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misqnon · 11 months

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Masquerade

CHAPTER 3: A Meeting

“On the final Friday of each month, towns and cities around the country hold their monthly masquerade. Although the humans don’t know it, this is the only time supernatural beings come out of their hiding places to dance amongst the mortals.”

(Mystery, adventure, eventual human/vampire romance)

*warning for very slight nsfwish scenario in this chapter

Previous Chapters

They headed out of the kitchen and back into the main hall, where Lilli pointed out the paintings of their ancestors.

"Priya painted these more recent ones! Isn't she talented?"

"Wow, these are amazing. How old is she?

..Actually, how old are any of you?" Marnie asked.

Carter mock gasped. "Ah! Asking my age? Haven't you heard you should never ask a vampire such a thing?"

Marnie laughed, and Carter smiled back.

Well, maybe he wasn't all bad.

"Priya's 23." Lilli said. "Ace and I just turned 24, Carter's 25, and Harley is 28. Oh, and Maki is 26."

"23? She's so talented for her age…"

"Marnie and I are 21." Leo said. "It's crazy that you guys are mostly all around our age."

"Yea, I was a little worried you were gonna be like, 800 or something, not gonna lie." Marnie said. Carter dramatically gasped at her again.

"Do I look-"

Lilli playfully shoved him. He shoved her back.

Then they walked through the downstairs waiting room- just a collection of chairs and tables in a sunny red room full of windows and bookshelves. There was a bathroom, a laundry area, another, smaller kitchen, and the entrance to a basement. Upstairs housed another 2 bathrooms, a dressing room, a modest ballroom, a study, a library, and a few other doors they walked right past. Leo and Marnie were flabbergasted at just how much room there was. At how expensive it must be. Did any of them have…actual jobs?

"And here's my bedroom!" Lilli said, opening a door with a pink crocheted 'L' hanging on it.

Inside was a large bedroom with a canopy bed, a desk, a vanity, a dresser, and plenty of flowers and plants put on the windowsills. Although the wallpaper was a classical red and brown, bits of her classic pink filled the room in the bedspread, the decor, and her clothes. Marnie walked in and expressed her love for the room- the pink, the plants, the clothes- all the bits of Lilli- and Lilli started showing her around excitedly.

Carter and Leo, left at the door, stared awkwardly. The girls seemed preoccupied, and made no effort to include them- caught up in their own little world.

Carter, not one to wait, figured he'd take things into his own hands.

He turned to leave the room on his heel, grabbing Leo's hand as he did so, and took a few confident steps down the hall.

"Hup-! Hey!" He said, though he didn't make an attempt to pull away.

"What, don't you want to see my room?"

"Uh…I…guess? Shouldn't we wait on…"

"Lilli loves to show off her things. They're going to be in there at least an hour. Come on, don't you want your sister to have some quality bonding time with her new friend?"

Well the first half sounded innocent (if not flamboyant) enough, but now he was convinced this was (another?) attempt to steal his blood.

Nonetheless, at the end of the hall, away from most the other doors, was a dark wooden door with dried roses pinned to it. A rabbit's foot hung from the doorknob, which Carter turned and opened to a dark, black-toned room.

This whole family seemed color coded. If Lilli's room was classical with a dash of pink, this was dark academia with a dash of…dark.

Dark brown oak wooden furniture lined the room, though his bed was much more modern, with no canopy and a minimalist black frame. Unlike Lilli's, his was unmade, which might not be an indicator of his character considering he might have quite literally been sleeping when they showed up. He was still in his nightgown.

Much like his robe, the bedspread and sheets were black, as was much of the posters, frames, and paraphernalia on the wall. It was mostly sketches, art, maps, musical groups. Some of the sketches looked similar to the style he had been told downstairs were Priya's, which he found sweet.

Then he heard Carter shut the door behind them.

Now wait a minute.

Carter was walking away from the door, stretching, his face a blissful grin. He walked right up to Leo- too close- and spoke with lidded eyes and a sly voice.

