Laszlo, you could do anything to me,” you confess, reaching forward to finally meet his lips.

It’s messy, and uncoordinated, but any lack of experience the pair of you may have is made up for by the pure, electric eagerness that overtakes the both of you. You’re both exploring, testing each other, in some give and take dance that does not seem to quell any emotions within you, instead quite the opposite.

You could kiss him forever, you quickly realize.

But by some cruel twist of fate, you have to pull away, air taking priority.

You stare wildly at him as he breathes heavily, eyes darker than you had ever seen, with a sense of uncertainty that you hadn’t ever seen about him before.

A teasing smile finds its way onto your face, as you can’t help but test your luck.

“How far, exactly, did you read in my book?”

He blinks at you a couple of times, uncertain of your line of questioning. “I read of your jealousy, of your shame, I don’t…I don’t believe I finished it all, I found I had to address the issue before I continued –“

“Would you like to know what else was in there?”

Laszlo appeared flustered as you led him back to his plush chair, and you knelt down between his legs to pick up the book that had fallen to the ground. You don’t offer it to him, however, instead putting it aside.

“My dear, I don’t –“

“I ask you to stop me, if my advances are too…forward to you, Laszlo.”

You slowly rise from your place, moving to lift your skirts so you might position yourself above the Doctor, straddling him in his chair. As if on its own accord, his good hand rises to situate on your waist tightly. You gently grasp his weaker hand, his “broken wing”, and lift it to your mouth, delicately kissing the palm, each finger.

Laszlo mutters your name, transfixed by your mouth’s movements.

“I would love every part of you,” you begin, continuing your assault of affection as you whisper against the part of him, he views as most broken. “I would care for you in every capacity in which I’m capable. I would strive to be deserving of you in every which way.” You drop his hand and lean forward, hands grasping the back of the chair as you hold his gaze. “I would have you claim every part of me, I would have your marks for the world to see, if you wished. I’ve dreamt of you and I in the most compromising positions that I dare not say, on nearly every surface of your study, my bedroom, the Institute. I would give you every single piece of me, Laszlo, every ounce of my attraction. I would give you my darkest sins and my deepest pleasure, if you would allow me too. Please, Doctor Kreizler, let me please you.”

You didn’t know what you were expecting from your confession.

Perhaps you wondered if he would push you away, exclaiming that your desires were too much, your words too sinful, and that he would cease associations with you immediately. Perhaps you thought he would scold you for being too wanton, too unbecoming of a woman of your standing. Perhaps you hoped the worst that would happen is he would kiss you softly and instruct that you both go to bed in separate rooms, that more carnal needs could be discussed at a later date.

Never in your wildest dreams did you expect to feel Laszlo shift and harden beneath you, eyes growing so dark they were nearly completely black, and have him reach his hand to curl around the back of your neck.

And you certainly didn’t expect the deep growl that escaped him as his lips, tongue, and teeth clashed with yours frantically, animalistically.

Neither of you had experience, you both knew this.

But you both knew what you wanted, what you needed, and that would be enough to motivate you.

You both took what you could, Laszlo leaving your lips to reach what he could of your neck, lavishing it with lips and tongue. He explored expertly, quickly learning what you liked based upon the quickening of your breath, of your pulse. What was left of his analytical mind was fascinated by the chain reaction of events, how you spurred each other on.

When he nipped at your ear, your hips rolled uncontrollably, and a rough groan escaped him unconsciously.

Fascinating indeed.

He panicked slightly when you stood, wondering if he had stepped too far. The panic raised as you strode across his study, heading quickly to the door.

“Wait, my dear, I-“

“Calm down, Laszlo,” you hushed him, and he heard a loud click of the door locking from where he sat. “I merely don’t wish to be interrupted. If this is still what you wish.”

He leans back in his chair, breathing heavily, observing you as you stand once again before him. “I should be asking you what you want, my darling.”

You grin, shaking your head. “Was my speech before not enough for you to know what I want, Doctor Kreizler? Can you not infer exactly what I want from you from the writings in my journal? It’s your turn to share, else I might just leave you like this.”

His good hand involuntarily juts forward, grasping yours desperately.

“Don’t you dare.”

You giggle, and he smiles at the sound.

“Then, tell me what you wish, Doctor.”

“I wish…” he trails off, watching as your hands move upward to begin slowly undressing yourself.

“Yes?” You prompt him teasingly, continuing your motions. “Don’t mind me.”

Laszlo shifts in his chair, erection clearly visible by the bulge in his slacks. “I…I wish…” his voice trails off again as his eyes take in every inch of your skin that’s uncovered. “I wish to be with you in every manner. Intellectually, spiritually, physically. I wish to connect with you in a way I never will with any other living creature on this Earth. I wish to feel you around me, to bring you to climax. I wish to fill you, to be yours, to fuck you, to make you Mrs. Kreizler…”

He stops at that, only becoming aware of his own ramblings you straddled him once again, completely nude.

The faintest voice in his head wondered if you made him stupid, but it was silence as his eyes took you in completely.

“You are the most gorgeous specimen I’ve ever been graced with seeing, my love.”

You pull him in to a languid kiss, gently tasting each other as your hand travels down his chest.

“You speak of love, of my being Mrs. Kreizler…” you start, almost losing your train of thought as you feel him twitch beneath you, your hips rolling to meet his. “Another day I’ll ask you to remind me of those words. But for now…” you lean forward, mouth grazing his ear, causing him to shiver. “I need you to fuck me, Doctor Laszlo Kreizler.”

For all of your faith in him, you don’t expect the next feat of strength.

With only his good arm he manages to lift the pair of you from the chair, quickly placing you upwards and onto the desk of his own study, mindless of the papers underneath you, of any others that might be in the building as you shriek in surprise.

He captures your mouth with his, more forceful, captivating, as his good hand explores your form, grasping both of your breasts before heading downwards to the warmth between your thighs. His fingers collect some of the wetness that had escaped your folds and examines it with an almost mocking scientific fascination.

“Is this all for me, my darling?” he questions, and you find yourself at a loss for words as he curiously lifts his fingers to his mouth, his tongue slowly tasting you off of them.

“Fuck, Laszlo,” you whisper, reaching forward to pull him in for a kiss again as he chuckles darkly against you.

His teasing ends when your hands wander downward, now working at the buttons of his slacks frantically, your palm grazing across his length through his pants, causing him to gasp.

“My God,” he pants out, and you pull him out of his slacks. He’s hard, warm, rigid in your palm, with veins and girth that you hadn’t imagined in any of your fantasies, but was now all you could imagine filling you, ending that emptiness that you felt.

“Please,” you whimper, and he gently removes your hand, before lining his cock up with your entrance.

He meets your eyes, checking one last time to ensure this was what you wanted.

“Laszlo, please –“your begging is cut short as he breaches you slowly, pushing his full weight forward as the pair of you connect.

It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt.

A tantalizing combination of pleasure and pain, your mind repeating an endless mantra of “Laszlo”, which you realize, when he’s fully inside, flush against you, that you’re muttering out loud.

“Oh, my love,” he breathes, his damaged arm lightly resting on your thigh, his other gripping your hip so tightly you knew there would be marks.

“You feel so right,” you mindlessly breathe, and you can’t help but moan at the feeling of him twitching inside you at the comment. You would remember that he likes praise, but…

“I don’t know that I will last long, my love,” Laszlo warns, his voice low, gravely, warm against your neck as he buries his face into it, pressing kisses into the skin of your shoulder.

It crosses your mind that you’re completely nude and he’s fully clothed, but the thought fills you with warmth rather than disappointment.

“Nor will I, but this will happen again, won’t it?” you question, a hint of doubt crossing your voice.

The Doctor silences it immediately, kissing you deeply. “Every night, every hour if you would let me, my darling. You are so wonderful…”

“Then please, fuck me Laszlo. I want to cum, I want you to fill me, I – oh!”

The first snap of his hips was relentless, and it was only more intense from there.

He was strong, sure of his movements, chasing his own pleasure and encouraging yours as much as he could, pressing kisses into your neck, your breasts, your lips, his good hand finding your hair tightly. Broken moans left you as dark, rasping breaths escaped him, and it was all too soon before you felt your peak approaching, familiar with the sensation from lonely nights with your own hand curiously working against yourself.

“Laszlo, Doctor Kreizler, I-“ at your moaning of his title, something in him snapped, and his teeth sunk into where your neck met your shoulder.

A deep cry left you as you reached your climax, a white-hot rush waving over you.

As your cunt clenched around him, Laszlo lost himself, growling his native German tongue as he lost his rhythm, heat filling you as he came.

You two didn’t have much time to come down from your highs, as the door to his home could be heard opening and closing from the floors below.

“Doctor Kreizler?” Sara Howard could be heard calling.

Your eyes wide, you rushed to put yourself back together, close wrinkled, roughly thrown back on and your hair being a wreck. You hoped you could pass it off as merely the result of a rough day, an intense mental break.

You turned to Kreizler, who was a picture of perfection, seeming to not be rattled by the events before…almost.

“Back to the case…?” he trailed off, his voice filled with uncertainty, and you smiled fondly at the terribly awkward, intelligent man before you.

You step forward and kiss him softly, the warmth between your legs and bruises on your thigh a reminder of what had just occurred.

“Back to the case. We can continue our escapades when it’s all over, Doctor.”

He chuckles, confidence returning to him as he nods. “I look forward to it.”

#x reader smut #laszlo kreizler #laszlo kreizler x reader #laszlo kreizler imagine #Laszlo kreizler fanfic #smut #godpleaseletmerest #Ineedsleep

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sugarybitterness · 3 years

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orange juice - wanda maximoff x reader

warnings; none

a/n; i’ve missed writing for my favourite witchy so here’s a short fluffy blurb!! highly inspired by the fact that my mother did the exact same thing- ordering 6 large bottles of orange juice by accident because she thought it was the regular sized bottles 😂 hope y’all enjoy , feedback is always appreciated and requests are open too :] *lets hope this shows in the tags today:”)

“oh dear..” wanda mumbled under her breath when she opened the box. after the avengers were reinstated post sokovia accords, the team worked together tirelessly to keep earth safe. as much as it was fun to live together at the compound, eventually everyone branched out to get their own places to stay at whenever they needed some time away. of course, you and wanda were quick to find an apartment together that was closeby to the compound.

with the current pandemic raging on everyone was asked to stay at their apartments and to only head to the compound for scheduled weekly training or missions. recently, wanda had developed a slight online shopping problem which ended up with a lot of deliveries being made to your home. from clothes and furniture to DVDs and snacks, you’re pretty sure wanda has had more deliveries than all the other avengers combined.

the other day, you brought back a bottle of orange juice from the compound and off handedly mentioned that you really liked it. wanda immediately took note of the brand and went online to find it because she absolutely loved to buy things for you. however it seemed as though she might have misread the item description..

“now i know why it was four dollars per bottle.” wanda grumbled as she counted the number of large bottles of orange juice sitting in the box. before she could figure out how to hide all eight of them, she heard the lock on the main door click and familiar footsteps making their way to kitchen.

“hey baby i’m home!” you called out, a large smile dancing on your lips as you stepped into the kitchen. seeing wanda’s panicked smile and the red glow surrounding her fingers she was trying to hide under the counter you laughed softly.

“what did you buy this time?” you asked as you rounded the counter to wrap your arms around wanda’s waist. you knew if you looked up, there would be a box floating above the two of you but you wanted wanda to admit it herself. a light blush spread across the sokovian’s face as she gently placed the box back down. peering into the box your eyes widened.

“wanda! why did you buy eight big bottles of orange juice?” you turned back to your girlfriend who was now pouting at you.

“well.. you said you liked this so i wanted to buy you some bottles to bring to training. but i must have misread the description because i was supposed to buy the small ones.. instead this came today.” wanda confessed, her hands linking behind your neck. your heart melted at your girlfriend’s words but you couldn’t help but chuckle at the whole situation.

“babyyyy, don’t laugh!” wanda whined as she shifted closer to you. you looked up at your slightly taller girlfriend and pressed a gentle kiss against her soft lips which she quickly reciprocated.

“thank you my love for the orange juice.” you smiled at the redhead who was quick to capture your lips in another kiss.

“what are we going to do with all these juice though?” wanda asked after she pulls away, leaning her forehead onto yours. you hum thoughtfully before getting an idea.

“how about we pay some friends a quick visit?”

after grabbing your masks and car keys, the two of you head down the hall to pass a large bottle of orange juice to natasha and yelena. then you drove over to the apartment that was shared by steve, bucky and sam to give them three more bottles - two of them are supersoldiers so you knew they could finish the bottles easily. your last stop was the compound where thor and loki would stay at temporarily. the two gods got one bottle and you found tony in his lab where you passed him one last bottle.

now that just left two more big bottles for you and wanda. the two of you bought some dinner on the way back and once you finally took a shower the two of you settled on the couch. wanda puts on a sitcom and you snuggle into her side, the food you bought spread out on the coffee table to share with two glasses of orange juice.

you tilt your head up a little bit and press a lingering kiss on wanda’s cheek. “i love you, you know that?”

wanda looks down at you and her bright smile rivaled that of the sun. “i love you too moya lyubov.”

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff fluff #scarlet witch #scarlet witch x reader #avengers #avengers x reader #marvel

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libra-kirishima · 3 years

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Hii ! May i ask for hdcs where Yaoyorozu invites the class to an event organized by her family, a kind of gala or ball, so she won't be alone, and she sees her crush (Femreader) coming in a suit. Her reaction (reader doesn't realize she's a flirt). Thank you !

I misread this to think that you're the flirt, but that's okay because I don't think flirtatiousness makes sense for Yaoyorozu's character.

(She's a virgo...)

Please ma'am take these two pining nerd lesbians in this trying time.

"Was this a mistake?" You whispered to Mina.

"Why would this be a mistake?"

"I feel so weird being here." You answered, fiddling with your cuff links to avoid making eye contact with any number of the wealthy strangers that surrounded you.

"It's a birthday party." She rolled her eyes.

"I've never been to a birthday party like this before, have you-"

"Look, there's Sero!

Your friend grabbed you by the wrist and pulled you to a small table where Sero and Kaminari were talking with Jirou. (Or rather where Kaminari was hitting on her while Sero laughed at how he had no game.) When you locked eyes with him, he pointed to Kaminari and made a gagging gesture.

"Let her breathe, Denki." You joked, grabbing him by his shirt collar and pulling him back. Your friends laughed as you pulled up a chair between the two of them.

"Where's Yaomomo?" Your best friend asked, fiddling with the tufts of pink hair around her horns while staring at herself in the reflection of a spoon.

"Her mom called her away for something a while ago. Said she'd be back soon." Jirou answered, shrugging her shoulders. "You can go look for her if you want. Mrs. Yaoyorozu said the house was ours to explore."

You only half paid attention to the conversation between the two of them as you idly chatted with Sero.

"What's with your face?" He asks in between bites of the snack food on the table.

"You know just what to say to make a woman swoon." You answered. Kaminari laughed, jabbing him in the ribs playfully.

"No, I mean why do you look like you just walked in on your parents having sex or something?"

"Well that's an image I won't be able to get out of my head, thanks." You retorted, but Sero still waited for your answer with raised eyebrows. You sighed before continuing. "I hate that I know what you mean by that, by the way- No, it's Yaoyorozu."

"She said she'd be back in a little bit."

"No not where is she. More like-" You trailed off, waiting for her to finish.

"Is this about the sexual tension between the two of you?"

"What sexual tension?"

"The sexual tension in how you're fighting each other to be top of the class." Kaminari interjected. "You think that smug grin she gave you when she got a higher grade than you on that last test was friendly?"

"I thought it was intended to be malicious." You admitted.

"No, no-" Sero adds, pausing to steal a bite of Kaminari's food while his attention was focused on you. "-I totally think she wants to top you." Your eyes widened at his admittance. "But that's just a hunch."

"Really?"

"After all this time that you've been flirting with her? What did you think that she hated you?" At your lack of response, both boys started laughing. "Are you fucking serious?" You leaned over to jab your elbow into Kaminari's ribs.

"What did I miss?"

All three of you bolted up at the question. Your eyes scanned how gorgeous she looked in her dress with her hair down before locking with Yaoyorozu, and it appeared she did the same because you both blushed instantaneously. After witnessing the brief interaction, Kaminari begins to laugh again but is silenced by Jirou pinching his arm under the table.

"Nothing important." He answered through grit teeth. Satisfied with the answer, Jirou let go of his skin. "Ow."

Sero stands to offer Yaoyorozu his seat, shooting you the widest shit-eating grin he could manage as she sat next to you.

"Happy birthday, Yaoyorozu." You spoke to her as she made herself comfortable beside you.

"Thank you, (Y/N)." After a moment of silence between the two of you she speaks again. "I'm glad you came." She added earnestly.

"Thank you for inviting me." After another pause, you added "You look absolutely gorgeous, by the way." For the first time since your eyes first met, you allowed yourself to properly look at her. Her eyes averted yours as she worked to conceal the rose in her cheeks. You placed your chin in your palm with a small smirk.

"As do you." She added meekly. "You seemed a bit unsure of yourself when you walked in, but I hope you know that I'm very glad to have you here." Her words were soft spoken but reassuring, managing to look at you for just long enough to offer you a kind smile.

"So you were watching me?" You chuckled. Her face flushes even deeper. You watched as she struggled to keep it from you, seemingly interested in everything surrounding her except for you. "Can't get enough of me? I don't blame you. I am top of my class you know." You joked. She playfully swatted your shoulder, then lingered her touch there a moment longer. Across the table, Sero laughed silently and shot you a thumbs up.

"Um-" She starts, before being taken by the swelling of music. "Actually would you care to dance with me?"

"I'd love to."

She took your hand and laced her fingers in yours, allowing you to lead the way. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Jirou slap Kaminari on the shoulder and point to the two of you leaving the table. Before he had a chance to think, she grabbed him by the wrist and followed you.

"Apologies for them," Yaoyorozu spoke shamefully as you placed her hands on your shoulders. "She's my best friend, but she she has an awful habit of eavesdropping on my conversations with you."

You wrapped your hands around your waist, leading her around the room in relative silence. As the song comes to a close, she leans closer and whispers "Do you want to make a break for it?"

"Hm?" You ask. She subtly points her head to a hallway at the other end of the room with a smile. You'd never seen this side of her before, but you'd be lying if you said you weren't loving it. You smile back at her, and that's all the answer Momo needs.

"Ready?" She asked softly. You watched her take one last glance at Kaminari and Jirou, still trying subtly to watch the two of you. "Go!"

She grabbed you by the hand with one hand, lifting up the material of her skirt with the other. You drifted around various partygoers, hoping to slip out of sight of your friends. She pulled you into the massive corridor at the other end of the hall, and up the first set of stairs. It was only then that she stopped running. She spends a few moments to catch her breath. "Come with me." Her hand was still firmly grasping yours, leading you through the long and winding corridors of her home.

You're taken to a window at the end of a corridor, where Momo pushes aside the lavish set of drapes, revealing it to be a set of glass doors. Never once releasing your hand from her grasp, she opens the doors and pulls you on to the balcony with her, drawing the drapes and closing the door behind her. It was almost impressive watching her do this all with one hand. It was only then that she let go of yours. "Thank you. I needed to get away for a while." You said nothing, but smiled at her. She leans against the railing, looking up at the night sky like she's looking for something. You join her, resting yourself against the railing with your shoulder touching hers. "Are you familiar with astronomy."

"A bit." You answered. You point to a chain of stars, and Momo's eyes follow your hand with interest. "The constellation Cygnus is right there. That star at the tail of the swan is called Deneb. I think it's the 19th or 20th brightest star in the night sky." She lets out an interested hum. Your point moves to another part of the night sky. "Delphinus." Momo looks at you, eager to hear more. "It's a dolphin." You state awkwardly after a while.

You both laugh naturally. Her hand comes to rest on yours, stroking soothing circles into the palm of your hand. All this time you had assumed that she hated you seemed to drift into the sea as she eagerly listened to you point out features of the night sky. "Venus. You can tell that it's a planet and not a star because it doesn't twinkle."

"Why don't planets twinkle?" She asked eagerly.

"Because they're too close to us. Stars are millions of light-years away but Venus is our nextdoor neighbor. It's actually the brightest object in the night sky because it has a thick atmosphere of white clouds."

"And why does that make it so bright?"

"Since the clouds are so thick and white, just about all of the light from the sun reflects off of it. And that's why you can even see Venus in the day sometimes."

Maybe she didn't know everything. You had assumed she did based her quirk and her grades. But Yaoyorozu was just a girl. A very smart one at that but just a girl. You certainly didn't know everything.

How strange it was to think that of all the people she could have asked to join her in her escape from the crowd of her birthday party, she chose you. "I thought you hated me." You said, not realizing that you had voiced that thought out loud until it was too late.

"That's funny." She admitted to you. "I always assumed you hated me. I invited you by total chance, hoping that you'd come. And I'm glad you did. You've been great company." You both silently decided to leave it there, choosing to take in the sounds of the night in silence before heading back inside.

"Oh!" You perked your head up. "Is now a bad time to give you your birthday present?"

"You didn't have to get me anything-"

"I know but I wasn't not going to. But what do you get the girl that's got everything, right?" You snuck into the coat closet just outside the foyer, grabbing your bag from one of the hooks. "Do you remember when we went on that class beach trip and you wanted the stuffed cow in the claw machine on the pier but you couldn't win it?"

"Yeah."

"Well I remembered that you wanted it so Kaminari and I went back to get it for you!" You responded enthusiastically!

"You're kidding."

You shook your head no, pulling the plush out of your bag to prove it. With a grin, you extended your arms to offer it to her. "How? I thought it was broken. The claw wouldn't close."

"Oh, no, it still was." You admitted. "I asked Kaminari to fry the machine so I could reach my arm in there with a coat hanger and pull it out." She laughed. It was the sweetest sound you think you've ever heard. "Worked like a charm."

"Did it?"

"Yeah. We're never allowed back to that arcade again but I think it was worth it."

Momo pulled you by your lapels closer to her and pulled you into a tight hug. The feeling of her embrace felt so warm and familiar. Neither of you wanted to be the first to let go. After a moment she speaks.

"I love it. Thank you."

"Happy birthday." You said once again, punctuating it with a soft kiss to her temple.

#poor baby is insecure and modest surrounded by people who want to exploit that bc she's pretty...#you can tell she's a virgo #I'm all for being liberal with canon but i do still wanna keep the characters accurate to themselves if possible #bnha imagines #bnha x reader #mha imagines #mha x reader #yaoyorozu momo x reader #momo yaoyorozu x reader #momo x reader #yaoyorozu x reader #Yaoyorozu Momo #momo yaoyorozu #wlw x reader #wlw imagines #pronouns used: she/her/hers

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hollowknightxreader · 3 years

Note

How about a fluffy scenario with Quirrel post infection? Maybe with some cuddling ‘cause I’m a bastard for some sappy cuddling

A/N: Eee! first request! Apologies for such a late reply, but here we are! First post! (And honestly, who isn’t a bastard for sappy cuddling?)

Long had it been since the last vestiges of the infection’s dust settled over hallownest. The vile encasings of orange slime clinging to every edge and platform popped, leaving behind only empty sleeves like deflated balloons as a reminder of what they once were. The thick, sickly-sweet gas which filled the lungs of all who inhaled it expelled, leaving the air cleaned to a point where it was breathable again.

Many had been lost to the radiance’s light in those countless years of pain and loss. The uncountable number of souls trapped in their very graves before they could escape, sentenced to doom inside the places they might’ve once called home. The adventurers who trekked into the underbelly of a fallen kingdom, following the candied promises of legacy and gleaming treasure, only to never return again... Near every single one met their doom in that deathtrap of an underground.

You would’ve thought yourself to suffer the same fate if not for meeting Quirrel.

He was a peculiar bug, that was something you couldn’t deny, from the very first meeting in the small fading town of Dirtmouth, he had this sort of… air to him that drew your attention, so new and interesting compared to the rest of the town.

In fact, watching him descend into the depths of Hallownest stirred something in you, a curiosity to explore what had been right under your nose for all these years. By no means were you a skilled adventurer, oh, no, you were far from it, barely could you even defend yourself against the husks in the crossroads! Though… you still managed to hold your own against infected bugs, though. (Albeit you certainly did run away more than you would’ve cared to admit.)

It was all over, peace had finally been returned to Hallownest, at least… for now, people could relax.

For this exact reason is why you now lay nestled in the center of a nest of plush pillows and soft blankets. The soft, pale light of lumaflies from lanterns fixated to the ceiling washed over your shell. After the infection,

To say he was a good partner would be to call that Zote bug harassing the townspeople of dirtmouth annoying. He helped all around the house, cleaning with you, hunting for food, giving you tips on cooking, Pale Ruler knew you needed it. What have you ever done to deserve him? You did not know.

At the moment, Quirrel was out and about, there wasn’t a doubt in your mind that he had gone somewhere in the kingdom remains below, most likely to find something to do, such as dropping by the city of tears, or, well, you knew of how he would occasionally go into the fog canyon to reminisce of his-

An echoing creak of the front door interrupted your train of thought, taking your attention to the room’s entrance, eyes fixed to the doorway expectantly.

Just as anticipated, a bug walked through, your bug. His face lights up at the sight of you, eyes ever so slightly upturning with his smile growing to stretch ear to ear. In turn, you sit up straight and wave to him.

“Hello, dear!” Quirrel greeted chipperly, walking to your side to take a seat on one of the pillows.

“Hey, Quirrel-” You hummed a reply, “You’re back much earlier than usual.”

The pillbug takes a pause, leaning forward to press a quick peck to your forehead, “it would seem so.” The answer was breezy, light, a smile crept its way onto your face as he continued on, leaning far enough to his side that he would flop into the pillows, the only thing keeping his head up to face you being his hand, “I was missing you, love.”

Oh, that pure- softness in his voice, it pulled at your heartstrings, “I missed you, too-” You reached out to the side of his face, gently cupping it, “Did you find anything interesting today?” He shook his head, “Only the same rubble as the day before.” There was a muted sadness in those last few words, reminding you of those off chances when you joined him into the ruins, into the fog canyon. How he would watch the Uoma and Ooma, eyes full of hollowed nostalgia, something bittersweet. You could share those sentiments, he lost his Madam, his home, his memory, his teacher, his… his everything.

Quirrel must’ve noticed your expression falling, for he let out a light sigh and reached out to just barely trace up the bridge of your nose to your forehead, “Do not worry, my dear, I am okay, today was merely a tad bit dull.”

“Oh,” Letting out a sheepish laugh, you dropped your hand from his face, “Looks like I misread the mood.” “Perhaps just a little bit-” Quirrel chuckled, “Do not fret over it, it’s alright.” --------

Opening your mouth as you released a long, tired yawn and you stretched out your limbs, joints softly popping as you did so. You then curled back up into the pillows. “Tired?”

“Mm…” You rolled onto your side, facing your lover with eyes full of tiredness.

“I shall take that as a yes.” He reached over, bringing one of the blankets over your form. It was warm, cozy, impossibly so, as if the embodiment of sitting next to a fire wrapped itself around you. It was just what you needed to lull you further into sleeping, it was just too comfy to resist. The thick fabric shifted around you, and soon you faced the lighter carapace of your pillbug. Just as you were unable to resist the blanket’s comfort, you could not pass up the opportunity to move forward and rest against him, his arms finding their way around you, a hand holding the back of your head, his fingers curling and uncurling against your scalp in a gentle, relaxing motion.

Pale king, how he knew how to put you right to sleep.

He was too good, really, “What... did I do to deserve you…?”

“My dear, what did I ever do to deserve you?” He responded, “Sleep, love, I’ll be here when you awake.”

“Mn… okay.” You mumbled, finally closed your eyes, the next few seconds easy to drift in, easy to fall into slumber while Quirrel hummed, the simple tune he buzzed, vibrating in his chest. It made it all so easy to fall asleep.

#Hollow knight x reader #hollow knight #hollow knight quirrel #Quirrel #x reader #reader insert #first post!#:D

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starkerforlife6969 · 4 years

Text

He’s Just Not that Into You- Starker AU

It's the first week of summer and Peter's got a date.

Jacob is nice, and Peter's changed his shirt three times, and the bar is warm on this June evening, and thriving. Dancing bachelorette parties, the game on the big screen tvs hanging from the ceiling and-

Jacob's twenty minutes late.

But that's fine, Peter's fine, he pulls at his cuffs, tucks a curl behind his ear, bites his lip, refuses the temptation to look at his phone.

Maybe he should call Ned, Ned would know what to do-

"You waiting for someone, gorgeous?"

Peter looks up, feels colour rush to his cheeks. Dark eyes, a mouth that's sinful, smirking, in a tight fitting shirt and- "Oh um, no-yes- I mean." Peter manages a smile. "I might've been stood up? But, he probably- something probably came up. Or maybe I had the date wrong."

Smirk looks at him. Sizes him up. "Let me buy you a drink, bambi." He says.

After two drinks, Peter Parker thinks Tony Stark might be his saviour.

He's twenty two, the same age as Peter, but he's got it all- got it all figured out.

"So- Jacob didn't really like me. The phone number was fake." He realises aloud.

"If the guy likes you," Tony nods sagely, sipping his dakiri, "he'll take your number and give you his. He gave you a fake number, bet he didn't ask for yours, right?"

Peter wilts a little. Sighing at his own foolishness. "Right. I thought we had a good time."

Tony reaches over to nudge him. "You need to know what to look for, that's all. When to reel them in. When to get keen. I know guys like you, sweet guys- no disrespect, but you take every little thing as some sort of sign. Oh, he smiled at me or he picked up my pen-"

"But he smiled at me and he did not smile at anyone else-"

"Pete," Tony chuckles, "romcoms have ruined you. Naive-"

"Optimistic."

"Naive." Tony insists, bright-eyed. "Just because you met in a library and you both reached for the same edition of Harry Potter at the same time-"

Peter smacks him. "You're such a Slytherin." He glares.

Tony winks at him. "Hufflepuff, you gotta know how to play the game."

Peter mixes his drink. Muses. "I didn't think love was a game." He admits softly, deflating. The bar's deflated a little now too. Emptier. The TVs are off. The music is quiet and gentle. Here are he and Tony, cluttered over a small table.

"Love is a game, Peter. And we're gonna help you win."

They stay there for a few hours yet. Going over Peter's past relationships. Flash, MJ, Gwen, Jacob-

Going over Peter's blind date tactics, how to read people, how to know when to cut the chord- but Tony doesn't mind Peter's bumbling idiocy. He likes helping people. And Peter's sweet, the sort of sweet Tony hasn't seen in a long time. That isn't available in the private boarding schools he grew up in. That wasn't allowed through the pristine hard wood front doors.

"Oh, hey," Peter says, slurring just a little. The drinks he'd had were mostly sugar, not alcohol. "It's empty- is it closed?" He gapes, looking around, all fawn-like.

"It's fine, bambi," Tony grins, sliding his arm under Peter's, guiding him to the door. "My dad owns the place. I'll lock up. You all good getting home?"

"I'll call a cab." Peter nods, wincing at the cool night air. Tony locks up, before turning to look down at his new friend.

"It's good meeting you, Pete." He says, grinning, and Peter beams up at him.

"I know you said not to read into anything, but- wouldn't it be romantic if we fell in love? Like, you saved me from being stood up-"

Tony clamps his hand over Peter's mouth, tutting fondly. This kid. "Not that kinda movie, sweetheart. I'll be the mentor. The guide. The Yoda to your Luke."

Peter nods, and Tony removes his hand. Peter smiles beatifically up at him. "Alright. Thank you, sensei. I will resolve to follow your council."

Tony likes him. Wants to see him do well. Had hated the sight of the kid (not a kid, the same age, but Peter doesn't seem it. Full of idealism and princess stories) being stood up. Tony wants to see him happy. In love. Not getting played. Just because it's not for Tony, doesn't mean he doesn't want Peter to have it. "Here, take my number." Tony says, taking Peter's phone, typing in his number and sending himself a text. "Call me whenever you have a question."

Peter takes the phone gratefully. Cradles it in his palm. "Take you up on that I will."

Tony flicks his head. "I'm Yoda, nitwit."

"Hurt that did." Peter pouts, and Tony laughs into the night air, and hopes Peter calls.

Beck is hot, hard muscle, and Peter's only slightly uncomfortable from his position being pinned on the couch- the bony arm rest digging into his back, but that's all fine, because Beck tastes like toothpaste and his hands make Peter shudder-

They'd met yesterday, at a coffee shop. They'd both reached for the pumpkin spiced latte. Had both laughed. Exchanged numbers. It was a perfect meet-cute.

And Beck had called Peter. He's reading all the signs right, he's sure of it.

Peter curses when his phone buzzes. His boss wants his article done by tonight. New deadline. He sighs, pulling out from Beck's grip. "Sorry," he says earnestly, "I've gotta go. My boss needs this."

Beck nods, flushed, half-hard, hair falling attractively into his face. "I get it, but you can do your work here? Hm? I'll order take out, you can spend the night..."

Beck's hands slide up Peter's shirt, massage the taut muscle there. Peter relaxes into the touch, just a little. "That sounds nice..." he confesses, before laughing, "but I would never get anything done with you here."

Beck kisses his neck, bristly, goose-bump inducing. "Would that be so bad?" He murmurs.

"I really can't..."

"It just sucks," Beck sighs, pulling away. "Because I'm going out of town tomorrow and won't be in touch for a while. I'll just miss you."

Out of town? Peter's head rings. He's not sure what to make of it. Is it a play? Does Beck like him? Does he just want sex? If Peter stays tonight, will he never see Beck again?

"Can I go to the bathroom?" He blurts, like he's in school and Beck blinks at him, bewildered, but gestures with his hand.

He finds Tony's number under Sexy Yoda which is just- mental images that Peter does not need right now- and he dials.

"Pete, you called." Tony says warmly, answering on the second ring.

"Oh hey, hi- Tony," Peter bleats, sitting on the bathtub and thrumming his fingers. "I'm in a situation- need advice."

"Ah, amazing- one sec." Then, quieter, "Hey, Pep, d'ya mind? I'll be back in 10."

"Hope I'm not interrupting!"

"Not at all. So, where we at?"

"Okay, so, making out- I say I have to go, he says I should stay- I say I can't- then he says that he'll be leaving tomorrow so will be out of touch."

"Run." Tony says immediately, and Peter's face falls.

"What? No," he whines, "What if he really is just going out of town?"

"Peter." Tony says, in that no-nonsense voice, "Where could he possibly be going in the world that would mean he couldn't talk to you over the phone? He wants a hook up. Do you want a hook up?"

Miserably: "No."

"Well then, like I said: Run."

Peter sighs. "So, he doesn't like me?"

"Sure he likes you. Likes the thought of you in his bed. Who wouldn't? You're very cute. But he does not want a relationship. I sure don't respect the guy for trying to trick you into it, I'm upfront with all my one-night stands. It's just sex: nothing more."

"I'm thrilled for you." Peter remarks dryly. "So, run?"

"Run."

Peter runs.

***

In yoga class, the new instructor, Stephen, compliments his form and then asks him out to dinner.

"Run." Tony says, mouthful of something, on his lunch break.

Peter pecks at his own chicken salad. "Why? We haven't even gone out yet."

"Pete, do I have to spell it out for you? Yoga? Bending over, flexibility, bet you've got tight yoga pants and everything."

Peter wipes a drop of dressing off his keyboard. "Not everyone is as physically minded as you are. Maybe he thought we'd get on."

"He's asked you out based on nothing but the way you look doing the downward dog. Waste of time."

"I think you're wrong. I'm going to meet him for dinner."

Tony sighs. It crinkles down the receiver with disapproval. "Go for it. I'll eagerly await your apology."

When Peter does apologise, two days later, Tony is nice enough not to rub it in.

***

Mr Jameson is tough on the edges, but a softie deep down, Peter knows that.

Which is why he tries not to let the very brutal edits on his latest piece get him down. They're all very fair. So, he works through them methodically, learning, trying to improve, and not let them get him down.

It's late afternoon, he's in the zone, when his phone buzzes.

He picks it up absentmindedly, one knee drawn to his chest on his bed, other hand still scrolling through the word document.

"Hello?"

"Hey Pete, how goes the search for love?"

"Tony." Peter beams, warm all over, pushing away his laptop and collapsing back into his pillows. "How are you?"

"Good, good, bar's busy. Dad's happy enough with me managing it. New receptionist hates me, though."

"Pepper?"

"Yeah. I told her it was just sex- she misread the signs. Don't be like her, Peter."

"If a person wants to be with you, they'll ask you out, they'll make it happen." Peter recites: Tony's number one rule.

"Atta boy. What about you? Jameson like your piece?"

"A few edits. I'm working through them now. Actually- the photographer, Eddy, he's nice, handsome, might be into me?"

"Might?"

"Well, I don't know. He's never said anything. Am I allowed to ask anyone out? Or is that against the rules?"

"You can definitely ask someone out." Tony hums, "just make sure you can read their response. Ask him out, if he's busy- he's not into you. If he leaps at the chance, well, you've nailed it."

"Okay," Peter nods, excited. "Where should I ask him to go? Dinner? Is that too boring?"

"Hockey game, a movie, hell, a stake-out, it doesn't matter, just don't read into anything that isn't there."

"I won't. Thanks for the help, Tony, really," Peter says, "And sorry to call you on a Saturday."

"No worries, Bambi. Let me know how it goes with Eddy."

"Let me know if Pepper forgives you!"

Peter falls back into his work. Doesn't realise until just before he goes to sleep that actually- Tony called him.

***

"He said no." Comes Peter's voice through the ear-piece, as Tony debates whether to make himself a kale or spinach smoothie at home later. Both packs of green look equally healthy.

Tony dumps them both in the basket. Ignores the guy leering at him in favour of turning Peter up a little. "I'm sorry, kid. But better you know now than later, right?"

When Peter speaks, his throat sounds clogged "I guess." He says forlornly.

Tony cocks his head. Listens. Thinks. "How far into that tub of Ben and Jerry's are you, Pete?"

A pause. Tony grins: got him.

"I'm not...It's chocolate Fudge. There's um..." a spoon scrapes again soggy paper, "not much left?"

"No wallowing, rule number two, you know that."

"I know." Peter whines, "but I thought he liked me, maybe he did- you know he said, he was going through something right now, a recent break up, but that maybe someday-"

"It's a brush off." Tony insists, "don't read into anything that isn't there-"

"Maybe he did really just-"

"Okay." Tony says, setting his basket on the conveyer belt and pinching the bridge of his nose. "We need to get you back on the horse. I know a guy who might be into you: Steve. Wholesome, boring sort. Your kind of guy?"

"Well, when you say it like that, how can I resist?"

Tony shakes his head, smiling. "C'mon now, he's handsome. Very American. Tall, blonde, served in the Army for a bit, now he's some sort of do-gooder activist."

"Well that doesn't sound- so bad."

"And the best part? I think he might like you."

"I was beginning to think that was impossible."

Tony hands over his card, snorting. "No pity parties. You're easy on the eyes. Got those big bambi ones, those little freckles, long legs too, considering you're so short. It's nice. It's a good look." He can picture it, actually, those long legs wrapped around his hips. Peter's slender neck, fluffy hair spread out over the pillow- he needs to get laid today. Again. "I'll invite him to dinner, introduce the two of you. How's tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?" Peter squeals, excited, the sound of an empty ice cream tub being tossed aside. "I haven't got anything to wear."

Tony thinks of Peter's cream skin. Of his honey eyes. "Something tight. Maroon if you have it, anything sheer. Please, for god's sake, not that mustard monstrosity."

"I love that sweater!"

Tony carries his bags out to the car, feels the warm sun beat down on his face. "Oh hey, it's kinda nice out." He realises.

Peter sighs contentedly over the line. "It really is. DJ Ravioli loves it."

Tony stops by his car. Closes his eyes. "Who the fuck," he says, "is DJ Ravioli?"

"It's my cat-"

"Of course," he laughs, getting into the car, turning on the AC. "Of course it is. In every Romcom, what does the main character have? Some ugly ass cat-"

"Hey!"

"And DJ Ravioli! What kind of a name is that?"

"He's such a cutie-wootie, yes you are my little ravioli-cannoli."

"Goodbye, Peter!" Tony yells, hanging up the call.

He can't stop smiling the rest of the way home.

***

Peter's early. That's because he was raised with Ben's if you're not early, you're late mantra, and now he's sitting in a fancy restaurant, fiddling with the tablecloth.

MJ's done his hair. Crimped and weird, but he thinks overall he looks okay. He's taken Tony's tips, in a thin, flouncy maroon shirt tucked into very tight jeans. He better not eat too much. Not sure he could if he wanted to.

"Good evening, Sir," says the waitress, eyes kind, "are you ready to order?"

"Oh um, not just yet," Peter smiles, "I'm waiting for..." he gestures to the two empty seats.

She nods, stepping back.

Oh god, is he being stood up again-

Relief and pleasure seeps through him as Tony appears. He's in a plain black sweater, but he might as well be a model in how it stretches over him. He leans down, pecks Peter's cheek (warm, he's warm, and he smells like cologne) before collapsing into one of the seats and gesturing the waitress over.

"I messed up, Pete," he says, by way of greeting, having a glance through the menu.

Peter blinks, a little dazed. "Huh?"

"Steve. He's not free tonight. I'll reschedule it, I promise."

"Oh." Peter nods, "okay, so-"

"It's just us two tonight, that alright? You can bear my company?" Tony wiggles his eyebrows, and Peter laughs. His nerves leave him, he can relax now.

"I think I can just about tolerate it. How's Pepper?"

Tony winces.

Peter laughs.

***

Tony, for all his playboy moves, is such a gentlemen, Peter thinks. He'd picked up the whole bill, hadn't given Peter a chance to offer half.

And now Peter's full of lobster, warm and sated, and Tony is a warm line of heat against his back as he unlocks his front door.

"Mm, it's cozy," Tony hums into his ear, as they shuffle inside and Peter closes the door, sleepy and a little- excited. To have Tony here, in his apartment, late at night- "Oh, there he is. Little monster."

And to Peter's surprise, Tony leans down and scoops DJ Ravioli into his arms. The fat cat barely protests, using the new position to stretch his spine.

Peter grins, can't help, it and takes a photo on his phone.

Tony glares at him.

"What?" He giggles, "I thought you didn't like cats."

"Never said I didn't like 'em," Tony hums, thumb rubbing beneath DJ Ravioli's ears, "just said they're a cliche, that's all. In every love story, there's the damn cat. And it hates the bad guy- scratches them up- and loves the good guy, because somehow, the cat knows who you're meant to be with."

Peter lifts his eyebrows. "Well, DJ Ravioli likes you."

"Guess I must be the good guy." Tony quips, rolling his eyes. He takes his own phone out then, arranging himself for a selfie. He'll send it to his mom. The cat blinks lazily at the camera.

Just as Tony takes the picture, Peter slides into frame, stretching onto his tiptoes, finger's bunny ears behind Tony's head.

Tony shoves him playfully. "You're a photo crasher, Peter Parker. A photo bomber. A fiend. A nightmare." He sets the cat down, watches his waddle away. "And you're overfeeding that cat."

Peter flips him the bird then, and is rewarded with Tony's loud bark of laughter.

They drink coffee, Tony judges the way Peter organises his kitchen, and then at 2am, Peter pouts and says:

"These jeans are really tight. Do you mind if I change?"

Tony sips his coffee, side-eyes him. "Don't try to seduce me, Parker."

Peter snorts, grateful to shuffle into his bedroom and peel the jeans off him. He pulls on his Hello Kitty Sweat Pants and an oversized science tee, feeling immeasurably more comfortable. He pulls on his fluffiest socks, feels a little bad he can't offer Tony something to wear. They'd all be too tight.

He presents himself with a twirl. "Seduction at it's finest." He teases, and Tony looks him over; something warm and soft in his gaze that makes Peter blush.

"It's not bad." Tony murmurs, turning back to his coffee cup. "Well, it's-" he clears his throat, "late, Pete. I should go."

Peter wiggles his toes in his socks, wants to crawl into bed. "Okay. Thanks for dinner."

"Thanks for..." Tony looks around, chuckles. "Having me. You should come by tomorrow. See how the other, better half lives."

Peter walks him to the door. Tony stoops down to rub a knuckle along DJ Raviol's back. The tail wraps around his wrist. Tony disentangles himself gently. "Around 6?"

Tony beams at him. "Perfect."

***

When Peter wakes up in the morning, everything becomes clear.

Tony likes him.

He tries not to get swept away in the realisation of it. Tries to be rational, to follow the points.

1) Tony had given Peter his number and taken Peter's.

2) Tony calls him. They talk all night, sometimes. Tony's left dates, make-out sessions, to talk to Peter.

3) The mysterious 'Steve' that never showed up. Or perhaps, never existed at all.

Peter scribbles these into his notebook. Could it be? Tony's so...handsome. Clever. Funny. Why would he be into- but no-

Tony thinks he's handsome. Said so himself. Said Peter had bambi eyes (a pet name- that's a sign, Peter writes it down) and long legs. Said he looked nice in maroon.