"You know, they probably won't notice we're gone for a while."

Leo immediately felt all the blood in his body rush up into his face. Was he flirting with him? Well, past that step really- was he trying to hook up? Like, right now? With Leo?

Breathless, Leo just fumbled over his words with many 'uh's and 'um's.

"You're really cute, Glasses."

Carter put his hand to Leo's chest, gently, and Leo somehow blushed again.

He had never, never been intimate with a man- hell, the poor repressed bastard had never even kissed a man. Well, to be fair, he'd never been intimate with a woman either. But at least he'd kissed one of those.

Carter was slowly pushing Leo to his bed, and Leo was cooperating. His mind was far away. Well, actually, it was right here, and quite active, but it was operating somewhere outside his body right now.

If he wasn't a poor repressed bastard, desperate and touch-starved and maybe a bit aroused right now, then he'd be 20 feet down the hall right now telling Lilli that her scary big brother was trying to seduce him.

Especially because her scary big brother was a vampire. And especially especially because he knew this one specifically wasn't above eating him.

But he was a poor repressed bastard, and he did want to experience what it was like to be with a man, and Carter, admittedly, was kinda hot, and it appeared that in the span of time he was thinking all of this he had ended up laid down on Carter's bed, and Carter had climbed on top of him, straddling his hips.

Wait, what.

Oh God, He was Straddling His Hips.

"You know, I won't lie, I wasn't expecting you to actually go along with this." Carter said, leaning down.

'Well, neither was I!' Leo thought.

Then Carter bypassed Leo's face and hovered his breath, and his fangs, right above Leo's collarbone.

"So is this something I'll be allowed to do, too…?" He whispered, inching dangerously closer to Leo's pulse- upon which, the utter realization of being bitten pulled Leo right out of his gay little fantasy and back into the real world.

His heart rate- already accelerated for other reasons- shot through the top and began racing. Unfortunately, that only seemed to make Carter more interested.

"Come on, Leo, give me an answer…" Carter cooed.

But Leo was frozen. Frozen and fucking terrified-

WHACK.

One pair of brown eyes and one pair of red eyes both shot to the door as it slammed open, despite having previously been locked. One equally as shocked, utterly pissed pair of green eyes shone in the doorway, its owner brandishing a small brass key.

"Carter. Get off of him."

The Guardian Crain was already scrambling off the bed by the time Ace said his name.

The taller man walked over to the bed and held a hand out to Leo, but he wasn't looking at him. He was just glaring daggers at his brother, who had his arms crossed and was averting eye contact with a grimace on the other side of the bed.

Leo took his hand and was gently, but firmly, pulled to his feet. He was embarrassed- really embarrassed- but hopefully most of the blame would be put on Carter. Rightfully so.

Sorry, Carter.

Ace led him out of the room, and upon leaving, locked the door from the outside. He heard Carter protest something from inside, but he was too preoccupied to figure out exactly what he said.

As soon as they were alone, Ace leaned down and looked him in the eyes.

"Are you okay?" Ace put a hand on his neck and turned it over, this way and that, checking for bite marks. "He didn't do anything to you, right?"

"N-No, nothing happened." It sent chills down his spine to have yet another vampire touching his neck, even gently. And right in his face, up close like this, he realized he did indeed still have a crush on Ace. Unless this was the residual arousal talking.

"Good. God, I'm sorry. Maybe bringing you here was a bad idea." He stood up again, rubbing the back of his neck in that absentminded way he did when he was nervous.

"No, no! It's not your fault. And I'm not hurt at all, remember?"

"Yea, no thanks to him." He scoffed, looking back at the door.

"I won't tell if you don't want me to." Ace said, putting a finger to his lips. "I'm very good at keeping secrets." He winked.

Leo blushed. "I'd appreciate that."

Maybe he would tell Marnie later, but. For now. He was going to try to. Move on. Somehow.

"Come on, I have some news."

And with that, Ace led him back down the hallway towards the study room they had passed earlier, where Lilli, Marnie, and Harley waited around a large wood table. Priya and Maki sat on the other end as well, though they seemed less interested.