They're saved under cute nicknames in each other's phone. DJ Ravioli likes Tony! And there's Tony eyes- something warm and soft that Peter sees from time to time.

And the fact that Tony saved him from being stood up. It's a perfect meet-cute.

Peter squeals. Tony's invited him over tonight. Never pressured him into sex- it must be something.

He spins on the kitchen stool and dreams of happily ever after.

***

The radio plays as they wash the dishes. Tony washes, Peter dries. Their hips bump.

It's nice, Tony thinks, as they hum along. His penthouse- big, empty, most of the times- except when he's having parties loud enough to upset the neighbours, but even those- they don't compare to this quiet company of Peter Parker.

Peter screeches as he hits a high note, so Tony turns the faucet on him, laughing as Peter splutters, slapping him with the rag.

Tony doesn't want to point out he he has dishwasher. He likes this.

Once they're done, he collapses onto the couch, watches as Peter ambles around before coming to stand in front of him. He looks thoughtful. He's wearing that gross mustard sweater that Tony kinda likes now, if only for the way it makes Peter looks soft and cuddly.

"What are you thinking about?" He asks, trying to read Peter's mind. He's good at reading people, great at reading Peter, but not tonight. He can't quite gauge it.

Then Peter, in his ugly sweater, beautiful, with a grace Tony suspected but didn't know Peter possessed- straddles him on the couch, and kisses him.

Tony feels those long legs, spread wide over his own knees, feels the heat of Peter's core, those lily hands against his cheeks, that soft, soft mouth against his own.

He moans appreciatively, opening his mouth, taking control. His own hands coming to wrap around Peter's waist and-

"I knew it," Peter whispers, pleased as punch against his cheek, "we're in love."

Tony splutters, a cold wash of water against the pleasing heat that was working it's way down his body. "We're- what-" he pushes Peter away a little, from where those teeth were nipping his ear.

Peter sits back, still fucking straddling him, still looking as innocent as a wall-flower, one hand still poisoned above Tony's denim-clad dick. "We're in love," Peter repeats, beaming. "We're dating."

Tony scoffs, erection wilting. "Well, gee, Pete, was I ever gonna know about any of this? In what universe are we dating?"

"We-" Peter frowns, swallowing hard. "I- you liked me? The signs-"

"What signs?!" Tony fumes, pressure mounting, pushing on his chest. "Jesus Christ, Pete." He pushes Peter off him, gets to his feet. "What the fuck?"

"I..." Peter sits, mussed, on the couch, staring up at him. "You- you took my number. You call me, S-Steve didn't show up- you- you- we talk all night, we made dinner, we washed up- you came over- I thought-"

"What did I say? What did I say?" Tony hisses, raking his hands through his hair. "If a guy is into you, Peter, he will ask you out. Or you ask him out. Did I ask you out?"

Peter eyes are swimming with tears. He looks flushed with humiliation and great, now Tony's a massive jerk. "N-no."

"Peter." Tony can't look at him, turns and bangs his head against the wall. "Why- why do people do this? Read into nothing. There is nothing between us but friendship. And now..." he whirls back to Peter accusingly. "Now you've ruined our friendship. You look for all these tiny, insignificant moments. I gave you my number because I wanted to help you, Steve genuinely couldn't make the day, I invited you over here because we're friends. I've never made a move on you, never asked you out, and you've never asked me out. You know, you know I don't do relationships. Why? Why do people think that they're the exception? You're not the exception, Pete, you're not gonna change me. You're the rule, and the rule is: if I liked you, I would've asked you out. But I didn't, so I don't."

He has to catch his breath once he's done. Peter's still sitting there, eyes watering- but not crying. The air is tense. Thick.

"God, Pete," Tony says gently, "I don't mean to hurt your feelings, but- no. We're not in a relationship. We're not dating. I'm not into you."

They're mean. Cruel words. But they're true. Tony's a straight-forward, up-front kind of guy. He turns to his kitchen, pours himself a drink. Fuck, what a night.

"I don't want to be like you." Comes the quiet voice from the living room.

Tony sets down the brandy, whirls towards Peter with a scoff. "Excuse me?"

Peter looks up at him, still red-faced, but brave. "I don't want to be like you. Going around, using people. Never finding love, never looking for it. Never getting- excited at a smile, or wondering what your life with someone might be like. I like hoping. I like dreaming and meet-cutes, and big, unrealistic romantic gestures, I like that."

Tony sneers, shaking his head. "Fine. I'll be over here, living in the real world."

Peter gets to his feet, grabs his bag, wipes his face. "You do that, Tony, you live all alone in the real world. You won't find any happiness like that."

"At least I won't get rejected twice a week!" Tony yells, as Peter heads for the door.

Peter turns back, hand on the door knob, angry. "I'd rather get rejected knowing that it means I'm closer to my happily ever after. I'll take rejection after rejection, Tony."

"Well done," Tony claps, "this is another one to add to your dossier."

The door slams and Tony's alone and there's no one to yell at so he throws his glass of brandy across the kitchen. The stupid sturdy glass doesn't even break, the liquid just drips down onto the tile and he'll have to clean it up later.

It's been three days.

Surely Peter's still not angry with him after three days. Sure, Tony said some stuff, but it was- heat of the moment. They're friends.

He rubs his temples, puts down the paper work- can't read the words. He needs to sign off on payrolls, order more stock, sort out the overtime policy-

He takes out his phone. No messages. No calls.

The door opens, and Pepper walks in, professional, the last dredges of her anger with him mostly gone. "Hey Tony, a few more for you to sign." She sets down the papers.

"Thanks," he mutters. No DMs on twitter. Nothing on instagram. He opens Facebook.

"Oh my god."

Tony looks up, startled at Pepper's expression of delight. "What?" He asks, eyes flicking down- nothing on Facebook. Email, maybe?

"Who are they?"

"Who are who?"

"The special someone." She laughs, eyes bright with disbelief. "Who's got you checking your phone obsessively, wondering when they'll call."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Tony says, putting his phone away. "You may go."

"You haven't been able to concentrate all day," she muses, perching on the edge of his desk, perfectly comfortable. He misses the days she couldn't stand to be in the same room as him. "You put Javier on dishes and Rebecca at the bar- rookie error. You keep asking if anyone's called the bar for you- you haven't shaved. And is that the same shirt as yesterday-"

"No." Tony says emphatically, self-conscious and sweaty, "just go. Please."

Pepper gets to her feet, laughs again. "The world of love. Welcome to it, asshole."

When she's gone, Tony sits there. Fingers itching for his phone.

"Shit." He mutters to himself.

***

He sends Peter a message. A text. He says: Pete, I'm sorry about what happened. Can we talk? Brunch, maybe? I want us to be friends.

He doesn't get an answer.

He wants to hurl his phone against the wall in frustration. What the fuck.

He paces relentlessly. Keeps his phone charged.

Peter posts on instagram, it's a photo of DJ Ravioli asleep in a sunbeam, with the caption another nice, sunny day

What does that mean? Tony had said to Peter once that it was a nice day- is this a reference to that? A secret meaning? Should he like the photo? Should he not?

He finds himself driving past Peter's apartment late at night. Sometimes the lights are on. Sometimes they're not.

Tony wonders if he's eating ice cream. If he's in those stupid pyjamas. If Jameson liked the latest revisions. Wonders if he's petting the cat.

Wonders if he's thinking about Tony.

His phone buzzes, and he nearly drops it in his haste to check it.

It's from his mom.

Sorry, got a new phone, didn't see this till just now- what a cutie! Is he yours? (I don't mean the cat), you look so happy, sweetheart. Also, are you eating enough? Your dad says hi!

Tony clicks on it. Sees the photo he sent her. Captured mid-laughter, Tony is beaming, face turned to Peter, who's gorgeous, beaming, lovely-

Tony looks at his own expression. Has he ever looked at someone like that before? The way he's looking at Peter in this photo?

He does look happy. He looks...home.

"-ey Tony. Is this recording? Hey Tony, it's Steve! I just wanted to let you know I ran into Peter- your Peter- at the flower garden in Harlem today. How crazy is that? Must be fate. He's amazing, you're a matchmaker. We've got a date tonight- I'll let you know how it goes!"

Tony listens to the message three times. A voice mail, of course, because Steve might as well be from the 1940s.

There's a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. What does that mean? That the very person Tony thought Peter would get on with is the one he bumped into in Harlem? In a flower garden. Peter was probably surrounded by foxgloves, ridiculously beautiful in his dandelion cardigan, streaks of suncream still on his face.

Maybe Steve had come up to him, said that Peter was a more beautiful view than the flowers. Steve is gross like that.

And Peter probably- probably liked it. Thought Steve was handsome, because Steve is. Probably blushed the way he blushes whenever someone compliments him, like he never received enough. The amount he deserved. Probably said something lame like "you're not so bad yourself."

He wonders how Peter reacted when Steve brought Tony up, brought up their link. Their almost.

Did he ask about Tony? Steve's message hadn't said anything- so Peter obviously hadn't said anything bad. That must mean something.

Going out tonight. Peter's going out tonight.

Tony doesn't want Peter to go out tonight. He wants to lie in Peter with bed, with that fat cat, and watch TV and talk and order Chinese. Wants to kiss Peter- wants to-

"Oh," he whispers, fingers shaking, he presses his hands together. This is love. He's in love. With Peter. He's been in love with Peter since-

He remembers the sight of him at the bar. Beautiful. Sweet. Idealistic like Tony couldn't believe and-

Goddamn it. Tony's loved him the moment he first laid eyes on him.

And he's fucked it all up.

***

He sees Steve on the way up. He hides behind a plant, peeks out behind leaves. Steve is whistling, smiling, pleased. Okay, well, so, they had a good date- but Peter didn't let him in for a nightcap. That must mean something.

Tony hurries upstairs, heart pounding. He knocks on the door of Peter's apartment, tries to control his hair and-

"Oh good, you forgot your coat!" Comes Peter's voice, pleased, and the door opens and-

It's Peter.

He's in Steve's coat. It's draped over his shoulders. There's stardust in his eyes, he's wearing chinos and a hideous flannel shirt and-

"Peter." Tony breathes, wants to kiss him. Wants to pull that coat off him and burn it.

Peter stands firm in the door. Doesn't move to let him in. His face closes off. "What are you doing here, Tony?"

"I can't sleep," he blurts, aware of the wreck he must look. "Can't eat. Can't think straight. I keep- driving past this place, wondering if you're up, what you're doing, if you're thinking about me. I keep- wanting to call. To find any excuse to- I keep replaying all our- moments, I'm- I'm becoming-"

"Me." Peter finishes, he looks up at Tony with his huge eyes.

"Bambi," Tony whispers, and Peter flinches away, shaking his head.

"Tony, I just...I just went on a date with Steve-"

"I know." He whispers. Hating himself already. He's left it too late. Should've come sooner, should've realised earlier.

"And I think he- he actually likes me, Tony. He doesn't see love like it's a game, he calls when he says he'll call and he's not scared of relationships-"

"I'm not scared anymore." Tony whispers, taking another step forward, "I can be yours-"

"But you didn't want to be!" Peter cries, shaking his head. Pain etched across his face, and Tony remembers his words. How cruel, how wrong he was. "I threw myself at you, and you didn't want me-"

"I was wrong. I was wrong, Pete, and you were right. About everything. I didn't- I'm so used to doing the same thing, of keeping people at arms length, that when I actually fell-" the words choke in his throat, "-in love- I didn't- I didn't know. I didn't realise."

Peter stares at him, closes his eyes. There's a long beat of silence. "Tony," he whispers, composing himself, "a wise Yoda once told me that if someone wants to date you, they'll make it happen. That I'm the rule, not the-"

He can't take it. Not another moment. Not another unbearable second of Peter thinking that Tony doesn't want him-

So, he kisses him.

It's awkward, and desperate, and then- gentle. He cradles Peter's face in his hands, kisses him long, and slow and endless. Tries to pour all the love, and the hope and the fire he's been carrying for Peter since the moment he saw him.

When they pull apart, Tony doesn't step back. Stays close. Hopeful. Pleading.

Peter's eyes flutter open, like a prince in a fairytale, like the leading star in a romance. "I'm the exception," he whispers, hands on Tony's chest.

Tony's heart thunders with truth. "You are my exception." He breathes, pulling Peter and his gorgeous smile in for another kiss. His hands push Steve's coat from off his shoulders, he steps on it for good measure, and he swallows Peter's laughter, nearly trips over DJ Ravioli, and kicks the door shut behind them.

They spend the next day in bed, watching tv, and they order Chinese food.

Peter checks his work emails, and Tony reaches over and kisses him like he can't help it. Peter laughs, kissing back for a moment, before pulling away. "Am I that irresistible?" He teases.

Tony looks up at him from his side of the bed, eyes earnest. "Yes." He says solemnly. "You are."

"Does that mean I get the last spring roll?"

Tony winces. "I already gave it to the cat."

"Oh well," Peter sighs, collapsing into Tony's arms, tossing the phone away. "You'll just have to make it up to me somehow."

Tony starts to pepper him with kisses. Hands slip under Peter's shirt. "I can do that. I can do that every day for the rest of our lives."

Peter hums, vibrating with glee, "and is this the first day of Happily Ever After?"

"Baby," Tony grins, brushing the cat hair from Peter's forehead, and kissing him again, and again, "I think it just might be."

#starker #peter x tony #young tony #romcom au #angst with a happy ending #mutual pining #he's just not that into you au #precious peter parker #tony stark has a heart

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there-must-be-a-lock · 3 years

Text

Not Your Average Love Story (SPN x CM)

Sam Winchester x Spencer Reid

Word Count: ~3490

Warnings: Show-level violence, but that’s about it! It’s bizarrely fluffy.

A/N: My first square for @cmbingo: “meet the parents.” This is essentially a rewrite of Supernatural 12x01, “Keep Calm and Carry On,” except Spencer and Sam are adorable dorky murder boyfriends.

Thanks to @fangirlxwritesx67 for the read-through!

When Spencer realizes he’s in love with Sam, he’s on a plane, hoping to make it to Kansas before the sun goes dark.

He looks out the window at the too-orange light, thinking, this is a weird twist for a love story. He turns that thought over in his mind and realizes: love.

Oh.

It takes him by surprise, for some reason, but only for a second. He’s starting to get used to surprises.

* * *

Spencer has always been self-aware enough to realize that his intellect and his lack of social skills would not make it easy to strike up a traditional relationship. Then, of course, you factor in his obsessive tendencies, his attachment issues, and the stresses of his job, and it’s not actually surprising that he made it past the age of thirty before he fell in love for the first time. Considering how that ended, it’s definitely a surprise — if not a minor miracle — that he’s made it this far with Sam.

Then again, nothing about their relationship has been predictable. Spencer never guessed he’d meet his future partner while dissecting a dessicated brain.

Ever since Spencer Reid met Sam Winchester, his life has been one surprise after another.

* * *

The third unanswered call makes him nervous, but he figures Sam must be asleep, or at least he should be asleep. If Spencer finds himself doing ninety mph in his tiny rental car, it’s mostly because Kansas highways don’t seem to follow the usual laws of physics. They’re flat and endless and eerie in the grey pre-dawn light.

The moment he opens the door, Spencer knows something is wrong. He spares a wishful thought for his Kevlar, and then he draws his gun, falling automatically into the too-familiar stance as he silently descends the stairs.

There’s blood on the floor.

This doesn’t surprise him in the slightest.

* * *

Spencer tends to spend a lot of time visualizing hypothetical problems and their solutions. He’s good at imagining all the potential outcomes of a particular scenario and calculating their likelihoods based on given variables. He frequently does this at night, instead of sleeping.

In other words, he worries a lot.

If he were in a normal relationship he would probably worry about normal things. For example: whether Spencer was misreading the situation, whether it was okay to run a thorough background check on them, and what to wear on a date. What would their first argument be about? What would their parents think of him? What would his mom think of them?

About thirty-six hours after they met, Sam saved Spencer’s mom from a wraith; first impressions don’t get much better than that.

The normal worries were rapidly eclipsed by Sam-specific worries. For example: what if he got cursed, what if he got possessed, and were there angels or demons after him this week. Why couldn’t Dean either drive a little slower or get a car with less antiquated safety features? How would Spencer help if Sam got hurt on the job? Should he tell the B.A.U. what he’s been learning about the supernatural?

He does end up telling them everything; Sam and Dean show up at a crime scene, Hotch almost arrests them, and it turns out that one of the serial killers they’ve been hunting for a decade is actually a skinwalker.

But the point is that when Spencer sees blood on the floor, he isn’t surprised. He’s visualized this scenario — and several hundred variations on it — before.

* * *

He hears a raised voice in the library and takes the steps two at a time. There are two complete strangers there, a blonde woman aiming a gun at a man, and Spencer’s training kicks in before he can figure out why she looks familiar.

“Federal agent, hands in the air,” he barks.

He can see the split-second when the woman thinks about turning her gun on him, but she seems to think better of it, and she sets the gun down slowly before putting her hands in the air.

“Who are you?” the man demands. “What did you do with Sam?”

“What — Sam?” Spencer asks, panic rising in his throat. “Spencer Reid, FBI. Who —”

“You’re Spencer?” he asks, brow furrowed.

Spencer realizes: “You’re Castiel.”

“Whoa, whoa, hey, gun down,” Dean interrupts. “It’s okay! She’s okay, Spence!”

“Dean? You’re alive?” Castiel grabs him before he can say anything else.

Spencer lowers his gun slowly. He’s starting to hyperventilate. He wants to know how Dean is still alive, yes, but he’s watching the way they embrace, the smile on Cas’s face and the way Dean’s shoulders seem to drop like he’s relaxing for the first time in a long time, and all he can think about is —

“Can somebody tell me where the hell Sam is?” Spencer asks, voice cracking embarrassingly.

“He’s not here,” Castiel says.

The woman looks between Cas and Spencer, eyes wide, and it’s not clear who she’s talking to when she asks, “Who are you?”

“He’s my —” Dean starts.

Cas cuts him off by saying, “He’s Sam’s —” at the same time Spencer blurts out, “He’s an angel.”

“Come again?” the woman asks, and when she sees the way Dean shifts nervously, she adds, “Not that, I don’t care about — you said angel?”

“Angel. You know. Wings, harp.”

“Not actually,” Spencer tells her, just as Cas scowls and says, “No, I don’t have a harp.”

“Cas, Spencer,” Dean says, and he pauses, swallowing hard. “This is Mary. Mary Winchester.”

Spencer and Cas speak in unison again, Cas in a gruff monotone as Spencer’s voice goes squeaky: “Your mother?”

Of all the things Spencer has worried about, he never thought he would never have to worry about making a bad first impression on Sam’s parents. Sam’s parents are dead.

Except… apparently not. Apparently Sam’s mom has been resurrected, and Spencer just pulled a gun on her.

“Nice to meet you,” Mary says softly, with a tentative smile.

For a second he freezes, staring at her, and his mind starts racing, recalculating, replanning, getting his worrying done after the fact, and Spencer has no idea what to say. He never made a plan for this.

“Nice to meet you,” he responds, flushing. “Um. Sorry about that.”

“I’d have done the same thing if I were you.” She smiles, and she doesn’t look much like Sam, but the kindness in her eyes is so very familiar. Spencer’s breath catches.

“She’s not kidding, shoulda seen the way she pinned me when I tried to introduce myself,” Dean grumbles. Then he turns to Castiel and says, “Tell me what happened to Sam.”

As Castiel starts to explain the details, Spencer calls Penelope.

“FBI, office of the brilliant but under-caffeinated,” she says, slightly less chirpy than he’s used to, and Spencer realizes how early it is. Oops.

“It’s me.”

“Oh! Boy genius! They did it, huh? Hotch called us back in, like, as soon as the sun came back on, because apparently criminals don’t stop just because the world is ending, or whatever, but he wanted to give you a day at least — hey, are you okay? How’s that handsome lumberjack of yours?”

“Sam’s missing,” Spencer says without preamble. “I need your help.”

It takes Penelope approximately a minute to find the car and identify the driver, but the identity of his passenger is a little more elusive. She types away, keys clattering ceaselessly in the background, as Spencer yawns.

“Got it! Okay, I have a cell number. If you call her, I can track it. You ready?”

“Dean, give me your phone?” Spencer asks, holding out a hand. “You stay on the line with Penelope. She can tell you as soon as she gets the address.”

“I can make the call,” Dean says. “I want to have a word with this bitch.”

“Dean,” Spencer snaps. “First of all, I’m the only person here who’s trained in hostage negotiation. Finding people is literally in my job description.”

“This isn’t a fuckin’ bank holdup, this is my brother,” Dean retorts. “It’s my job to take care of him.”

“If you call her a bitch and start in on your threatening macho bullshit, she’s going to hang up, or worse, she’s going to believe you, and then she’ll be trying to get you before you can get to Sam. I know how to talk to people like this. If I can convince her I’m scared, that I’m not a real threat, she might give something away.”

“But —”

“Secondly, the only people who know you’re alive are in this room right now, which means you’re our best chance to take her by surprise when we get there, so shut up and let me do my job.”

“You really think you can find him,” Dean says, and it’s not a question. He holds out his phone with a look of begrudging respect.

“Yes.”

Spencer thinks, I have to.

* * *

People aren’t all the same, but if you could quantify the concept of normal, if you could look at it statistically, most people would fall within the standard deviation. Most of their lives take an even, predictable shape, Spencer thinks. There are plenty of other people like them, and they seem to fit with each other, too, interlocking in an easy way that Spencer has always envied.

Spencer’s got all these awkward uneven edges and strange angles. He’s not normal, and he’s always known that.

For a long time, he doesn’t think he’ll ever find someone who’ll fit easily, not without changing him, trying to reshape him in some way. He doesn’t want to change, but he gets lonely. Most people (friends, let alone lovers) don’t last long before they get sick of his quirks. Some try longer than others, but one way or another, there’s always some jarring part of him that doesn’t match what they want.

What if they like to sleep with the windows open, even in the winter? Or if they sleep with the air conditioning cranked up in the summer? Spencer knows he should be better about compromising on little things like that, but he really prefers things a certain way. He knows it’s neurotic. He can’t help it.

Spencer is used to people staring blankly when he starts talking, but at what point will it drive someone away? When will they stop pretending to care about his Doctor Who opinions? When will they get bored of his info-dumping?

And then there are the really difficult questions. How does he tell someone he used to be an addict? What if he doesn’t want to tell them about being kidnapped and tortured? What if he does, and then they start asking questions? How does he explain his PTSD, or his nightmares, or his bedtime routine of triple-checking every lock and setting his gun within arm’s reach?

At first, when he met Sam, Spencer worried about arguments and parents and all the other normal things, but more importantly, he worried about himself. He wondered which of his irregularities would finally make Sam give up on his attempts to fit Spencer into his life.

Neither of them sleep much, but when they do end up sharing a bed, Sam has his own routine; while Spencer checks the locks, Sam draws warding symbols, lines each window and door with salt, and sets his gun within reach. He likes the windows closed and the thermostat above 68, because, he explains simply, “Lucifer runs cold.”

Speaking of Lucifer. Sam understands addiction, kidnapping, torture, PTSD, and nightmares, and he doesn’t ask Spencer to tell his stories before he’s ready. Sam has stories of his own.

Sam also has his own Doctor Who opinions, and those opinions were the cause of their very first argument. Sam is wrong, but Spencer loves that he cares enough to argue.

The first time Spencer started rambling about serial killers, he noticed Sam frowning and cut himself off, embarrassed, ready to apologize. Sam just pulled out a journal and asked him to repeat what he’d said, so that Sam could do more research on the subject later.

Sam doesn’t expect him to change. He doesn’t try to re-shape Spencer. His life is just as weird, and by all logic they shouldn’t fit, but they do. And Spencer doesn’t feel any less himself, but suddenly he realizes that he must’ve changed along the way, because he can’t imagine his life without Sam any more; if they can’t find him, his absence is going to tear Spencer apart.

* * *

It’s a tense car ride, to say the least.

Hell of a first impression, Spencer thinks again, glancing at Mary’s pale, worried face in the rearview.

Castiel and Mary are in the backseat, and they’re trying to make small talk, but Castiel seems to be about as good as Spencer at the whole “casual conversation” thing. Sam’s told him so much about Castiel, Spencer feels like he knows him, but they’ve never actually crossed paths before.

And then there’s Dean, who’s got his jaw clenched, staring straight ahead. Spencer gives him directions, and he grunts or nods, but he doesn’t say anything else.

Dean intimidates the hell out of him, but they’ve always gotten along fine, maybe because Spencer’s never yelled at him before. He’s very aware that arguing with Dean Winchester is usually fruitless at best (and deadly at worst), but he’s never been good at holding his tongue when he’s upset.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer manages to mutter eventually.

“Huh?” Dean looks at him, frowning.

“About earlier. I didn’t mean to — um.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Dean says gruffly.

“I was upset. I’m sorry.”

Dean shrugs, and he hesitates before adding, “You were right.” He looks as surprised to be saying it as Spencer is to hear it.

Spencer blinks at him a couple times before hurriedly saying, “Turn left. There.”

Cas and Mary are having a quiet conversation about the weirdness of technology, and Spencer is about to join them when Dean speaks up again.

“Garcia — she said something funny.”

“Uh oh.”

Dean snorts. “Nah, not like that. Before she hung up, she told me not to worry. Said of everybody she knows, Sam probably has the second-best odds of escaping any poor sap who tries to abduct him.”

“Second best?”

“That’s what I said. But apparently that title belongs to you.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it. All I can do is talk myself out, he’s stronger.” Spencer gives him a crooked attempt at a smile; it feels awkward on his face, but he means it when he says, “He’ll be okay.”

* * *

The funny thing is, Spencer has been in this situation before.

When it was Maeve, though, he panicked, because all he could think about was how she must feel: scared, helpless. Spencer has too much empathy sometimes. Imagining Maeve’s helplessness made him feel like he was drowning.

This is different. He’s not exactly zen about the whole situation, of course; it feels like a piece of him is missing, but he’s clear-headed, because he knows that Sam is anything but helpless. He trusts Sam to take care of himself.

Aside from the supernatural element, Sam’s job is astoundingly similar to Spencer’s, and he’s astoundingly good at it. The Winchesters have consulted on a couple cases, now, for the B.A.U. (Spencer’s still not sure how Hotch manages the paperwork) and they try to find cases in the same general area as wherever Spencer winds up, so they’ve gotten to work together a few times. Sam’s sheer competence at his job might be the most attractive thing Spencer has ever seen.

Spencer used to imagine a quiet, mundane romance. He always just assumed he’d find someone whose life was more normal than his, and he was resigned to the stress it would cause in a relationship. He’d forget to call, he’d miss dinner, he’d have to cancel plans and be absent from so much of what constituted a normal domestic life, and his partner would be left at home, alone, all too aware of how much danger Spencer could be in, helpless to do anything about it.

Instead, Spencer found Sam. Spencer never has to feel guilty about missing dinner, because Sam isn’t at home worrying about him. Sam is out there saving the world.

Sam is not going to wait for Spencer to rescue him; he might not even need rescuing, at this point. Instead of worrying about what Sam is doing and whether he’s scared, Spencer can focus on his own plan.

* * *

He and Dean circle slowly around the house. They spot the entrance to the basement, and Dean almost runs right to it, but Spencer grabs his arm and points to the sigils around the door.

Spencer notices movement through a window next to the back door, and when they creep up to get a glimpse inside, he sees two women. One is the blonde — the brains of the operation — and the other is stockier, clearly the muscle.

After a quick conversation in whispers and gestures, Dean sneaks around to the side of the house opposite the basement, and a second later Spencer hears him shout. He waits a couple seconds and glances in the window again, and sure enough, the bigger woman is gone while the blonde is watching something on a computer monitor, looking agitated. Security cameras, maybe.

Spencer is about to go inside when he sees the blonde start, look around, and grab a cattle prod. Then she’s hurrying toward a door, sliding back a heavy deadbolt, and Spencer sees a dark stairwell that must lead to the basement.

He slips through the door and follows her.

For a split-second, the scene in the basement almost stops his heart. Sam is lying on the floor, completely still, his head surrounded by a puddle of blood.

But before Spencer can really process what he’s seeing, let alone react, Sam is in motion: lashing out, grabbing her by the throat, shoving her against the wall. Spencer descends the stairs quietly with his gun at the ready, trying not to make any noise that might distract Sam right now.

Sam doesn’t need his help. There’s blood on his damp clothes and his arms are shaking as the blonde goes limp in his grip, but he’s alive; he doesn’t need Spencer’s help, and Spencer isn’t the slightest bit surprised.

When Sam turns and sees him, he doesn’t look surprised either. He just smiles, all dimples and sparkling eyes in spite of his obvious pain as he limps over.

“Sorry that took me so long,” Spencer says casually, trying to control his grin. He doesn’t want to holster his gun yet, so he keeps it trained on the woman and hugs Sam one-armed.

Sam wraps his arms around Spencer, holding on tight. Spencer rests his forehead on Sam’s shoulder, taking a second to breathe as he feels missing pieces sliding neatly into place.

“Love you,” Sam says, and the words sound like a sigh of relief. He pulls back, and he looks surprised, like he didn’t actually mean to say that out loud.

Spencer’s about to reply when he sees the woman struggling to her feet, reaching for her cattle prod, and so instead he says, “Look out.”

Sam steps sideways to give him a clear shot. Spencer shoots her in the thigh and she screams as she falls to the floor.

“See how you like it,” Sam tells her, with a vicious little smile.

“I love you too,” Spencer blurts out.

For a second they both pause, grinning at each other like idiots, their surroundings forgotten.

Then there’s a sound from overhead, and Sam asks hurriedly, “The other one. Did you take her out already?”

“Dean’s got her,” Spencer tells him. “We should check on him, then we can come back down and deal with — Sam?”

At first he can’t figure out why Sam’s mouth drops open like that, shocked and disbelieving. Then he remembers.

“Dean’s alive?” Sam asks, a smile spreading slowly over his face. Spencer nods, wrapping an arm around Sam’s ribs, supporting him as he limps gingerly toward the stairs. It feels like he’s forgetting something.

There’s another noise, and then Mary is in the doorway, looking down at them.

Oh.

Sam turns to Spencer silently, like he’s waiting for confirmation that she’s real.

Spencer nods. “Yeah. So — um. Surprise?”

Sam doesn’t actually seem all that surprised, because… of course he doesn’t. He blinks at Spencer a couple times and then he grins.

“You met my mom before I did,” Sam says, breathless and amused, and grabs the banister to haul himself up the stairs. Spencer laughs and follows him, smiling to himself.

It’s not your average “meet the parents” scene, but somehow, it fits Sam and Spencer perfectly.

Nothing about their love story has been normal. Why start now?

#cmbingo21 #criminal minds #supernatural #sam winchester x spencer reid #spencer reid fic #sam winchester fic

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svnarintaro · 4 years

Text

it’s too late to say sorry

update: part two is up and you can read it here

authors note: IM IN A IMAGINE WRITING SPREE SOMEONE STOP ME PLEASE also i like using different names for the same characters im sorry :/

synopsis: hitoshi shinsou is known to be a top tier player, you only saw his as a jerk that toyed with other people's feelings, he was on his way for changing for the better; but he blew it.

word count: 1.9k words

warnings: !quirkless au! angst!!

!f*ckboy! hitoshi shinsou x reader

him and his entire demeanour pissed you off, you were not someone that was hateful but man did this man get on your nerves. girls and guys were falling like flies case of his 'irresistible' aura, the thought made you scoff. he was just another one of those players that care for thing other than themselves and you were sick of this whole pedestal that people put them on, and him oh how you wanted to knock them down and make them taste the reality of their destruction.

you and your best friends kendo and monoma were discussing what material you missed when you were sick on the way to the cafeteria, kendo perked up as if she remembered important information "oh also about the seating plan in chem.." you groaned and tilted your head back in annoyance, "don't tell me i'm sitting to this trust fund kid," you sarcastically pointed your thumb at the boy to your right, "shut it my dear peasant, you are a charity case to me so be grateful-" and as he was finishing up his sentence he got smack to the back of his head. "kendo that hur-" "be grateful that we haven't left you sorry butt yet." she let out a huff and continued what she was about to say as the three of you got to the cafeteria she took a shaky breath, "you kinda next to shinsou.."

you choked on air, "no no no no, i don't want o be next to a barney headed jerk-" before your rant even started you were cut off by the person behind you. "so you wanna continue talking about me behind my back or do you wanna say it to my face sweetheart, take your pick," you knew that voice, all too well. "first of all save your disgusting nicknames for a person that actually likes you." you turned your heel to give him the dirtiest glare you could fathom to show hitoshi shinsou.

"aww don't be like that baby.. i already know you'll turn around~" his smirk did not fall for a second, it only grew by the minute. "look i'm not looking to have anything on my criminal record, so if you want to keep your limbs in one piece i suggest you take my advice and piss off with my parting gift." you brought your fist to your mouth and shoved your middle finger in our mouth, and you proceeded to pull it out and flip him off and caught up with kendo and monoma who were laughing. 'they really are something else hm?' shinsou thought.

"man does he really put you in a bad mood hm?" neito teased and handed you the sandwich you wanted, "yeah she really did flip him off this time and threaten him?! i think that is the nicest exchange they've had all year!" kendo wheezed out, as you payed for your food you looked back to see shinsou sitting with his friends.

"so let's get this straight, you single handed moly pissed someone off so often they called you barney head, say they might break your limbs AND flip you off?!" kaminari screeched, while todoroki was purely confused, "did shinsou lose his ability to flirt his way out of this situation or something? cause honestly i feel like you lost you mojo a little bit." sero snorted at todoroki, "did you really have to say 'mojo'?" shinsou was just trying to figure out how to woo you now, his ultimate revenge as to get you to like him and break your heart and pummel it to smithereens.

now you had your chemistry class, and you were lab partners with shinsou, the given thought of being within a 2 metre radius of him mad you dread the class. the moment you walked in the class you saw a girl on his lap, her uniform was two sizes too tight, playing with his hair and her skirt rode up to show her red undergarments. "daddy~ can't we just skip?" you gagged at that nickname, the two of them stopped what they were doing and looked at you. the girl looked you up and down and she was obviously annoyed at your presence. "oh don't mind me i'm just a poor witness to see your panties on full display," you shrugged and made your way to your seat, "at least i have someone interested me," the girl smugly said, you rolled your eyes, "at least my coochie isn't free real estate."

the girl let out a 'hmph' and stormed out out the class, "free real estate? that's a new one." you didn't bother looking at him, and you opened your notebook and brought your data booklet out not even sparing him a glance. meanwhile the guy in front of you asked for a pen and you immediately complied and gave him one. hitoshi has never felt more offended from getting ignored and blown off again.

later in the class the teacher gave a worksheet to work on and you got stuck on a certain question and you didn't know what to do, "you forgot to balance the reaction so that's why you got the wrong answer." you looked to see shinsou looking at you, elbow on his table, "for someone who doesn't bother with class you remember a few things." you proceeded to add numbers to the elements that were written. for the rest of the class he continued to help you with your worksheet and the two of you got along for once. 'huh he may not be as bad as i thought he was.'

for the rest of the month he acted like this and it showed you that he wasn't the monster you thought he was, he was kind, considerate, funny and sweet. he avoided other girls too, "to think that you changed shinsou is actually kind of crazy, you're way more tolerable this way," you whispered as the two of you sat together and worked on some chemistry notes together, on his end of the story he was freaking out, he never felt this way, h heart was pounding out of his chest. he wanted it to stop, he was afraid. afraid of you not liking him back, he was afraid of commitment, he was afraid that he wasn't good enough for you.

"listen kaminari it is a reasonable plan, get them to like me, have them fall in love with me and boom i break up with her." for the past hour kaminari has been listening to shinsou on the phone go on and on about how he wanted to mess around with you, "they're an interesting person, they've got guts." the blond giggled, "i mean if you wanna quit the plan and hand them over to me-" "don't think about it rat."

meanwhile he was thinking about how he was so calm around you, he felt the need to drop his act and be himself around you. "looks like someone is getting attached~"

really? did he get attached? no what would be too cliché for his own good. so he sought his time to be taken by girls, other girls where were desperate to be in his attention span, "hey kaminari give me the number of every one of your flings i need to let off some steam.." shinsou needed to get you off his mind.

on the other hand you were talking to kendo, "okay look i know that i said he was trash and whatever but he changed and.. i think i might like him." you were gushing over all the sweet things he did, all the sweet things he said, you saw all the signs that he returned your feelings. "i say go for it! shoot your shot when you can, just be careful and know that me and neito are here for you and will beat him up if he dares hurt you." kendo was really on edge with him, it was as if shinsou got possessed and she knew something wasn't right, but if he made you happy she couldn't stop you. "thank you kendo~"

it was as if a switch was flipped, the Hitoshi shinsou that you hated was back and had more playthings than ever, make out sessions in the halls, skipping classes to fool around with anyone and what hurt the most was that he was avoiding you like the plague. “he is going through a phase right now, i promise he is better than this you saw how he was weeks ago please guys you have to believe me.” you were crying in monomas room about your ruined week. you knew what was the truth and that was that you were played, you were a fool to think that he was changing for the better. “i knew he was a jerk, y/n you deserve better than this, you deserve someone that will really appreciate you, someone that won’t have to change and will be who they really are in front of you..” you looked up from lap and stared at monoma and kendo. ‘these are my people, they will never betray me.’ “i love you guys,” you declared as you threw your arms around their necks and cried your heart out. ‘hitoshi shinsou you will pay for doing me dirty like this.’

kendo forced you to stay home and rest, you were stressed and not in the head space to be at school right now. it was now lunch and kendo was livid, and was stomping down the corridor to give a piece of your mind to the jerk that broke your heart. “shinsou, i got a bone to pick with you.” she yelled at the purple haired boy, ‘finally i can see how y/n is doing’ he completely misread her words and saw them as an invitation to act buddy buddy with her so he jogged over. however he was not expecting a fist to the face, “you undeniable monster! do you know what you did to her?! you gave her false hope and you have the audacity to think that you can get anything about how she is right now?” her words truly leaked poison and showed she was not playing around, he had hurt you, and he needed to repent. “you think your pathetic superiority complex is something to sneeze at and turn a blind eye to? you think that just because you can play with peoples emotions you’re better than everyone else? well here’s what i think.” groups of people were surrounding everyone and were listening to kendo’s rant, shinsou’s heart dropped, he knew what this meant, he had hurt you. with each sentence the gap between the two got smaller until she got into his face and continued.

“it is disgusting how you can switch your act to lower other people’s guard and once they do so they are underneath your discrepancy and you crush them with no mercy,” flashes of you trying to talk to the guy you liked were flashing into keno’s head, she watched as he broke you down until you were pieces and now she was there for you as you were hopelessly trying to pick them up. a breath broke her flow of thoughts and brought her a second of peace. “stay away from my best friend.” and thats when the world stopped for shinsou, he did all of this to protect himself, he was scared cause there was a chance you could’ve liked him back but he ignored that and hurt you instead. “i’m sorry..” was all that he could say at this point. he couldn’t express anything right now, he was malfunctioning. “it’s too late to say sorry.”

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thisfoolwrites · 3 years

Text

My Altair (2)

Part 2 Here’s the second part to my Bokuto fic! Thanks to all the likes and reblogs on the last one. I appreciate each and every one of you. Please enjoy!

Warnings: References to underage drinking Genre: Angst to Fluff

Part 1 Part 3

Waking up the next morning, {Y/N} felt like her head was going to explode. She groaned and tried to roll over to her back, and noticed that there was a blockade in her way. Fully opening her eyes she noticed Kenma curled up next to her. She scooted over to give herself room to move and gently poked his cheek.

“I'm sorry Ken, for worrying you last night.” she murmured. “I didn't mean to disappear on you, I just didn't want to talk about it at the time.”

“I know you didn't mean it.” His soft voice replied, “And I'll wait till you're ready to talk, just don't do that again ok?” The two siblings shared a look and knew that they would be alright. {Y/N} was grateful that Kenma didn't bring up Kuroo. She didn't want to cry anymore over him, but knew that she was still in a vulnerable state.

“Now get out of my bed so I can shower and pack. We got that training camp at Shenzin tomorrow.” She gently shoved him towards the end of the bed. With a small laugh Kenma went back to his own room. Once the door was closed she sighed and laid back down on her back.

Had she really worried everyone that much? Closing her eyes tight she was left to her thoughts once again. The headache she woke up with seemed ten times worse now. Getting up she stopped at her dresser, looking at the numerous trophies and medals she had earned from the time she was ten up until she was fifteen. Had it really been three years since she had given up skating. Noticing the picture of her and Kuroo at his first high school inter-high tournament, she picked it up and glared at it. The inter-high was the same day as a competition she had been looking forward to. But she never made it there. With the picture in her hand, she walked over to the trash and dropped it in.

After grabbing her clothes she made her way out of her room and to the shower. She heard noises from Kenma's room and assumed he had began gaming. She hoped a nice hot shower would free up her thoughts. “Think of puppies or something.” She grumbled to herself.

Bokuto glanced towards his phone for what seemed like the thousandth time. Had she meant that text or was she still under the influence? He supposed he'd get his answer Monday when the training camp rolled around. He saw a new text from Kuroo. His eyes narrowed at his name alone. How was he supposed to get along with Kuroo all week? He also had to get Kuroo's side of the story. Did he sting {Y/N} along last summer, even knowing how Bokuto felt? Or had it been a non exclusive thing that she misread? Either way all he knew was the Kuroo had some apologizing to do. Unlocking his phone and glancing at the words, he frowned again.

Kuroo: Thanks for finding her. We really appreciate it.

Bokuto: Its no problem.

Kuroo: Did she happen to say why she ran off? Kenma wouldn't tell me anything and {Y/N} wont answer my texts or calls.

Golden orbs widened in shock. Kenma hadn't told his friend that he was the reason she ran off? Was {Y/N} really ignoring him still? The scheming captain had really done a number on their mutual friend. If she had chosen not to say anything, he had no right to share that either.

Bokuto: Nope. All she wanted to talk about were the stars.

Not a total lie, he thought. With a heavy sigh he went back to packing for the training camp. He really hopped {Y/N} would show up. Even though she had no interest in being a manager at all. He backed out of Kuroos contact and went to {Y/N’S}.

Bokuto: Id love to go stargazing, maybe the stars will be visible this week.

Monday rolled around faster than {Y/N} would have liked. It was 6am and she was standing next to Coach Nekomata taking roll call and making sure everyone got on the bus. She could feel the third years and Tora starring at her. She figured that at this point they all knew about the fallout between her and Kuroo. After making sure everyone was on the bus she looked toward the coach and climbed on herself. Kenma, who usually sat next to Tora, had saved her a seat next to him. She smiled before accidentally locking eyes with the Scheming captain. She could see the confusion and hurt in his eyes. Looking away she took her seat next to Kenma, giving him a small thanks.

She pulled out her phone and smiled looking at her notifications. She had been texting the owl haired captain since yesterday. Looking at the pictures he sent she let out a small laugh, catching the attention of the setter beside her. He glanced down and saw who she was texting and he managed a small smile. Maybe this is what she needed. While he still wasn't sure what had happened, he just wanted to see his sister happy.

Her team had changed into their practice clothes and were getting ready to head to the court when the Karasuno bus pulled up. She smiled and watched with Yaku the excitement on the two first years. Not to mention the loud voices of the second years.

“They sure are a lively bunch huh?” She mumbled absentmindedly. Yaku just nodded along.

“Its never dull moment with them.”

“Well, we better get in there, I've got manager things to do.” Yaku could almost hear the sigh in her voice. He wanted to ask if she was ok, but figured he should wait. He just nodded and followed her inside. {Y/N} looked around the gym and saw the other schools practicing already. He eyes landed on Fukurodani. She had never given other schools much thought. After Saturday however, she had couldn't stop thinking about the ace. As if he sensed someone looking at him he turned. Golden orbs met {E/C}. A large grin spread on his face and he waved his arms in the air wildly. {Y/N} let out a small laugh when she saw this.

“Never a dull moment indeed.” She murmured with a smile before walking off and meeting the other managers. Yaku just stood there and with his mouth agape. She had been so gloomy all week, just what happened when Bokuto picked her up from that party.

“What was that?” Came the deep voice of Kuroo, causing Yaku to jump. “Jeez, why are you so jumpy?”

“When you come out of no where that happens! You need a bell!” Kuroo let out a laugh and went to go practice with the rest of his team. He'd have to ask Bokuto later what was going on with him and the older Kozume.

The training camp had been going smoothly, for the most part. Aside from Kurasuno losing every match they had been apart of, and the fact that Nekoma's captain and manager still weren't on speaking terms. {Hana} let out a sigh and walked outside after taking a shower. Shenzin's school wasn't directly in the city so there were less lights, but she still couldn't see the stars that well. While walking she ran into the Silver haired setter of the Kurasuno team.

“Hey, you're Sugawara right?” She called out to him. He glanced over and smiled.

“That's me. You're {Y/N} Kozume right? We didn't get a chance to talk at the practice game.” Suga acknowledged. {YN} let out a small chuckle.