"Where's Carter?" Harley asked.

"Not here." Ace lied.

Harley sighed. "We can't have a Coven Meeting without him-"

"I'M HERE!"

Carter breathlessly entered the room, looking flustered. There were a few leaves stuck to his robe. "Sorry. I got held up." He glared pointedly at Ace.

Ace glared back just as ruefully. "Oh, something was getting up alright." He mumbled under his breath.

They were glaring daggers at each other without any subtlety. Leo felt shame and embarrassment welling up inside him, knowing this related to him, but luckily he was saved by the bell. Harley dismissed them both to their seats, clearly catching on that something had gone on.

"Whatever it is, I'm sure I'll find out later. Just sit down, please." He sounded tired. But after everyone had sat, Ace next to Lilli, Leo next to Ace, and Carter next to…Leo, the meeting began.

Harley perked up a bit when he spoke. "Ace has brought to my attention a new plan regarding something that's been a mystery within our family for decades. I don't think most of you know about it- maybe Maki, if anyone- but there is one key on Ace's belt that we don't know the lock to."

The whole Crain family shuffled at that. It seemed that Ace was very good at this whole "Key" thing, and he seemed to know his stuff.

"When the Keeper of the Keys title was passed on to him, he was told that every keeper has tried to find what it unlocks. But whatever it is, the one thing we do know about it is that it's in the human realm."

Marnie looked at Leo. Things were starting to make sense.

"Ace and I have talked about finding what this key unlocks before, but only briefly. We didn't get much farther after finding out it was in the human realm, for obvious reasons. But he has proposed that perhaps with human guides," Harley nodded to Marnie, and then Leo,

"This could become possible."

Whispers spread across the table. Leo and Marnie tried to take inventory of the reactions. Lilli looked confused, if anything- she didn't seem to know anything about this beforehand. Carter was the same, although he looked like he was thinking hard about something.

They heard Priya speak for the first time, whispering something unintelligible to Maki. But Maki wasn't paying attention to her. She was looking down, intently, and she looked almost…angry.

"Thoughts?" Asked Harley.

Carter raised his hand. "Why weren't we told about this special little key before? And, most importantly, what do we even think it unlocks? I mean, is it even worth it?"

Ace stepped in for that one. "When I became Keeper of the Keys, I was told that this information was only to be shared between myself and the Coven Head. Considering I can't really up and leave without telling you all why, let alone bring humans home, I elected to ignore that rule. However, I can't tell you what we think it is. That, I was told, was more confidential than anything. But I can tell you that it's…insane. Something that all of us would kill for."

"Convenient." Said Carter.

"I mean it. You guys know I wouldn't abuse your trust."

"I know what it is."

Everyone turned their heads to the new voice; Maki's. Her face was flat, purple eyes devoid of any light.

Ace and Harley looked at each other, but she spoke again before they could say anything.

"And it's not worth it. It's stupid. It probably isn't even real, anyway."

Leo watched Ace fumble a bit, deflating. "How…How do you know what it is?"

"I read it in one of the books in the library. An old journal I found in the archives. It belonged to one of our great uncles, one of the previous Key Keepers. And it's not worth it. What do you even plan on doing? Just because you have two humans with you doesn't mean you can walk around openly. And it's not like you can wear your masquerade gear every day; people will think you're crazy. Do you even know where you're going? There's an entire globe out there, the human realm isn't just Blighton- if that were the case, you would have been searching every masquerade night. It could be in another country for all we know. And whether this lock is on a box, a door, a lock- we don't even know what we're looking for. Have you thought this through at all?"

By the end her gaze had left the table and turned directly to the blonde Crain, her voice and eyes cutting the room with malice. The twins felt they shouldn't be there, that this wasn't their place at all- in fact, even Carter and Lilli looked shocked. Ace just blinked, overwhelmed- if not a little hurt.

Harley cleared his throat.