“Yeah, the boys on my team are pretty protective. Sorry about that.” she mumbled. “I actually had a question for you.” Suga raised an eyebrow when he noticed her eyes were trained at the sky. He saw her glance at him for a second and hummed in acknowledgment. “Can you see the stars from Miyagi? Here you can't see them very well. The lights get in the way and you can only see the basic shapes. No constellations or the planets.” Out of all the questions she could have asked, he wasn't expecting that. Volleyball questions yes, stars, no.

“You can. There's a hill we would go to as kids to go watch the stars, as well as the fireworks.” He didn't miss the way he eyes lit up, only for a brief second.

“Really? It must be nice.” If there had been any other noise he wouldn't have heard her reply. She closed he eyes and turned to him with a smile. “I'm sorry for taking up your time. Thank you though for answering my question.” She gave him a small bow before taking off in the direction of her room. Leaving Suga to question if she was ok. He'd have to ask Kuroo next time he saw him. With a sigh he took off towards the showers.

Bokuto had just gotten done practicing with Akaashi, Kuroo and even Tsukishima. How they had convinced the tall blonde to keep coming to the late practices was beyond him. He walked out of the showers with a towel around his shoulders. His usually spiky hair was down and in his eyes. Using his left hand he pulled the silver locks out of his eyes and noticed a figure waiting at the vending machines. He smiled upon seeing the familiar long {H/C} locks.

“Hey hey hey!” he called quietly, well quietly for Bokuto. “What are you doing here?” he questioned. “Not that I'm not happy to see you.” he quickly added with a blush, his hand going to the back of his head. Hearing the small laugh he glanced back at her.

“I was thinking we could go to the hill and look at the stars. There's less lights here than in the city, so you can see them a bit better.” she questioned. Her eyes never met his, they just stayed trained to the floor. She was waiting for the rejection that she's been so used to. Why would anyone want to do something she wanted? Even though he had texted her and said he would like to, she was convinced it was only said out of pity. After all she was drunk when she asked. Opening her mouth to speak again she was cut off by the surprisingly quiet voice of the ace.

“Sure, I'd love to.” he grinned, holding out his hand to her. Shocked {E/C} eyes met smiling gold orbs. Her smile grew larger as she grabbed his hand. “Maybe you can tell me more about Vega. You talked about it the other night.” She blushed when remembering that night.

“We should take a trip to Miyagi for that story. Sugawara said you can see the stars perfectly from there. Less lights, After all its kind of a long story, not to mention its a love story, you sure you want to hear it?” she inquired. No one had shown an interest in the stars when she talked about them. They usually just brushed her off and changed the subject. Bokuto beamed down at her once they had made it to the hill outside the gym.

“Of course! You eyes always light up whenever you talk about or even look at the stars. You are passionate about it, like I am with volleyball. Even though I'm pretty sure you don't like the sport at all.” he joked as he sat down.

“Its not that I don't like it. Its just all that's ever talked about anymore. I get that it's important, nationals is coming up and its Te-Kuroos third year, but not everyone is as invested in it like he is.” she grumbled while sitting next to him. She laid down on her back to stare at the sky, a little smile still gracing her lips. Bokuto didn't miss her slip up. He noticed how she called him Kuroo instead of Tetsu like she usually does. However, seeing her smile after crying that night, he made sure that he didn't bring it up. She'd talk about it in time, and he wasn't gonna push her.

What the pair were unaware of were a pair of hazel eyes watching them. Kuroo frowned at seeing the scene before him. He couldn't explain the feeling in his chest. He was with Akemi, so why did he feel jealous of Bokuto?

Taglist: @samkysnks

#bokuto x reader #bokuto angst #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo angst #kenma kozume x sister reader #kenma kuzome #haikyu x reader #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu angst #reader insert fanfiction #bokuto koutarou x reader

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bondsmagii · 3 years

Note

(cw: I'm about to get real crass about CSA because it makes me real mad and that's how I cope)

the cultural reaction to cuties is infuriating to me, especially how even defenders feel the need to criticise the hypersexualised camera shots for ""normalising sexualistion of children in film"". Like, this is a thing that is happening in real life, right now, folks! Real Life Kids commonly do dances like these, in clothes like these, in an attempt to copy adult women being framed in shots like that! That's basically a good fifth of Tik Tok! The shots being of kids instead of adults is intentionally horrific, because it's trying to highlight that that kind of societal gaze is what pressured them to do the dances and wear the clothes and everything else; to take a thing that we've all come to accept as normal (8 year olds online twerking to songs explicitly about sex) and make us see how horrific it is, so people might give a shit for once. (A real shit, not that Pizzagate-adjacent thing where people only bring it up in service of criticising something/someone they already didn't like, and never exploring why it's so prevalent to begin with). You know, the filmic opposite of normalisation?? It's incredibly disappointing that people's takeaway appears to be: "ew gross, look at how horny this camera is for literal children. Glad this absolutely isn't a thing that happens in real life that I will go straight back to ignoring while patting myself on the back for identifying this media as Problematic

And the idea that "a pedophile could get off to this" makes any sense as criticism! I guess pedophiles only get off to children in revealing clothing, huh? So all children need to do to avoid pedophiles is, uh... *checks notes* "dress less slutty". I *wish* I lived in a world where pedophiles were genuinely waiting on feature films to deliver them a few shots of children in revealing clothing, instead of trading real CP that has caused untold suffering. Sometimes it really feels like people are more invested in weaponising the idea of suffering children in rhetoric, rather than the welfare of real children. It's the same disconnect that makes it impossible to bring up things like early intervention programs for pedophiles without being called a pedophile yourself (a rich thing to call someone who was on the receiving end, and takes about a year off my lifespan every time).

Every time someone brings this movie up, I feel like I'm losing my marbles. Otherwise smart and insightful people seem completely willing to misread it in the most infuriating way possible. It's like it's the Asch conformity test, and I'm the rube in the last chair wondering whether I even watched the same movie as them. It's comforting to see at least one other person on this godforsaken planet comprehending that The Sexualised Children Shots Are Horrific On Purpose in this movie trying to push people out of complacency

honestly go off like I could not have said this better myself. this is exactly what's been pissing me off about the response to this movie and my post about it in general.

this is what I cannot get my head around. like, people are freaking out over how this movie normalises the sexualisation of young children, but somehow miss the point that it's already been normalised. the movie would not be necessary if this hadn't already become a completely normal part of society. even walking around the shops in town I see children maybe 10 or 11 years old dressed like Instagram models, faces full of makeup, revealing clothing... it's honestly disturbing. these kids think that's acceptable, they think that's what they need to do in order to have worth, and it's terrifying. if I had my own children, I would be terrified for them. the movie is not the problem. why people can't direct this anger and outrage to websites like TikTok instead, I have no idea. probably because that would require actual work, and we all know these people are addicted to outrage and self-righteousness and absolutely allergic to any kind of effort to create real change.

It's incredibly disappointing that people's takeaway appears to be: "ew gross, look at how horny this camera is for literal children. Glad this absolutely isn't a thing that happens in real life that I will go straight back to ignoring while patting myself on the back for identifying this media as Problematic"

people get so offended when they're made to feel uncomfortable. I have no idea why. I'm trying to work out this thought process but it's simply beyond me. it baffles me that people can see something that's actually happening in the world, and instead of getting angry about the actual issue, they decide to attack the female director of the movie about said issue, who is writing from her own experience. like, how in god's name these people managed to miss the point so badly, I do not know. the manoeuvres they had to do to miss a point that big and obvious should make them all automatic gold medal winners in Olympic gymnastics.

(I do think that a lot of people yelling the loudest about Cuties have probably only seen the Netflix promotional poster and then devoured a bunch of Twitter threads highlighting the apparent problems and possibly a view video essays on YouTube showing the most dramatic and out of context shots of the girls, however.)

right? like. this point is so fucking useless. by this logic, we should ban everything with photos of children in it. if a paedophile is going to waste time going to see a full feature movie just to see some young girls twerking-- I mean, why would they in the first place? why would a paedophile do that when they can just sign on to TikTok and see thousands of hours of footage of young girls twerking? and if "revealing clothing" is all it takes, what's stopping this paedophile from going to the local pool and watching the kids in swimwear? what's stopping this paedophile from going and picking up a clothing catalogue and flipping to the pictures of little girls in dresses? the fact that people can compare the content of a feature-length film to actual CP fucking baffles me. like. it's actually insulting to compare things like that -- and by extension, any child on the street in a t-shirt or a dress or a skirt or a swimsuit -- to actual CP. like, who looks at a kid and thinks like that? if you want to stop paedophiles being creeps, you'd have to lock kids up in the house until they're 18 and ban all depictions of kids forever. paedophiles are gonna be creeps no matter what, and they're not going to bother with a full film when they can log onto TikTok and comment something creepy on footage of a real life child who might even message back and enter into communication with them. like, damn. why aren't more people getting mad and outraged about that?

Sometimes it really feels like people are more invested in weaponising the idea of suffering children in rhetoric, rather than the welfare of real children.

they are. "somebody please think of the children" is now the rallying cry of the right (all leading Democrats are secret paedophiles, the LGBT agenda is making Our Innocent Christian Children into perverts) and the left (problematic media is Harming Our Innocent Children, everything needs to be censored and squeaky clean so the Metaphorical Children don't stumble across it and think it's acceptable). it's the quickest way to get people outraged and it works like a charm. as soon as somebody starts rallying under the flag of protecting kids, it gives them a fast pass to power and influence. who wants to be seen to not care about kids? who wants to risk being called a paedophile or a child abuser? unfortunately their eagerness to declare everybody such has resulted in it losing its meaning. now when I see someone accused of paedophilia I no longer feel the usual revulsion but instead a tired suspicion followed by hours of research to determine if they are actually abusing children, or if they ship the wrong thing. to put the numbers into perspective, the one and only time I found out somebody was actually abusing minors, I was genuinely shocked because I had never found a true accusation before in oh, six years? which is unsurprising, seems I have been called a paedophile and told I shouldn't be around children because I like a villain from a YA series. as for real children, none of these people give a shit.

It's comforting to see at least one other person on this godforsaken planet comprehending that The Sexualised Children Shots Are Horrific On Purpose in this movie trying to push people out of complacency

that's exactly it right there -- it's horrific on purpose, but these people can't understand that. to them, literature and art and film is supposed to always make you feel good, and if it doesn't it's mean and abusive and you should have warned for it and also you're an asshole for making it in the first place. for people who only consume media to feel good, and only create it to feel progressive and wholesome, it's inconceivable why people would create something depressing or disturbing. because they're consuming media of only things they like, they assume everyone else is. ergo, if you make something nasty, it's because you're into something nasty. if you write about a murderous villain, it's because you want to be a murderous villain. if you direct a movie about children being sexually exploited, you must want to sexually exploit children.

these people cannot understand that art is supposed to teach and inform as well as comfort and coddle. some art is there to make you feel good, and other art is there to make you take notice of injustice and suffering and make you angry and upset enough to want to do something about it. these people do not understand that at all, and with this kind of logic they would try to ban Holocaust survivors from speaking at schools because it's too upsetting to think about, rather than paying attention to the message that such things get across. we cannot change society without empathy, and to experience empathy for something outside our own understanding and experience, we need to come into contact with people who have lived through it. we need to see it depicted. that's how we learn to feel for others. it puts a face to the suffering and makes it easier to stay motivated and stay mad.

but no. these people just want to be nice and fuzzy and safe. that's all that matters to them, and anyone who thinks they're wrong for doing it must be a paedophile or something. right. gotcha.

#long post #anon #asks

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bisluthq · 3 years

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whew i am glad that last anon said something bc i have been feeling uncomfy for MONTHS about how you address karlie's presentation/sexuality. first things first def not a kaylor secondly i think you do generally do a deccent job of being fair/kind/objective and thirdly karlie isn't really my jam either as an object of sexual attraction. but DAMN the way you talk about kar is SO invalidating to queer womxn who are very femme. "obnoxiously hetty" ?? she's not talking about men at ALL (1/?)

I’m missing 5 and you seem to be done so like let me try reply.

Firstly thank you for sharing this and sure I’ll think more about this. You’ve brought up a number of valid points.

On the topic of the Makeout Fakeout I hard disagree because... I just wouldn’t do that with a straight friend (or any friend ever). I hear that teenagers might but this was a whole adult woman, running her own TV show, thinking of fun activities and that’s what she came up with. Like even if she were Kinsey 6 lesbian that’s... kind of offensive my dude. She literally goes “it’ll be fun for you” vibes to the audience. It’s done EXPRESSLY as a joke for attention presumably from men. It was inappropriate and shouldn’t have happened. Like idc what her sexuality or Ash’s sexuality is. The video is truly mindnumbingly IDIOTIC - like Dumb and Dumber vibes - at best and offensive af at worst.

This was a public platform featuring influential adults. Not a bunch of high school girls experimenting at a party.

She could've and should've just said no - it was her show.

If Ellen pulled that we'd still drag her.

However while I hard disagree on that video I hear some of your other points.

I think the biggest problem with Karlie for me isn't Karlie: it's fanfic Karlie. Like tbh I knew just a touch more about real world Karlie - maybe not even like probs about the same amount but I could easily recognize her - than I did about Joe when I made the blog but I'd been following Kaydom for years.

And I had this mental image of Karlie based on out of context snippets and like headcanons and made up shit. I heard she was a Gold Star lesbian (which I didn't believe really coz she was married to a man but like I figured maybe she heavily leans that way like Cara D), with dyke energy ("boyfriend Karlie"), and that she had a reputation for being a casanova type when she was young, and that she’s unbelievably sexual and sultry and like... raw unharnessed sexual energy.

NONE of that is true.

So I think like that actively annoys me.

Because I watch content of this woman who - sure - could be anywhere from Kinsey 1 to Kinsey 5 (and I have no issue speculating). And what I CANNOT imagine like even for a second is any of the shit Kays spout/spouted about her except maybe sunshine angel.

And I think I knee jerk to that. Because I’m like “are you blind do you have eyeballs how is this fucking boring ass bland vanilla cheerleader who can’t string two sentences together called Klossanova?” Which is wrong and mean of me. I know her awkwardness and STEM brain is relatable to many nerdy girls. I believe she has a strong net positive on the world. I know girls who are shy or awkward about sexuality love her content and it resonates because she’s so unlike anyone else in that industry. But then let’s talk to that?

Not “boyfriend Karlie” or to quote Voldemort “Taylor shouldn’t let her out of her sight” - anyone can let her out of her sight she is a golden retriever she will always come back for love and attention from her partner tbh (so Josh).

At the end of the day a lot of this discussion will always be rooted in stereotypes - we’re speculating about people’s personal lives and have no idea what is in their heads - but like... sure Karlie may be queer. She has never said or implied it tho tbh. She has regularly talked about Josh and boys in general. She has very much claimed a lane of allyship. And she has done so unambiguously not like Tay’s “our pride” and whatnot. She VERY MUCH presents straight - unlike say someone like Dua who probably is but who actively presents fluid or questioning - and has done fucked up shit like the video with Ashley Graham which isn’t phenomenal allyship but okay.

If someone actively presents straight by being hyper femme even in really sporty videos, talks about her boyfriend and boys in general all the time, and makes something like Makeout Fakeout I think it’s fair to seriously question the validity of that person’s gay rumors.

Because some people are straight.

Are some hyper femme people queer?

Obviously.

Is it offensive to - based on stereotypes - not assume that about them? To like... not pick them up on Gaydar because of how fucking incredibly straight they seem? Yeah I think so.

If they come out, that’s incredible and we need to ensure they’re not erased.

But like misreading them as straight isn’t a crime.

For me the Karlie stuff isn’t just that she’s girly. She just... has a straight energy much like Emma Watson and Blake Lively do. I can see Kaylor happening when I see them together but sometimes I think it’s because Taylor would flirt with a fucking tree tbh and it’d ping sexual.

I also think it’s possible Karlie is queer and on the ace spectrum and that’s what I’m picking up.

But like.

Idk.

The point is Kays have lied about her and yes I overreact to that sometimes and I’m sorry.

I’ll try be better about this.

But I also think calling someone who - by all accounts - identifies as straight and is married to a man and has never ever ever ever and will never confirm her only set of queer rumors straight isn’t erasing femme queers.

It’s literally just saying this woman is probably straight (or at best mostly straight).

I’ll think about this more tho thanks for sharing your thoughts.

#nat talks klossy

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violetsmoak · 4 years

Text

The Specter at the Feast [1/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24556579/chapters/59300599

Summary: A tragic incident as a child left Tim Drake with the ability to commune with the dead. It’s a skill he’s used to close some of the most confounding cases to come across his desk at Gotham City’s Major Crimes Unit. But when he learns of an apparent murder-suicide that could link to a very personal case he’s been working for ten years, he might need more than a connection to the afterlife to solve it. Especially when Detective Jason Todd, a man in denial about his own psychic abilities, is assigned lead on the same case.

Sparks immediately fly between the two detectives—and not necessarily in a good way—as they are forced to work together to take down a macabre serial killer before it’s too late.

Disclaimer: This story uses characters, situations and premises that are copyright DC Comics, Inc. No infringement pertaining to graphic novels, television series or films is intended by violetsmoak in any way, shape or form. This fan-oriented story is written solely for the author’s own amusement and the entertainment of the readers. It is not for profit. Any resemblance to real organizations, institutions, products or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Author’s Note: Here’s one of the stories I’ve been working on for JayTimWeek. As I mentioned on tumblr, I got hit by a big blast of inspiration for one of my original stories and have kind of been working on that like mad for the past three weeks, so unfortunately I didn’t have time to dedicate to the prompt fills for JTW as I wanted to. As soon as I run out of steam for that, I’ll get back to filling the prompts. So, bad news I probably won’t post anything else during the event, but eventually my prompts will all crop up once I recapture my attention span :P Huge thank you to strawberyjei for taking the time to beta-read this chapter!

_______________________________________________________________

“That stuff will kill you one day.”

Tim Drake frowns and glances to his right, noticing the half-amused and half-exasperated smile playing on his best friend’s face.

“Will not,” he retorts with the instantaneity of an oft-repeated argument and leans more securely against sun-warmed stone. He takes a defiant sip from his jumbo travel mug, enjoying the bitterness of his favorite morning indulgence—slow-brewed light roast with three shots of espresso. “Besides, how else do you expect me to be awake enough to drive out here at this hour?”

He doesn’t have to see Kon to know he’s rolling his eyes.

“You don’t actually have to—you’re the one who keeps showing up; I just wait here.”

There’s something buried in the joking tone, and Tim shifts in discomfort as he detects the unspoken scolding. Choosing to ignore it, he swallows another mouthful of coffee and stares past the well-kept shrubbery, observing the gentle waves on the river.

From a distance, Gotham’s elegance is deceptive. By daylight, the riot of architectural styles jutting into the horizon appear whimsical instead of grotesque, and the layers of filth and decay suggest character as opposed to rampant corruption. Even on a Sunday, it teems with energy.

I guess that’s what still convinces people to move to the crime capital of America.

Tim knows from experience that the city’s grandeur is not as noticeable when combing her streets for the criminal element.

That knowledge doesn’t stop him from digging out his cellphone and snapping a few lazy photos. The quality won’t compare to shots taken with the Nikon he has at home, but it’s rare to perceive the city of his birth as something other than sinister; he won’t squander the opportunity.

“Maybe it’s the other way around,” Tim suggests in a light tone. “I could just be out here, minding my business, taking in the scenery—”

“Hah!”

“—and you’re stalking me.”

“Stalking’s your thing.”

“Is it really stalking if you get paid for it?”

“Whatever you say, detective,” Kon sneers without true malice and crosses his arms across his chest. Despite the chilly early spring air, he’s wearing only a black t-shirt with a red Superman symbol. Tim gave it to him for his birthday a few years ago, but the sight of it these days still elicits a nostalgia-induced lump in his throat. “Either way, you’re the chump who showed up here on his first day off in forever. Sunday, remember? You’re supposed to be spending the day lounging at your fancy estate, getting ready to gorge yourself on Alfred-made dinner, not bumming around with me.”

“That’s not for hours,” Tim dismisses, “and to be honest, I’d rather skip it.”

Kon glances sideways at him. “Haven’t you missed it all month?”

“I was working the entire time. Everyone in the family has to do the occasional weekend rotation, Alfred knows that. Besides, I see them all at some point or another every week.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Kon taunts. “I thought we agreed you needed to stop isolating yourself?”

The furrow in his brow is one that Tim recognizes as a prelude to concern, though, and he suspects he won’t be able to deter his friend.

“I’m not isolating myself.”

“That so? When was your last date?”

And there it is.

“I left myself wide open for that one,” Tim sighs.

“You know I’m right.”

“Here it comes…”

“I’m serious—you can’t still be carrying a torch for your ex—”

“There are no torches.”

“—hoping it’ll work out—”

“I’m not!”

“—because that ship has sailed,” Kon concludes. “She’s dating your sister for God’s sake.”

“I’m aware.”

“And it’s been two years.”

“I’ve been on dates in the last two years,” Tim protests.

“Cassie doesn’t count,” Kon replies.

That earns a wince. “We agreed never to speak about that.”

“And I told you I was fine with it, man, it’s not like I was there.”

There’s a heavy sensation in Tim’s chest at that reminder, and he scowls at Kon for bringing it up. That usually earns a shrug or palms-up gesture of surrender, but today Kon squares his shoulders and raises an eyebrow in challenge.

“I already told you it meant nothing. We were both hurting and just…needed someone,” Tim insists.

Kon ignores him. “Which I’m okay with—relieved, even. I know you guys wouldn’t have looked at each other if circumstances were different. Which brings me back to Cassie, not counting.”

“She was there for me as much as I was there for her—can we please talk about something else?”

“Depends—do you have a better example than my last girlfriend?”

“Hey, I’ve been with other people! Remember Tam?”

“Yeah, your dad’s former business manager’s daughter,” Kon deadpans, “who you only started dating because everyone thought it was convenient. And she left you because you weren’t interested enough in the relationship.”

“What are you talking about? I was interested!”

“You didn’t even get to second base with her, man.”

“Are you seriously using the baseball metaphor?”

“Then there’s Bernard Whatshisname for the occasional booty call.”

“I regret ever telling you about that.”

“And don’t even get me started on that cop from Hong Kong that you hooked up with last month.”

“Okay, that one was a mistake,” Tim admits.

“But none of those were actual relationships. You haven’t had one of those since Steph.”

“I don’t recall you being this judgy before.”

“You’re one of my only sources of entertainment,” Kon deflects. “It’s like binge-watching Netflix and yelling at the idiot hero to stop screwing up his life. Except in this case, the idiot hero can actually hear me and have to listen.”

“‘Have to’ is debatable…”

Kon pushes off the stone they are both leaning against and turns to face him. It always annoys Tim when he pulls this, given he’s three inches taller and has twice the upper body strength.

“This is what you do, Tim. You keep people at a distance and on the rare occasion where they disappoint you or hurt you, you close yourself off,” Kon sighs. “You need to relax, man.”

Tim’s phone rings, granting him a welcome distraction.

“The last time I relaxed, I got stabbed,” he reminds Kon as he glances at the device. He blinks in surprise when he recognizes his brother’s scowling face and phone number flashing up at him. “Speak of the devil.” He swipes at the screen and answers, making a face at his best friend. “Gremlin.”

“Timothy,” is the terse answer, and Tim can almost hear the scowl in the younger man’s voice.

Huh. First name today. Either something bad happened, or he wants something.

Tim ignores the tiny edge of worry blossoming at the thought; if it were a family emergency, Alfred or Dick would call him, not Damian.

It must be the second thing.

“What do you want?”

“Where are you this morning?” the younger man asks, ignoring the question.

“It’s Sunday, where do you think I am?” he shoots back, deciding two can play ‘answer-with-a-question.’

Except Damian seems to have no intention of following the usual script.

“Of course,” he says instead, sounding distracted. “Then you should be close enough.”

“…For what?”

There’s a beat of hesitation, and then Damian says, “I may have stumbled upon something you’d find…interesting.”

Because that doesn’t sound ominous…

“Define ‘interesting’.”

“I’m at work,” Damian says. “Securing a crime scene.”

That moves Tim along the spectrum from wary to defensive at once. He goes to substantial lengths to avoid working with any of his siblings in a professional capacity. It’s a necessity in a family where law enforcement is all but synonymous with the name Wayne. Even if their older brother Dick hadn’t started the tradition of downplaying that link in the professional sphere, Tim has always been diligent in establishing professional boundaries. So far, his family has respected them. Damian, in particular, has always been gleeful—almost militant—in keeping to that maxim; for him to break it, something must have upset him.

And for him to reach out to me instead of Dick is…I don’t think it’s ever happened.

“Are you sure you should have called me then?” Tim queries in a careful tone, wanting to make sure he’s not misreading the situation. “Dick might be a better option.”

“Richard wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t view it the same way.”

“The same way,” Tim repeats, the words sparking something—a flicker of suspicion begins to take shape.

“I shouldn’t even be telling you this,” Damian continues, “so you’d better be appreciative—”

“Spit it out, Damian.” Tim doesn’t have the patience for the adult version of ‘I-know-something-you-don’t-know’.

“Murder-suicide. Apparently. The bodies were posed,” Damian says, voice low as if he doesn’t want someone to overhear him, “And all the victims are holding hands.”

Tim’s mouth goes dry and his entire body tenses. “All?”

“Five,” Damian tells him shortly.

That makes Tim close his eyes in dismay. “Other than the number it’s the same MO as the others?”

“The crime itself, yes. Don’t your files say the last one was five years ago?”

Tim knows it should irritate him that Damian’s been poking around his casefiles—he always considered office protocol as more guidelines than law. But the infraction pales next to the knowledge blossoming into being.

It’s happening again.

“If you want to see for yourself, get here before whoever they assign as the lead detective does,” Damian is saying.

Torn, Tim’s eyes flick to Kon, who clearly knows what is being said and whose expression is all-too knowing for Tim’s liking.

“Where is it?” Tim asks at last.

“Diamond District. Gotham Tower Apartments.”

“That’s unusual,” Tim grunts, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. Only one of the earlier cases took place in what either of them would consider an upper-class neighborhood. “Also, outside of my jurisdiction.”

“That wouldn’t stop me if I were in your position.”

There’s a click and then a dial tone.

Tim gives a slow exhale, closing his eyes.

He and Damian were never the closest, but once the early friction between them eased, they developed their own dynamic. And one specific shared understanding that they bonded over in secret, away from the prying and often unintentionally judging eyes of family.

“How is he a jerk even when he’s trying to be helpful?” Tim mutters more to himself than Kon. He’s already calculating how long it will take him to get across the bridge from Metropolis.

Half an hour, with no traffic.

It will be cutting it close, assuming Damian holds off giving his own precinct the details until the last second.

He must be serious about this if he’ll risk being called up on discipline for not following protocol.

Tim turns to Kon. “Sorry, but I need to head out.”

“Like I won’t see you again next week,” Kon dismisses with a grim smile. “After all, you’re always here.”

“You say that like you don’t want me to be,” Tim replies, suspicious.

“Don’t put words in my mouth. You’re my best friend, I obviously want you to visit. But you need more in your life than work, checking in with me and—I dunno—chasing some white whale.”

“Really?” Tim deadpans. “You, of all people? You want me to give up trying to get justice—”

“Not what I’m saying,” Kon interrupts. “I’m just trying to tell you there’s more out there and you deserve to find it.” He pauses. “And agrees with me.”

Tim cuts off a curse with a hiss. “That is a low blow, you two ganging up on me.”

“What can I say? You’d better listen, or he’ll do something impulsive, if he hasn’t already.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tim grumbles, keying the coordinates of the crime scene into his phone’s GPS.

“Remember,” Kon calls after him, “ ”

“Always do,” Tim replies. As he heads for the gates of the cemetery, brushing his fingers against the headstone that reads: Connor Kent, Beloved Son, Brother, Friend—Brave Fireman of the Metropolis Fire Department.

⁂

“Six days,” Jason Todd fumes, glaring down at the muddle of papers and file folders in front of him. “I’m gone for six days, and you jerks decide to turn my desk into an episode of Hoarders.”

“Relax, Todd, it’s just paper, not toxic waste,” Detective Adams drawls as she passes by, unapologetically grabbing a few of the offending folders on her way.

“This? This is not just paper, it’s a potential biohazard.”

His desk, usually the immaculate outlier in the chaotic, open concept dumping ground of the 12th Precinct, is now covered in empty coffee cups, old take-out cartons, and other detritus.

“Says the man who filled my desk drawer with a cubic foot of golf balls the last time I was on leave.”

“None of which were covered in saliva—I mean, come on!” He holds up several crumpled napkins. “It’s just common fucking courtesy!”

“Take it up with Rayner.”

“Of course it was him. Guy has it out for me…”

“You did shoot him.”

“One time! And it was a shoulder wound! If I hadn’t, both our covers would have been blown and we’d both be dead.”

“Cry me a river, Todd,” Adams snorts. “I’ve got a lead on the Kirano case and don’t have time to wipe away your tears of manly angst.”

She stalks away, totally missing how he flips her the bird. Not that his heart is in it; he’s actually fond of Onyx and would even work with her if she could stand him. But the one time they were partnered together, it ended with them running away from an exploding truck and a two-inch-thick shard of metal through her shoulder.

Still trying to figure out how I got the blame for that one…

It’s not like he goes into a situation intending to get the people next to him injured. For some reason, he just happens to be better at intuiting incoming threats, whether it be a perp taking a swing with a knife or stopping just short of being shot.

It happens, sometimes, this inexplicable intuition. Roy always called it a sixth sense, but Jason takes issue with any of that hokey paranormal crap. He gets hunches—gut feelings that have served him extremely well in his career and helped him rise quickly through the ranks.

But he doesn’t like to think of himself as psychic.

He likes thinking of the possible reason for his “hunches” even less.

Finally getting the worst of the garbage into the trashcan beneath his desk, Jason starts on the wayward papers, pleased that most of it can be shredded and won’t require a trip to the file room. There’s one folder, however, that doesn’t fit anywhere: some arson report that has nothing to do with any of his ongoing cases.

He skims through the particulars of the folder and notes the name on the CSI report—B. Allen—which suggests it isn’t even recent. He’s been friends with the new ME, Stephanie Brown, for two years now, and never met the guy that was here before her.

Maybe someone’s trying to find a pattern or something.

Jason decides to bring it to the captain; if anyone’s missing a file related to their case, she’ll have a better idea.

He skirts around uniformed officers moving to and fro, some leading handcuffed offenders to the holding cells at the back of the building, others talking over their cases with each other or on the phone. He passes the office corkboard, filled with everything from sketches of perps at large (it seems Dr. Pamela Isley is up to her usual eco-terrorism) to reminders about the Gotham General Blood Drive (anyone who donates in uniform gets the rest of the day off, as well as the next one).

By the time he reaches the captain’s office, he’s sweating. It might be crisp outside, but inside there are so many bodies moving around that it might as well be the hottest day of summer.

Raising his hand to knock, he’s surprised when the door opens inward and the captain steps out.

“Todd,” she says with a blink, then nods to herself. “Right. You’re back today. That works. Get in here—I’ve got a case for you.”

He’s too used to Artemis’ brusque manner to be bemused; instead, he ducks into her office and closes the door behind him.

“It’s not another missing kid, is it?” he asks apprehensively; the last case involved a fourteen-year-old girl. “No promises I won’t break some scumbag’s teeth again if that’s the case.”

“You’d better not break anyone’s teeth,” Artemis chides him, a warning glint in her eyes. “Especially since you just got off suspension.”

And that for using “unnecessary force” in apprehending a drug dealer selling his shit to a bunch of kids.

“But no,” she continues, sitting behind her desk and reaching for a file, “it’s not. The officers on the scene are reporting it as an apparent murder-suicide.”

“And you thought that’s how I wanted to spend my first day back at work? I’m touched. Whatever made you think of me?”

“The fact that you were conveniently in front of me when I opened the door.”

“Aw, here I was expectin’ you to say something like, ‘well, you’re a constant pain in my ass, but you’ve also got the best record for closin’ cases in this department’.”

“You don’t need the ego boost. Now either take it and be grateful, or I’m giving it to Adams as I planned—”

“Gimme,” Jason interrupts, snatching the file folder from her.

“That’s what I thought.”

He settles into one of the chairs in front of the captain’s desk and opens the folder.

“I want this one looked into and closed as soon as possible,” Artemis goes on.

“Why?”

“Because of who the victim is.”

Jason frowns, scans through the preliminary report to see that the victim—victims—have, in fact, been identified. His eyebrows shoot upward.

“J. Devlin Davenport.” He looks up at Artemis, askance. “The investment guy? The one being investigated for embezzlement?”

“Fraud Squad’s been building a case against him for six months now,” Artemis confirms. “The guy set up a fake company and defrauded his investors out of 200 million. They’re still trying to track the stuff he funneled through the Bahamas.”

“If they find it, send it my way,” Jason says, still skimming through the papers.

“Could you sound any more cliché?”

“If I tried, maybe,” he replies, distracted as he slides the folder he brought to one side of her desk.

“What’s that?” Artemis asks.

“Dunno. File was on my desk. Arson, I think. Figured someone left it there.”

“We don’t have any arson cases ongoing at the moment, but I’ll ask around. Maybe someone’s doing case research.”

“Uh-huh,” Jason murmurs. He taps the paper in front of him. “Listen, if they’re saying this is a murder-suicide, that’s probably what it is.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Look at the transcript from when it was called in.”

“‘Bodies of the deceased were…arranged around the dinner table’,” Jason reads. “What the… ‘lack of struggle might suggest sedation before they were removed to the dining room and posed’—posed? Like a photographer does?” He makes a face. “Kind of a lot of effort for someone who just committed suicide right after…”

“If I’m not mistaken, that would be the thing that needs investigating.”

Jason ignores the sarcasm, checking to see who called this in.

Al-Ghul. Huh. Well, at least he’ll keep the place from being overrun. Kid’s scary good at keeping the rubberneckers away.

And pissing off the MEs by lurking around while they work.

Jason knows the new officer just wants to learn, but he also tends to be a bit of an entitled know-it-all like most of his generation. It’s a trait he’ll lose the longer he walks a beat and works up through the ranks, but right now it makes most people want to punch him.

Jason might be one of those people if it weren’t for the fact Al-Ghul is meticulous about taking statements, prompt in securing crime scenes, and entirely willing to go the extra mile to help a detective close a case even when he’s off the clock. He recognizes the ambition and the need to prove himself from his own first years as a cop.

If he adjusts that attitude a bit, I might even put in a recommendation to put him on detective track…

Jason closes the folder and grins at Artemis.

“So, who’s the unlucky bastard you’re pairing me with today?”

He doesn’t work well with a partner, given his tendency to ignore rules in favor of his gut instincts. Especially since it’s never steered him wrong. Most other detectives can’t stand that, with the exception of his last partner, Roy Harper, who transferred to Star City six months ago to be closer to his daughter. Then again, Roy always considered rules arbitrary anyhow.

Since then, Jason’s been cycled through almost all the detectives at the 9th Precinct, all without finding a decent fit.

Pretty sure it’s Artemis’ way of torturing me since plenty of other guys work their cases solo.

It’s a blatant implication that he needs a babysitter.

“Rayner wrapped up most of his cases last week,” Artemis replies without even checking the duty roster on her desk.

“Hell no.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I giving you the impression you have a choice?”

“Unless you want me back on suspension, you’re not putting me with that asshole.”

“Well, Jason,” she says, finally looking up at him with an expression that suggests she’s fully ready to call his bluff, “you have this tendency to either piss off or sleep with whoever gets assigned to you. At least if you’re working with someone that pisses you off, I’m less likely to need to fill out the paperwork to reassign them afterward.”

“And if they happen to fall into both categories?” he leers at her in an exaggerated manner. She was one of his partners once, both on the job and briefly outside of it. He prods at the plaque on her desk that reads Captain A. Bana-Migdhall. In retaliation, she reaches over and raps him on the knuckles with it. “Ow!”

“You’re not helping your case right now.”

“You know, it’s not my fault Eddie decided he’d rather play Bond Babe for the scary CIA chick with the one eye. And Miguel’s the one who couldn’t keep his hands off me, so…”

“Just…go find Rayner,” Artemis sighs, waving her hand in dismissal. “I need that crime scene checked over and wrapped up quickly. The Mayor’s office wants an answer on this pronto.”

Jason sneers at that. “Of course they do. Because the Waynes and Davenports are old country club buddies, right?”

“Maybe fifty years ago. But Bruce Wayne spent more time as a cop than some rich college co-ed. He got elected based on his tough-on-crime stance, so it’s more likely he just wants to make sure the high-profile target of a class-action suit hasn’t been the victim of foul play.” Artemis pauses. “Especially since, having met the man, I’m pretty sure Wayne would have liked to beat the truth out of Davenport personally.”

“Now there’s a reality show I’d watch.”

“On your own time. Now go do your job.”

“Or Rayner.”

Artemis drops her pen and stares. “What?”

“Well, from what you said before, I figure if I fuck Rayner, it means you won’t ever make me work with him again, so—”

“Get the hell out of my office!” Artemis barks, throwing her tissue box at his head. Jason ducks and slips out of her office with a grin on his face.

There are a few good-natured laughs from his coworkers—“In trouble again, Todd?”—and he heads across the room to Kyle Rayner’s desk.

“What do you want?” the other detective demands, nose wrinkling at Jason like he’s just smelled something rank. It’s his default expression whenever they cross paths.

It’s also the expression that drives Jason to mess with him whenever he can.

Time for a bit of payback for the desk thing.

“Not me,” he says, affecting a nonchalant shrug. “Captain wanted to know if you could head down to the 7th.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Apparently her opposite number there has something she needs to be sent over and doesn’t want to wait on official channels to slow everything down.”

“What do I look like, a courier?” Rayner growls, but Jason can see from the way he smooths a hand through his hair that he’s got him.

It’s not exactly a secret that Jason’s workplace nemesis has a thing for Precinct 7’s Captain Troy, or that he’ll take any excuse to go flirt with her.

It’s unrequited, of course, and Jason’s bound to get an earful from Donna the next time they run into each other, but worth it to get Rayner out of his way.

“Whatever, man, I just work here,” he says, only half-pretending irritation. “You want to tell Captain ‘no’, it’s your balls in a vice, not mine.”

“Yeah, that’d be a switch, wouldn’t it?”

But the other man pushes back his chair and grabs his jacket.

Jason smirks at his retreating back and spins on his heel, returning to his own desk to grab his car keys.

Maybe the day’s looking up a bit.

⁂

There’s a gaggle of reporters already on the scene when Tim arrives, and he wonders not for the first time just how many of them have their own inside sources in the various police precincts of Gotham. There are also two ambulances on the scene, but thankfully someone had the foresight to park them in a way that shields the entrance of the high-rise apartment.

Officer Kelley, Damian’s partner of six months, is walking back and forth along the police tape to ensure none of the intrepid rubberneckers can get through. Head down and dark glasses firmly in place, Tim hurries past the press before they can recognize him (it thankfully doesn’t happen very often, but when it does it’s a pain in the ass) and approaches Kelly. Though they’ve met before, he flashes his badge and identifies himself.

All of Tim’s official identification name him as Timothy Drake-Wayne and have since he was about seventeen, but he only uses the latter name if he absolutely must. With regards to work, he’s only ever used it during official meetings with the Commissioner or during obligatory police ceremonies.

Or when Bruce makes up some official sounding excuse to check up on me when he feels he hasn’t heard from me in a while.

He's endured at least one of those this past month.

Kelley barely raises an eyebrow, suggesting Damian must have warned her who he was calling and waves him through. It speaks to how much they trust each other as partners that she’s going along with what’s clearly a personal issue. Most other cops would question the need for two law enforcement officers from the same family needing to be at the same crime scene.

There are two elevators in the lobby, one of which is already open with a sign posted to warn residents from using it. Another officer Tim doesn’t recognize is waiting beside it, and Tim once again flashes his badge before heading up.

He’s subjected to a brief interlude of elevator muzak, before the doors open to the foyer outside of what has to be the victims’ apartment. Two ambulance techs are just exiting, carrying with them tools that are clearly useless here. He waits for them to pass and slips inside, taking in the stylish décor of the hall and nearby living room. Inside the latter, there’s a small woman speaking to another EMT, a blanket over her shoulders as she tries to speak through sobs.

Damian is watching the scene from across the room, mouth pulled into his habitual frown; this deepens when he sees Tim. Undeterred, Tim strides over—he was invited, after all.

“So, are you going to tell me why I’m risking Cassie’s wrath this morning?” he asks as he joins the younger man. Tim's friend might not be the type of captain to fire him for the flagrant conduct unbecoming, but she can make his life miserable for the foreseeable future.

“The bodies were found this morning by the cleaning lady,” Damian says, also not bothering with such trite pleasantries as a greeting. “No signs of break-in or struggle.”

“Cleaning lady? This early on a Sunday? They must have been paying her overtime.”

Damian raises an eyebrow. “Pennyworth works Sundays.”

“Only because it would take the same amount of phenobarbital to stun a moose as it would to make Alfred take a day of rest.” They exchange a wry look of agreement, and Tim returns to the subject at hand. “So, she identified the bodies?”

“Yes. Joseph Devlin Davenport, his wife Lina, and the three teenaged offspring—Neil, Irene, and Roderick.”

Tim’s eyes go wide; he’s met every one of them before. “Shit.”

“Indeed.” Damian flips through his notepad, though they both know it’s for show. “All the victims were executed by two gunshots to the head, except Davenport himself; the medical examiner was here, and her preliminary findings suggest the husband shot his wife and children first, then turned the gun on himself. There are no signs of struggle, no bruising, or markings on the bodies…”

“None of that’s particularly extraordinary though.”

“And then there’s their hands.”

They share a look.

“Did you mention that when you called it in to your superiors?”

“No, when I called it in I gave them the basics. Since then I’ve noticed a few things.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the fact a firearm was discharged several times in a residential complex and no one heard anything,” Damian says. “Yet I didn’t find a suppressor anywhere on the scene; just the weapon itself.”

“Is the penthouse soundproofed?” Tim asks.

“No. When I spoke to the downstairs residents, they told me they had even made several noise complaints to the building management in the past. Nothing ever came from it, of course—money talks—but someone should have heard something.”

“Assuming they recognized the sound of gunfire. This isn’t exactly Burnley. Which…could be a good thing. Buildings like this tend to have good security systems.”

“Obviously that was my next thought,” Damian drawls. “While Kelley was calming down the help, I went to speak with the security guards in case the camera system caught sight of anyone suspicious.”

"And did they?"

“No. They apparently had to run a routine update on their software, which knocked out the feed between 2 a.m. and 3 a.m.”

“And you think this is when the shooting took place.”

“I imagine Brown will find the time of death to be around that point,” Damian agrees with a smug upward quirk of his lips. “For Davenport to decide to kill himself at the exact time when the security feeds go offline is rather coincidental.”

Tim shakes his head. “Maybe, maybe not. Anything else?”

“What about the fact Davenport was left-handed but shot himself with his right hand?”

Tim blinks. “And how do you figure he was left-handed?”

“Please,” Damian dismisses with a snort, “I’ve been forced to attend enough fundraisers with Father in the past, and Davenport was often present. Even you would remember that ham-fisted troglodyte trying to sip from a champagne flute had you ever deigned to attend.”

Tim tilts his head in acknowledgment of both the barb and the observation. “Fair. Though so far all of this sounds pretty circumstantial—nothing really screams 'second shooter' here. And other than the hand thing—”

“Go see for yourself. The bodies are in the dining room. I imagine your specific talents will confirm my suspicions.” Tim starts into the apartment. “By the way, if you’re still here when the lead detective gets here, I’ll deny knowing you.”

Tim snorts. “As expected.”

“And you are not to tell Richard I was involved in this. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Tim has to hold back a chuckle at that; Damian is even more acquainted with Dick’s mollycoddling than he is.

“Noted. Let Alfred know I might be a bit late for dinner tonight.”

“It’s not Alfred you have to worry about.”

Tim heads down the hall, accepting a pair of plastic gloves from one of the passing investigators. As he pulls them on, he takes note of the doors to the bedrooms that remain open, and the photographs and paintings hanging on the walls. Nothing is disturbed, no signs of a struggle like there would be if the victims had been dragged from their beds, and there’s no sign of blood on the floors leading from the rooms or even the hallway itself.

That means the victims either walked voluntarily—which is unlikely—or sedated and carried.

It’s looking like Damian’s instincts might be on-point here, but it’s not until Tim steps foot in the dining room that he realizes just how much that’s the case.

He freezes in place, hit with a familiar jarring of his senses at something not meant to be perceived.

Davenport was a man in his mid-forties, tall and with the look of a skinny person that’s suddenly gained a whole lot of weight, and not in a healthy manner. Tim remembers meeting him at some dinner with his parents when he was younger, and his mother disparaging the man behind his back as a social-climbing schemer.

And that was before the Ponzi scheme.

The man’s blond hair implants are now plastered with blood and brain matter that oozes down the left side of his head. His eyes roll in wild fear, tears and snot running down his face, which is immobilized in a stiff smile from regular Botox injections. That mouth is now twisted in a grotesque scream that makes Tim wince even in its silence, the unsettling sensation of nails on a chalkboard traveling up through his nervous system.

Tim is careful not to draw the attention to himself, not just because of the crime scene team still milling about the scene, but because the last thing he needs right now is a panicked ghost latching on to him. Davenport’s spirit is still in too much shock for rationality and may fixate on Tim if he discovers he can see him. Which he knows from experience is not fun.

The newly dead are like drowning victims—if they catch hold of you, they’ll drag you under with them. Best case scenario, Tim experiences a few seconds of possession and a week of dissociative identity issues; worst-case scenario, he could die from the same trauma.

Unfortunately, given the lack of control newly dead spirits have, the latter is most likely.

The ghost is luckily far enough from the dining room table that Tim can edge past him without ostensibly acknowledging its presence; instead, he studies the actual bodies and tries not to regret his coffee that morning.

The five victims have not yet been moved, but the placement of tarps over them suggests the crime scene photographers have already been by. Going from one body to the next, Tim lifts the sheets carefully, trying not to disturb anything too much in his investigation. The victims are all dressed in their nightclothes, seated around the table on wooden, cloth-back chairs.

Damian wasn’t lying; all of them holding hands.

The dining room table is fully laden with dishes and cutlery, glasses filled with orange juice and bowls with the soggy remnants of cereal and milk. Other than the angry red entrance wounds on their foreheads—two shots each—there are no other visible injuries. Only the body of the presumed shooter, based on the position of the gun and his hand, is splayed out unnaturally across the table, ostensibly from the force of the gunshot.

Otherwise, it looks like they were all just sitting down to breakfast at the time of death.

His stomach roils a bit at the notion, not only because of the clearly depraved mind behind arranging the tableau but because the scene is familiar to him in a way he wishes it wasn’t.

Teeth clenched, Tim digs out his phone and starts to take his own pictures, not wanting to have to contact the lead detective and beg for copies. In the periphery, Davenport’s ghost continues to spasm and flail, making it hard for Tim to concentrate.

His eyes rest on the spot where the murder weapon fell and is struck by a sudden idea. Hoping he’s right, he takes a quick tour of the rest of the apartment but makes deliberate stops in the bedroom and the home office.

It’s another fifteen minutes of taking pictures and lightly rummaging through the belongings of the dead before he finds something. Striding out of the office and back toward the scene of the murder, Tim shoots a text message off to his friend Victor at the ATF.

Running gun serial numbers might be a little more complicated than on TV, but the guy owes me a favor. And if I��m right—

His thoughts cut off as he notices movement out of the corner of his eye, a movement that belongs to someone living this time.

There’s a newcomer on the scene, and from the way he flashes the badge, Tim would guess it’s the detective who’s actually supposed to be here. He’s redheaded, wearing a leather jacket and a loose tie that looks like he threw it on in a hurry. Even from this distance, Tim can make out a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his chin and the edge to his mouth that’s inherently challenging. The man’s whole esthetic reads scrapper, but his posture and carriage inarguably declare cop. Tim would know, his family is made up almost entirely of them.

Pretending like he hasn’t noticed the stranger, Tim shifts to face the scene once again, continuing to study him under his lashes as the man exchanges words with Damian.

He blames Kon entirely for the way his attention rests on the man’s muscular thighs, before the man turns toward Tim and starts forward, conversation with Damian clearly over.

Well shit…

⁂

Jason has an uneasy feeling in his stomach even before he even arrives at the Davenports’ penthouse apartment.

It’s not an anticipatory reaction to seeing the aftermath of a murder—he’s worked homicide long enough to have developed a means of distancing himself from the crimes he investigates. The feeling is more like expectation, a nagging sense that something huge is about to happen.

Never a good sign in my experience.

“Detective Todd?”

Jason pauses as he finishes putting on a pair of plastic gloves and glances up at the speaker.

“Officer Al-Ghul,” he replies, more formal than usual as he tries to shove the weird feeling to the back of his mind. “What’ve we got?”

The kid excuses himself from the small, tearful woman he’s speaking to and strides over.

“It seems to be a murder-suicide,” he says and launches into a report that’s almost word-for-word the transcript of what he called into the precinct, with a few extra additions. Jason lets the words wash over him, keeping an ear out for anything that deviates too much from what he already knows while casting his eyes about the apartment.

Geeze, you could fit three Crime Alley families in the living room alone. Who the fuck needs all this space?

His eyes fall upon someone across the room that he doesn’t recognize.

Young—maybe a bit younger than Jason—with an athletic build and good looks that, despite being clean-cut, give no clue as to whether they’re male or female. Whoever it is, they’re not dressed as a CSI or in an officer’s uniform, but they’re studying the crime scene with the eye of someone in the business. When the stranger notices Jason, he or she turns around, apparently fascinated by the photographs on the living room wall.

“Who’s that?” Jason interrupts Al-Ghul. “New CSI?”

Al-Ghul scowls in annoyance, either at the interruption or at the subject of the question, Jason isn’t sure.

“Major Crimes,” he says after a beat.

That immediately puts Jason’s back up. “What the hell is MCU doing here?”

Al-Ghul shrugs, as if to say, ‘that’s your problem, not mine’, and returns his attention to the woman from before. Deciding this is a welcome distraction from his own unease, Jason stalks toward the stranger, ready to rip them a new one.

“Hey, buddy—wanna tell me what you think you’re doing at my crime scene?”

“Just taking a look around,” the detective replies, not turning around immediately.

Jason’s eyes flick to the photos on the wall, wondering what seems so captivating.

Most of them are glamor shots, professionally done, but some are clearly personal photos. Davenport and his wife on a golf course, the teenagers lounging around against a tropical beach backdrop, and another of Davenport sitting in a bed surrounded by his kids. Though his surroundings seem comfortable, he’s hooked up to some kind of IV stand, and despite the smile on everyone’s faces, there’s a haunted edge to it.

Oh yeah, now I remember.

A while back there was something in the news about him undergoing treatment for some kind of blood cancer. He actually tried to use that to discourage his case from being investigated. Just proves what kind of scumbag Davenport is.

Was.

Which brings him back to the present.

“I’m gonna need a bit more than that unless you want me making a call to the brass up at MCU,” Jason warns.

The detective turns to offer Jason what is clearly intended to be a disarming smile. “No need for that, I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”

Jason prides himself on not being susceptible to that sort of thing, but—

Holy shit, he’s hot up close.

And yes, that’s definitely a male face studying him with an air of appraisal, in spite of the deceptively delicate features. The guy is mostly clean-shaven and wearing a smart-looking peacoat that offers a compliment to his eyes, which are very blue. It’s the intense color you don’t see very often outside of newborn babies, but with a pronounced gleam of intelligence that feels almost penetrating.

There’s also a confident set to his shoulders and a stubborn bend to his lips that instantly puts Jason’s mind on the defensive (and other parts at attention).

“Detective Drake,” the guy goes on, offering a hand to Jason. His voice is warm and smooth, the kind that’s more suited for phone sex than reciting Miranda rights. “Major Crimes, as you already seem to be aware.”

Jason refrains from taking the hand. “Detective Todd. 12th Precinct. Homicide. There a reason you guys are sticking your noses into a murder-suicide?”

“There’s reason to believe this may actually be the work of a serial murderer,” Drake replies, looking unbothered by the rebuff.

“Really,” Jason says flatly. “And what are you basing that on? Because the report I got is leanin’ pretty hard on this guy killing his wife and kids, then himself. That’s probably how the city’s going to record it. This isn’t a scene that needs in-depth investigating and there’s no need for one lead detective here, let alone two—especially not a guy who’s clearly out of his jurisdiction.”

‘Detective Drake’ doesn’t appear to notice the clear marking of territory.

“Have you been in there yet?” he asks instead.

“No, because I’m wasting my time explainin’ protocol to a smart-ass out of his jurisdiction.”

Drake smirks at that, sharp and unwavering. “Well, when you get around to it, you’ll probably cotton on to the fact the murder weapon was a .32 automatic with the serial filed off.”

“So?”

“So, first of all, the neighbors would have heard the discharge if it was fired without a decent suppressor, but there’s no evidence of one at the scene of the crime.”

Which, Jason can admit, is out of the ordinary. Most people committing suicide don’t care about how loud the shot will be that takes them out, but if they did use one, it would still be attached to the gun.

“Second, Davenport was an ardent supporter of gun rights. I remember seeing a clip of him on the news, going at it with the Mayor over his proposed gun-control laws.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “Your point being?”

“My point is that generally, gun rights activists own guns. Which Davenport did—you’ll find them in his closet and his study, next to all the relevant paperwork: 9mm Glocks. And they have serial numbers.” Drake levels a challenging stare at Jason. “What’s the point of procuring an unregistered weapon when you have your own within easy reach? And why chisel the number off if you’re just going to commit suicide? It’s not like you need to care about it being traced once you’re dead.”

“The guy was rich—rich people do weird things. Probably some convoluted insurance thing,” he suggests.

“Or it wasn’t his.”

“So maybe he was holdin’ it for a friend. It happens. Still doesn’t change the fact this tool offed his own family.”

“And what about the fact that the same model gun has been found at the scene of at least fourteen other murder-suicides in this city in the past ten years?”

“It’s Gotham. Play the probabilities game long enough, you’ll get a bunch of seemingly random crimes that resemble each other.”

“Maybe. But in the ninety-something years before that—in fact, as long as the city’s kept records on this sort of thing—there have been only two murder-suicides that could fit that pattern, and those had enough additional evidence to solve immediately. But in the past decade, we've got two particular years where a series of murder-suicides were committed using an unregistered .32, where neighbors didn’t hear any of the gunshots and yet there was no sign of a suppressor. Five years ago, and ten years ago,” Drake tells him grimly. “Both those years there were exactly seven incidents, and then they stopped. None of those have been solved.”

“That says more about the investigating cops than the crimes themselves. You don’t solve a murder-suicide—the evidence is right there,” Jason insists, though what Drake has to say is uncomfortably close to what his own gut was telling him when he walked into the apartment.

“And the fact that in each situation, the victims are found holding hands?” Drake challenges, with the air of someone presenting a winning argument.

And, yeah, that’s a bit of a weird coincidence, but still not an argument for a major investigation.

“If that’s an actual detail in all these supposed cases of yours, it would have been noted.”

“Not if no one thought it was worth noting,” Drake retorts. “Not if whoever made those reports just thought it was some kind of death pact or…cult related suicide. They weren’t looking for it.”

“But you are.”

“Clearly.”

Jason peers at him another beat and then shakes his head. “Look, I have about seven other cases of actual homicide that need my attention, so if you could just—"

“Seriously?” Drake demands, losing some of his smooth calm at last. “You don’t find any of that compelling enough to—”

“To what? Start imagining serial killers where there are none? No, I don’t,” Jason snaps. “All I see so far is some rich bastard got caught running a Ponzi scheme, so he decided to take the easy way out and dragged his poor family with him. It’s what rich people do when things get hard; because if they can’t have it, no one can.”

That earns him a cold look. “Out of the other fourteen cases, only one of them involved a couple who could be considered rich.”

“Fourteen other cases where only you seem to notice the pattern. I dunno what you want me to say, buddy. Clearly, you got an ax to grind, so do me a favor and grind it away from my scene.”

Despite his words, it’s not a suggestion, and Drake recognizes it.

Scowling at Jason in something like disgust, he straightens up. “Fine. I’m going. But when another family is slaughtered by this nutjob—and it will happen—you’ll remember this discussion. Hopefully, before you have to answer another six homicide calls.”

Drake spares Jason one final judgmental look and heads for the front door.

Jason watches him, briefly admiring the man’s ass as he walks away, and then puts the encounter out of his mind. He’s got a job to do, and Artemis said she wanted this sorted out today.

Squaring his shoulders and preparing himself for another grim sight—he hates crime scenes that involve kids—he heads out of the living room toward the back of the apartment and the scene of the crime.

Crossing the threshold to the dining room, Jason’s earlier disquiet morphs, evolving from nervous apprehension to a full-blown dip towards dread. He barely catches a glimpse of the tarps draped over the bodies, when his stomach pulls tight, shoulders tensing as if waiting for a blow from the right, but there’s no one there. Something far too close to fear chokes at his throat, forcing him to pause in the doorway and put a steadying hand on the doorframe.

Spots appear across his vision, a chill winding up his spine, and—

—sobbing, hysterical tears, please don’t do this, please just let them go, heart racing, blood thundering, please no, I’ll give you anything, someone help, click, bang, agony, nothing—

Jason shudders as he comes back to himself, reeling back a step.

The sensations ebb a little but don’t completely vanish, and he has to take a few breaths to regain his control. Now that he expects it, it won’t be too hard entering the room, but the fact it hit him like that...

Jason glances back to the entrance of the apartment, mouth setting into a grimace. He’s cleaned up plenty of suicides, and they never hit him with that degree of dread before.

He has a bad feeling that Detective Drake might have been right—whatever happened in the apartment, it wasn’t as simple as it's meant to look.

________________________________________________________________

I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn't something you're comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel! ❤️️ = I love this story!

😳 = this was hot!

💐 = thank you for sharing this

🍵 = tea spilled

🍬 = so sweet and fluffy!

🚔 = you’re under arrest! the writing’s too good!

😲 = I NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER

😢 = you got me right in the feels

🤯mind blown

🤬god damn cliffhanger

😫 whyyyyyyy?!?!?

#JayTimWeek2020 #JayTimWeek #jaytim #Jason Todd #Tim Drake #DCU #batman #casefic #day 5 #detective!jason #detective!tim #psychic!jason #medium!tim #mystery #romance #drama

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clairecrive · 4 years

Text

“Let’s stay home|Quarantine AU”

Here it is guys! I know it’s a little later than usual but I’m actually happy with the outcome, I only hope you do too! i decided to take @ashesbelle suggestion and do a game night chapter. I knew it had a lot of potential and I did my best to make it fun. Feel free to always leave suggestions and ideas about this story! Anyway, next chapter it’s going to be Bane! ugh, can’t wait!

Tag list: @deaflikehawkeye, @mollybegger-blog, @evelynshelby, @br0ck-eddie, @of-love-and-of-the-sea, @sopxhiea, @fandom--0verdose, @shadow-of-wonder, @innerpaperexpertcloud (let me know if you wanna be added!)

If you lost a chapter: Masterpost

Chapter 3 - “Game night”

Adjusting to their new daily life hadn’t been so difficult as Emma would have thought. To be honest, the idea of living with three men had terrorized her a little, not because she was afraid or something, she knew she was safe with them, but because of what it implied. Emma had never been the perfect housewife kind of girl. She learned how to take care of herself and her house but that was that. Primal survival skills. Now she was stuck at home with three grown-up men and she suddenly wondered how it was going to go when it came to chores. She really hoped that they didn’t believe she was going to do all the work because if they did, well they better think twice. After the guys had settled in and rested after the long journey, well only Tommy actually since Eddie already lived in the city, Emma gathered them all in the kitchen.

“Since no one has left, I presume that you’ve all decided to spend this upcoming quarantine here,” she broke the ice, “although, you can still change your mind and catch a plane or a train before it’s too late.” she continued looking at each of them.

“Why does this feel like a kind of initiation?” Eddie mused suspiciously making Emma throw an ugly look at him.

“It’s not but I hope you understand that every one of you is involved and so has to lend a hand,” she continued. However, she could see that they weren’t really following her so she decided to be more direct. “I’m talking about house chores guys.”

Emma watched as realization washed over their faces and to her surprise, there was no trace of reluctance.

“Of course pet, don’t even have to say it,” Alfie mumbled crossing his arms on his chest making Emma send a sweet smile his way. She had always known that when it came to lending a hand Alfie had never refused nor complained.

“Whatever you want my lady.” Eddie, of course, complied sarcastically while Tommy only nodded. Emma knew that he had been taking care of himself for a while now, her heart would always clench in apprehension for him at the fact and this current situation was no different. She was happy that he was here though, she would make sure that he was doing okay.

“Wonderful. Now, let’s get to business, what do we want to eat tonight?”

***

After everyone agreed that it was definitely the right night to order some pizza, Emma had called her trusted pizza place down the road. They were still enjoying the food when Alfie came up with a tremendous idea: playing board games.

“Absolutely not.” Emma posed her veto already imagining hundreds of ways in which it could be wrong.

“Why, are you afraid of losing?” Alfie, never the missing the chance to take the piss on her, mocked her.

“Board games are the recipe for the perfect disaster. You all transform into children when you play. And maybe you have forgotten Alfred but we’re going to live together for a while.” She glared at him, explaining her point of view as a matter of factly.

“She just knows that she’s going to lose.” Again, Alfie taunted her looking at Tommy for his support but he didn’t go along with him. Emma did her best to fought the sudden voice in her head that pushed her to prove him wrong. However, she knew that she needed to be the one to keep the balance and if she played, there was a slight chance that she’d got carried away and then she wasn’t sure what could happen. Alfie loved provoking her and putting her on edge, and she was competitive and prone to angry outbursts when she played. That wasn’t a good match. Knowing this, she took a deep breath forcing herself to calm down and ignored him.

“You can play if you want, I think there’s Risiko and a few other board games in my room. I think I’ll pass.” She informed them, looking at Tommy while she spoke.

She left the kitchen with their dirty plates while the guys discussed to choose which game they were going to play. While she threw away the remnants of food, she heard Eddie explain that he couldn’t play because he had a deadline to meet. So Tommy and Alfie were left to pick up a game and they settled for Risiko. Emma smirked at their choice knowing it was Alfie’s way of winning easy.

They went looking for the game and then started arranging the board and their armies on it. A while into the game though, Alfie was rather disappointed to realize that he was in fact losing. Every time they would come to battle, Tommy would manage to get bigger numbers than him. A little suspicious, if you asked him. But decided to stay quiet for the time being and study his opponent instead.

Meanwhile, Emma had settled on the couch beside the table they were playing on so that she could keep an eye on them and get a little work done at the same time. She wasn’t really paying them attention but every once in a while she would glance at the board and notice in amusement how Alfie was definitely losing. An angry puff would leave his lips from time to time whenever Tommy would beat him but he hadn’t said anything yet. She wondered how long was he going to last. She knew Tommy was pretty stoic but Alfie definitely wasn’t. It was only a matter of time before he would snap. She could almost see him filling up and ready to spill.

“Oi mate, that’s enough cheatin’ from ya.” And as Emma predicted, here it was. He didn’t last long after all. Alfie bellowed outraged, his cockney accent thick, and Tommy was getting really fed up with him. Even if he was a master of keeping his cool, Emma could see by the way he was nervously drumming his fingers on the table.

“Listen, pal, I’m not cheating. If you don’t know how to lose then you shouldn’t play.”

Between Tommy’s stone-cold stare and Alfie’s temper, it was a really good match, one Emma was amused to witness but wary at the same time. Watching them cat fighting over their lost army, she decided to leave to it a little longer before intervening. And when Alfie threatened that maybe it was better to show who was stronger outside, she finally spoke up.

“Okay guys, that’s enough.” Putting her laptop away from her lap, she lifted to sit on the couch rather than laying down.

“Yes Thomas, that’s fucking enough. Start playin fair, will ya?” Alfie complained totally misreading Emma’s words and was starting to go on a rant regarding how it was always the Thomas that would start trouble and fucking cheating. However, Emma had already heard this speech one time too much and stopped him.

“Alfie,” trying to keep a smile away from her face she made him look at her, “Risiko is a game of luck. Everything is decided with a roll of the dice, Tommy’s not cheating,” she explained calmly not wanting him to feel like he was being scolded.

“The fuck it is, it’s a game of tactic and plannin. It’s fucking war, innit?” Alfie stood his ground, getting only worked up since he felt that Emma was taking Tommy’s side. The latter though, jumped at the occasion to get away from him as soon as Emma spoke up. Tommy didn’t do arguments nor drama. That was one of the reasons him and Emma got along so well.

“Do you decide how many of your tanks go down in a fight with dice too in war?” Getting the tutting tone out of her voice was getting harder and harder for Emma. She knew Alfie though, and she was very aware of his stubbornness. However, Emma couldn’t help but consider him adorable in that moment. With his face scrunched up for the building anger, and the scowl on his lips because he wasn’t getting his way, he much resembled a child. A petulant one but an adorable one nonetheless.

“Fucking hell,” were the only words that Emma could hear given that the others mashed up in one incomprehensible mumble.

“C’mon Alfie, stop trying to prove that your gun is bigger than Tommy’s,” Emma dismissed him getting back to the article she needed to write while Tommy, who had sat on the love seat next to the couch she was on, tried to cover his snort with a cough. However, without wanting to, Emma had only managed to anger him more.

“Why would I pet, right, fucking wast me time in proving something you already know?” He hissed this time, anger filling every fibre of his body. Arching one of eyebrows, Tommy mocked him without actually speaking up but Alfie paid him no mind. His eyes were fixed on Emma.

Letting out a sigh, Emma moved her laptop on her side, again. She knew that she had been dragged in now and that Alfie wouldn’t let her be before settling this.

“I already know, you say.” She just pointed out. She didn’t want to argue but couldn’t walk away either.

“You ‘aven’t seen his, right? So you can’t really fucking say can ya? You know my gun’s big tho’.”

“And how do you know I haven’t?” She taunted and this time Alfie froze, taking in her implication, his eyes moving from her to Tommy multiple times as if he was deciding if she was serious or not.

“Yer fucking takin the piss now.” He decided that there couldn’t have been something of that nature between them.

“She ain’t. We’re lovers fo’ a while.” Tommy jumped in and confirmed Emma’s words. Neither of them spoke for a while and Emma thought that the conversation had been ended that way. However, she was surprised to find out that they’re both looking expectantly at her.

“Forget it. I’m not going this.” God, what did she put herself into…

“You fucking are,” Alfie stated, “C’mon Em. He’s a big lad, he can take it.” Oh Alfie, ever so cocky. Emma looked at Tommy for support but was had had enough. This man was way too cocky for his liking. It was time to put him in his place.

“C’mon Emma, tell us.” To her amazement, Tommy actually agreed with Alfie. If the situation wasn’t so bloody embarrassing, she would have been proud of them for cooperating.

“Okay then, pull your pants down.” She said hoping to deter them in this way.

“Fucking what?” Alfie protested while Tommy just stared at her. She was basing her tactic to the innate discomfort that all straight men seemed to have in being naked around another naked guy. She hoped it would work and in the meantime, she would enjoy the unease on their face. That’ll teach them to put her in this position.

“C’mon big guy, are you bucking down?” Surprising them both, Tommy taunted Alfie turning to him. It seemed he had taken it personal.

“Are you homo or somefing mate? Don’t want ya staring at me.”

“She’s the only one who has to look, man. I’m not interested. At all.” Tommy pointed out with a roll of his eyes and turned back to face Emma that watched their exchange in fascination. But it was getting late and she was getting tired of all of this.

“You know what?” coming up with a way to put an end to this, she got up from the couch and approached them. Without missing a beat, her hands gripped both of their packs making them gasp in surprise. “See? Everything is where it’s supposed to be and I reckon you both know how to use it. That’s all that matters right?” She patronizingly tutted at them, finishing all by patting gently their face.

Emma then turned to gather her stuff and left the room like nothing happened, leaving behind her two very stunned and slightly aroused men. This had only been the first night of living together and it already had proven interesting. Seems like they were in for a wild ride.

#let's stay home #quarantine AU #alfie solomons #eddie brock #tommy conlon #alfie solomons fanfiction #alfie solomons fanfic #eddie brock fanfiction #tommy conlon fanfiction #alfie solomons x oc #eddie brock x oc #tommy conlon x oc #game night #risiko

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lia-jones · 4 years

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Growing Pains - Chapter Nine - The King and the Thief

Needless to say, I spent my weekend thinking about Victor and that particular event in my kitchen. My heart lingered in the memory of his warmth like a guilty pleasure, while my mind kept telling me what a bad idea it was to fall in love, especially with my boss. But my greatest flaw and virtue came to this one thing: no matter the dispute between my head and my heart, my heart always had the upper hand. That was something that gave me both great joy and great grief.

I wondered if something meaningful would’ve happened if his phone didn’t ring, and my heart beat yes. My mind though, warned me of the danger of misreading signs, particularly in this case. A wrong step could break both my heart and my career, but the humiliation would be even worse.

I arrived at the office promising myself I would only focus on work and nothing else. I was probably seeing things, anyway. That guy probably had all the women he could have, attractive tall women with beautiful hair and eyes of exotic colors, supermodel material. What would he want to do with a plain brown haired and brown eyed short girl?

I walked quickly to my old desk, expecting to see all my stuff there again. I imagined he wanted the privacy of his office back again, and since I did a good job in Creekwood, my punishment would be over. But my old desk was stubbornly empty. Goldman saw me and came to me.

“What are you doing here? Victor wants you in his office. Now.” Goldman’s voice was way too serious for my liking.

“Is he mad at me? Did I do something wrong?” I asked, feeling a little nervous.

“How the hell should I know?!?” Goldman was clearly irritated. “Do you think he writes me a memo every time he gets pissed?”

I raised my hands, urging him to calm down.

“Ok, ok, I’m going. Jeez.”

I knocked before coming in. Victor raised his eyebrows at me.

“Why did you knock? You work here. You don’t have to knock.” His voice had a touch of anger, but it didn’t seem directed at me. I relaxed.

“I was just trying to be polite.” I answered, concealing the fact that I was not wanting to aggravate him even more.

“Don’t think I didn’t see you speaking to Goldman just now. Glass doors.” He pointed at the doors, and then looked me straight in the eyes, calling my bluff. “How long will it take you to figure out you don’t have to be afraid of me?”

“I’m not. I’m not afraid.” I didn’t lie, I wasn’t. Sure, Victor could be harsh, and I surely didn’t want to feel the effects of his anger, but it wasn’t fear. Respect, maybe? I couldn’t put my finger on it. “It came from respect, not fear.” I added. Victor kept his gaze on me, like he was confirming if I was being truthful.

“I need you to take a look at these.” He said, handing me a folder.

“They’re Ted’s partners.” I said, recognizing the companies names in the documents. “Is something wrong?”

“The accounting department noticed some inconsistencies on money transfers to these companies. Probably some data was lost when the servers went down. You worked with Ted, perhaps you can fill in the gaps.” He tried to keep a nonchalant tone, but his almost unperceptively furrowed brow spoke volumes. This was troubling him.

“Where is Ted? These are his clients, after all.” I asked, starting to feel a bit tense. I didn’t want to be the one causing Ted trouble.

“He’s not answering his phone.” Victor almost whispered. “I need you to do it.” He ended the conversation right there, turning to his laptop.

I turned to my own laptop and opened the server files for those companies, comparing them with the transfer receipts in the folder. After some time, I could see why Victor was so upset. The transfers were each over a hundred thousand dollars, all of them combined indicating a loss of millions. After checking with the company files, I found nothing that could indicate why he had transferred those amounts. I started rubbing my forehead in distress. Victor quickly picked up on that.

“Something’s wrong?” He came closer, eyeing my screen.

“I can’t really find why these transfers were made. You should really ask Ted, before making any assumptions.” I could feel Victor’s warmth irradiating from his body. And he smelled so good. Why the hell does he have to smell so good? “Or maybe…” I said, trying not to get lost in his scent. ”Maybe I could just email the partners, tell them we had a server problem, ask them to confirm the transfers? I know it’s a bit of exposure, but we would find out.”

Victor rested his elbow on my desk, supporting his chin with his hand.

“Yes, send an e-mail to the partners. Let’s hear from them.”

We both resumed our work, and after I had sent emails to pretty much every one of Ted’s partners, I heard Victor answer a phone call.

“Ted?” It was visible Victor was trying to control his anger. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you since last night!” He paused, hearing from the other line. “The server went down, we are missing some information about some money transfers you made.” Another pause. “Send them to Andrea as soon as possible. She’ll update the files for you. Feel better.”

I was hanging on the edge of my seat.

“So?” I asked.

“This is why I insist you backup all your work outside the servers! Information gets lost and then it’s all on you!” He spoke loudly than usual, but I could see he was just venting. He noticed his tone, and softened it a bit. “He caught the flu, he’ll stay home for a few days. He is going to email you the receipts. Do you have the reports from our business trip?” He said, leaning on his seat and exhaling, seemingly relieved.

“I have the drafts, I was going to finish them this morning. If you have nothing else, I’ll finish them right now.”

“Yes, do that. Take your time, I just need them for the afternoon.” He got up and was about to leave, but then turned to me. “I’m going to get myself some coffee, would you like some?”

“I can get it for both of us. I need to peel my eyes off the screen for a few minutes.” I said, getting up.

“Come along, then. I need the same.” Victor said, opening the door for me and following close behind. We headed for the coffee room.

He grabbed the pot before I could and filled two cups with coffee.

“Sugar?” He asked, holding a sugar packet.

“Just black, thank you.” I said, absent mindedly. I was leaning against the table, watching a different scene unfold. Victor came to my side, handing me the coffee cup. We stood silent for a while.

“What are we looking at?” He asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Goldman and Diane.” I had been watching Goldman bring Diane coffee from a known coffee house we usually frequented. They were chatting and smiling at each other.

“They’re just talking.” Victor said, furrowing his brow.

“No, no. You see, he brought her coffee.” I said, giving Victor a meaningful look. “And not just any coffee. By the way she reacted, he knows how she likes her coffee.”

“And? It’s just coffee.” He wasn’t really getting it. Of course he wasn’t. Some men.

“No, it’s not just coffee. It’s a thoughtful act. You guys think we need grand gestures, serenades in the moonlight, and large bouquets of roses. Sometimes all it takes is a cup of coffee.”

“Is that so?” Victor smiled and I could see he was mocking me. “I bet if someone did the same to you, you wouldn’t even notice.”

“If someone was that thoughtful to me, I would.”

“Idiot.” Victor shook his head, chuckling. He grabbed his cup of coffee and walked towards the office.

I was left by myself fuming. What the hell did he mean with that? And what the hell did he know anyway? He wouldn’t know love even if it hit him in his nose.

I took my time to finish my coffee, hoping the heat in my face would eventually fade away.

When I got to the office, Victor was focused on his laptop. I opened mine and noticed my inbox was full of unread messages.

“Your computer has been beeping non-stop.” Victor said, not taking his eyes from his computer.

I read the first message and my heart nearly stopped. Praying to be wrong, I read five more. They all said the same.

“What the hell, Ted...” I said, under my breath.

“What’s the matter?” Victor asked, as he got up and stood behind my chair, bending to look at my screen. I took a deep breath and started opening the emails for Victor to see.

“The partners answered me. None of them recognizes the transfers, or the account numbers, for that matter. I’m sorry, I should have checked the account numbers, it totally slipped my mind…” I rubbed my forehead, overwhelmed with the situation. Ted, one of the closest coworkers I had at LFG, was embezzling? If this was hitting me hard, I could only imagine how Victor must have felt. They seemed friends.

Victor stood up and just kept looking at the screen, lost in his inner turmoil. His expression turned from one of disappointment to anger. He lightly squeezed my shoulder and spoke softly, even though he couldn’t completely hide the heat in his voice.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t think of it either. We both wanted to believe in his innocence.” He went to his laptop and closed it, taking his cellphone and jacket. He walked to the door, turning before leaving.

“Finish the reports and go home. I will be away all afternoon. I will call you later if I need anything.”

And with that, he closed the door behind him.

I finished my reports, not caring for lunch, and went home early. I took a shower and put on my slacks and a cotton sweater, deciding to make a tea for myself. Even after the steaming shower, it was hard for me to relax. I knew Ted had his flaws, but it was hard to believe he would do that. Specially to Victor, who he seemed to respect so much. I was startled from my thoughts by my ringtone. It was Victor.

“Are you home yet?” He asked, his voice was tense.

“For about an hour now. Do you need anything?”

“No, just… Calling to see if you got home safely.” I could hear exhaustion in his voice, but most of all, I could hear sadness. His voice was of someone who carried the entire world on his shoulders.

“So he did do it?” I asked shortly. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer. Victor sighed loudly, but didn’t say a word. After a moment, he spoke again.

“I’ll need you to come to work tomorrow at 7 am. I’ll have someone pick you up.”

“You don’t need to send anyone to pick me up. My car is working, I can drive myself.” I wasn’t seeing the point of being driven when I could perfectly do it on my own.

“Ted’s clients have been calling and emailing me since this morning.” Victor quickly changed the subject. “He seriously compromised the company with his inefficient work and we need to deal with it fast. Since you worked closely with his accounts, you’re the best choice to help me fix it.”

“I already said I would go, I was just pointing out you don’t need to send anyone for me, I’ll go by myself like I have been since ever.”

I heard Victor sigh once again.

“We’ll talk tomorrow, ok? Just do as you’re asked. When the car arrives, just get in and come to LFG.”

And with this he hung up. I went to the cabinet and grabbed the bottle of tequila. If I wanted to relax, I’d need something stronger than tea.

#Growing Pains - Series #growingpains #mlqc victor #victor x oc #mlqc #li zeyan #mlqc fanfic #mister love queens choice #love and producer

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ahtohallan-calling · 4 years

Text

chapter 11 of it’s always ourselves we find is here!

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10

[kristanna / m / modern au / coworkers & enemies to lovers ;) ]

*note-- this is my second update today! please make sure to read chapter 10 first if you haven’t already :)

Anna hadn’t missed the way Kristoff’s eyes had trailed over her that morning when she’d emerged from the bathroom, how they’d widened at first in surprise before traveling from her bare legs to her exposed collarbone before landing at last on her own. The naked wanting in them, that was what had made her shudder, though mercifully he hadn’t seen.

It made her wish his hands had been so bold.

Even the memory of it now made sent a flash of heat rolling like thunder through her, the way it had when he’d taken such care to roll up the sleeves for her and then looked up at her with his eyes soft once more.

She thought she’d been pushing it too far when she’d kissed his cheek that morning, but now she wasn’t so sure. She was taking far too long now changing into her bikini in the bathroom, but if she was being honest with herself, part of her was wishing he’d knock on the door, ask what was going on, give her the opportunity to fling the door open and see if his eyes darkened again when she--

“Anna?”

“Coming!” she squeaked, her cheeks flaming red as she finished tying the top on, thanking her past self for getting one with padding in it. She turned side to side for a moment, nervously inspecting herself and wondering if he’d mind how pale she was, before giving it up; like it or not, this was what he was getting.

(Assuming he wanted her like that, of course; perhaps she’d been misreading the whole situation-- friends could hold hands, couldn’t they?)

She shook her head to clear it and shrugged back into his shirt; it’d have to do for a coverup. She hadn’t really expected to have time to go down to the beach at all, not with this massive presentation in front of the whole company tomorrow, but it had gone so well her mind was still reeling. Kristoff’s was, too, she was sure, but there was something else plaguing him about it that he hadn’t yet seen fit to share with her.

When she stepped back into the main part of the hotel room, Kristoff was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing his swim trunks and a t-shirt. His eyes landed on the third button of the shirt-- left loose, so that the shirt gapped lower than it had while they were working-- and a rush of satisfaction flooded her when she saw that same hunger in his eyes when he looked back up at her face.

She dared to step closer then, enough that she could stand between his slightly spread knees. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped and tilted his head back to look up at her as she brushed some of his hair off his forehead.

“Ready?” she asked sweetly, wishing he’d reach out and touch her, too.

He nodded slowly, though it seemed he had no intention to move just yet. “I meant what I said this morning, Anna,” he said, his voice low.

“About what?”

“You keeping this shirt.”

It was her turn to be stunned into silence. If she was braver, she’d lean down and ask him can I keep this, too?, and see if he’d shift forward to press his lips against hers in a silent yes.

Instead she gave his shoulders a brief squeeze before stepping back. “It looks nice on you, too, though,” she said cheerfully as she slid on her sandals. “Maybe I’ll just have to get my own so we can have a matching set.”

“God, can you imagine what everyone would say if we showed up to the office like that on Monday? Matching outfits and everything?”

Anna laughed and picked up the room key before holding the door open for him. “Probably think we’d both lost our minds. Or that they had.”

“Your friends would pester you so much you wouldn’t get any work done.”

She elbowed him gently as he pressed the button to call the elevator. “Me? No, Kris, it’s you they’d be all over. They’d be so excited to find out maybe you weren’t always a grump.”

He glanced down at her as they stood side by side. “What will they say, do you think?”

Anna bit her lip as they stepped into the elevator together. “About what?”

He didn’t reply. She glanced over and saw he was red-faced. “C’mon, Anna,” he muttered. “I..don’t make me say it and embarrass myself if I’m wrong.”

“Oh,” she said, the word rushing out of her as she reached over to catch his hand. “I-- you’re not wrong, Kris, not at all. I was just worried maybe I was.”

He studied her expression for a moment before raising his free hand to cradle her cheek. “You’re not...this is real? You’re not fucking with me?”

She smiled and turned her head to kiss his palm. “I might have been lying about you being my least favorite person. You are still annoying as hell, though.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but the elevator dinged open just then, and they quickly jumped apart for fear that someone else might see them. It was a good thing they had; Hans was passing through just then, still carrying a beach towel slung over his shoulder as he sauntered through the lobby surrounded by his cohort of fellow salesmen.

“Slacking off, Bjorgman?” he called. “Risky move with that presentation tomorrow.”

Anna felt Kristoff bristle beside her. “Thanks for your concern, Hans,” she said cheerfully. “We did a dry run for your brother, actually, and it went so well we’ve decided to take the afternoon off. He’s great, Harry, isn’t he? Really glad I’ve been hearing more lately about him taking over for your grandfather.”

Hans’s eyes narrowed, all pretense of lightheartedness falling away. “Where did you hear that from?”

“Oh, you know,” she said, idly waving a hand. “Helps to have a sister in Harry’s office.”

Before he could utter another word, she floated past him, fluttering her fingers at the small crowd surrounding him. “Anyway, good luck with those sales numbers. Heard it’s been a rough quarter.”

And with that, she took off towards the door that led to the beach, head held high. After a few moments, she glanced over her shoulder to make sure that Kristoff was, in fact, following her. When she saw he was, a proud smirk on his face, and that Hans was out of sight, she grinned and held back her hand for him.

He caught it quickly, lacing his fingers through hers as they stepped through the door together. It was strange, how familiar his hand had become to hers already, how she missed it when it was gone. It sent a thrill through her to wonder if soon she’d feel the same way about the rest of him.

“Anna?”

“Hmm?” she asked, looking up to see him wearing a thoughtful expression.

“How the hell did we get from picking at each other the whole way up here to this?”

She laughed at that and squeezed his hand the way that was quickly becoming a reflex. “I read one time that if you sleep next to someone, it immediately makes your relationship stronger, ‘cause it means you’re vulnerable around them or something. But also, I think it helps that I’ve already thought you were hot the whole time. And also, I hope you know I still plan to bicker with you, especially if you fuck up my stapler again.”

“That was your fault.”

“Was not!” she said, sticking out her tongue and pulling away from him as they drew closer to the water. “Oh, shit, neither of us thought to bring a blanket or anything, did we?”

“Nah, but we can just sit on the sand or something.”

“But then we’ll be all grainy in...places,” she whined, wrinkling her nose.

To her surprise, he leaned down and kissed the tip of it. When he pulled away, her eyes were wide, and his cheeks were pink. “Sorry,” he breathed, “I just-- I love when you do that.”

“Cornball,” she said, though she said it with a smile. “Anyway, guess we’ll just have to play in the water, yeah?”

“It’s March. It’s still cold.”

“Wow, Bjorgman, didn’t take you for a chicken,” she teased, already turning away from him out of habit as she began to unbutton the shirt.

“I’m not a chicken. I just like having feeling in my legs.”

“Excuses, excuses,” she sing-songed as she shrugged the shirt from her shoulders, glancing back at him. When she realized he was watching her every move, a sudden wave of nervousness overtook her, and she kept the shirt hanging over her elbows for a moment. “Don’t look at me.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you still have your shirt on, and it’s-- it’s not fair,” she stammered.

Without any further encouragement, Kristoff reached behind his neck and tugged his t-shirt off in one motion. “There. Your turn.”

For a moment she stood wide-eyed and unmoving, drinking in the sight she’d imagined more times than she cared to admit, even now-- and god, it was so much better than anything her mind had conjured up. He noticed her staring and crossed his arms, and now she had the flex of his biceps to focus on, and how broad his shoulders were, and--

“Anna,” he said, feigning irritation. “Quit staring at me. It’s your turn.”

She let the shirt fall, turning slowly towards him, and it was his turn to be left speechless. She bit her lip, wondering if he liked what he saw, or if he was just blinded by how pale she was. Without waiting to find out, she took off running for the water, shouting for him to follow after.

He did after only a moment’s hesitation, shaking his head as he loped much more slowly over the sand. When he went out of habit to shove his hands into nonexistent pockets, Anna couldn’t suppress a giggle.

She waded out until she had to stand on her tiptoes to keep her head above water. Something warm flashed through her when Kristoff came to stand beside her and she saw the waves didn’t quite reach to his shoulders.

“When I was a kid and came down here,” he said, smiling when she set her hands on his shoulders to help keep her balance, “we couldn’t really afford beach toys and stuff. So we used to just jump right when the waves came and let them roll under us, and we pretended that was real surfing.”

Anna grinned up at him. “I didn’t know you had siblings.”

“I...yeah. Kind of, anyway. It’s a long story. Now it’s just me and my little sister Maggie. Well, and our parents.”

She tilted her head to the side, wondering if he’d offer any more information, but something had changed in his eyes, as if they were windows and he’d just pulled the shutters closed. “Will you show me how?”

“How what?”

“To jump on the waves like you said.”

And there his smile was again, easy and broad and bright, the one that made something in her chest ache in the best way. “Sure. But we can’t be out this deep, or else you’re not gonna be able to jump.”

“Are you calling me short?”

“No comment,” he said with a wink as he sloshed back a few steps towards the shore. When she joined him, he pointed towards an oncoming wave and said, “Okay, jump on one-- two-- three!”

She followed his lead, shrieking with delight when the wave swept under them both. Kristoff laughed at her reaction and reached under the water to grab her hand. “Have you really never done that?”

She shook her head. “We didn’t really do beach trips. We were more of a museum and ballet and cultural vacation family. But, to be honest, I like this way better.”

“Good, because another wave’s coming.”

She lost track of time standing and jumping beside him, still shrieking with exhilaration each time as Kristoff laughed and shook his head. And then, suddenly, her foot caught on something swept up by the tide, and she slipped and was pulled under. Half a second later, Kristoff’s hands were on her waist, pulling her upright again as she sputtered for air and shook her hair out of her eyes.

“You good?” he asked, concerned, as she grasped at his shoulders, suddenly overwhelmed by how sturdy they felt under her hands.

“My hero,” she breathed, any coherent thought banished from her mind at the realization of how large his hand felt on the bare curve of her waist.

“Shut up,” he mumbled, turning red as he began to pull away.

She only held on tighter, her own cheeks heating as the slight softness around his middle gave way to hard muscle beneath the press of her fingers. “No, I-- I’m not trying to tease you this time,” she said with a hurried shake of the head. “That was, um...that was really sweet of you.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, the flush spreading down his neck now. Anna’s breath quickened as her eyes trailed downward with it, to the light coating of golden brown curls on his broad chest, and then to the trail of darker hair that disappeared below the waistband of his swim trunks.

When she glanced up again, Kristoff’s eyes looked darker somehow.

“Is this okay?” Anna asked softly.

“Is what okay?”

“Me, um…”

She trailed off, letting her hands do the talking for her as they slid slowly up his sides before slinking over his shoulders to settle behind his neck. “This. Touching you.”

His hands moved-- a little more hesitant than hers-- to her back, keeping her close against him, enough that she could feel his breath even out until it was in time with hers. He leaned forward, just barely, enough that he could brush the tip of his nose against hers.

Anna couldn’t help but smile at how tender the movement was, how utterly unlike anything she had ever expected him to do or be. “I’m starting to think that maybe you really don’t hate me after all, Kris,” she teased, letting her fingers stroke gently through the damp waves at the nape of his neck.

“Where’d you get a crazy idea like that, huh?” he murmured, letting his forehead fall against hers.

For a moment she considered replying, but then she thought better of it, angling her face just a little bit, enough that if he did the same--

“Bjorgman! There you are!”

Anna jumped back from him in surprise, her heart pounding at the thought of who might have just seen her on the verge of kissing the man who, as far as everybody else knew, was still her archenemy. Mercifully, it was only Greg, the oldest man in the office, cupping his hands around his mouth as he shouted, “Can you show me how to work the printer?”

“Be right there!” Kristoff shouted back, already moving back towards the sand.

Before he could get too far, Anna caught his hand beneath the water, lacing her fingers through his and giving it a squeeze. He looked back in surprise, and she offered him a shy smile. “See you at dinner?” she asked hopefully.

She’d never seen him grin so broadly.

#melissa and gabi were right lol me focusing on just one thing makes me so much more productive #my fics #iaowf

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