"Maki's right. We don't have any leads. Whether her idea of what the key unlocks is correct or not, it'd be stupid to head out on a journey to the human realm with nothing but the key and a couple mortals."

He looked to the two mortals in question. "No offense."

"None taken!" They said quickly, in unison. They were just happy to have something to input.

"I'm well aware of that." Ace said. "But where else to get more information than the human realm itself? Its libraries, its people, its local legends. This wouldn't just be a prop hunt, the first phase of it would be gathering information."

Maki was silent. She still looked angry, displeased, and she didn't seem to agree with what Ace had just put forward, either, but she had said her piece.

Harley looked to the group.

"I'll open it up to a vote. Lilli, Maki, Priya, Carter. And you two," Harley said, nodding to the twins.

Marnie blinked. "Wait, us?" The other vamps seemed surprised as well.

He shrugged. "You're involved, so you might as well get a vote."

Maki looked ready to jump out of her seat, but Priya placed a quiet hand on her shoulder.

Harley opened it up to the table.

"All in favor of allowing Ace to move forward with his plan, in phases."

Leo and Marnie looked at each other before slowly raising their hands, just above their head lines. Lilli raised her hand next. Then Carter, and surprisingly, Priya.

Maki said nothing.

Harley shrugged again. "That's majority."

Ace jumped up, pumping his fist in the air. "Yes!"

"Ace, sit down."

"Yessir!" Plop.

"Let me lay down some ground rules. You guys can give feedback if they don't sound good to you. First of all, we need to figure out to what extent you'll be involving these two." He gestured to the twins again. "I'm sure they have their own lives they need to get back to."

Leo and Marnie looked at each other. Marnie worked at the local market, and Leo had gotten a job editing papers at the local printing press. Other than that, they really only had each other and their humble little house. They'd only lived here a year or so, anyway.

Marnie hesitantly explained. "Well, we both have jobs, but they're not…the most important things in the world to us. Other than that there isn't much holding us here, but obviously we need the money to keep our house, and get food."

Priya spoke. "We could always pay for them."

"Priya!" Maki hissed.

She shrugged. "We have so much of it. Sometimes I go into the vault and fold the bills into little boats."

Oh. Alright.

Harley nodded. "Uh, okay. Priya, don't…do that anymore. But she's right." He turned back to them. "Our family has quite a bit of money. It could be our way of paying you, considering your help."

That…didn't sound too bad, actually. Leo was starting to like these guys more and more.

"That…sounds alright to me." He said.

Harley nodded. "Information, then. I'm not approving any trip outside of the immediate area until you bring me a lead."

Ace brightened. "Does that mean I'm allowed in the human realm for research?"

Harley sighed. "I suppose."

"Haha!" Ace grinned.

"And are you planning on doing this alone, aside from your two guides?"

Lilli looked over at him and Ace smiled.

"I was planning on taking Lilli, actually."

"That sounds like a good idea. She's more responsible than you anyway." Harley smirked.

Ace pretended to be bothered and Lilli giggled.

Leo and Marnie, though they hadn't said it to each other out loud, were actually starting to feel…excited.

Their life here wasn't bad by any means, but it was definitely simple, and temporary. They had escaped home but they couldn't live their greatest dreams right away. They had to settle for a small, cheap town near the forest, getting day jobs while they saved up for whatever was next.

And both of them would be lying if they said they hadn't daydreamed of situations like this. Of adventure. Of getting out there. Of seeing the world. Of escaping.

"I'm coming too."

The sound of mirrors breaking filled Leo's head as he looked over to the voice that had come from right beside him, from Carter.

Harley quirked a brow, while Lilli and Ace made…some faces.

"And why would you need to go, Carter?" Harley asked.

"Because, I sneak off to the human realm all the time. Oh, don't look surprised, you knew I wasn't disappearing to the moor."

Harley had his eyes shut, face tight with frustration. He just waved it off to the little team they had formed of human/vampire duos.

Lilli and Ace both looked at their brother with…Apprehension. Lilli tried to let him down gently.

"Carter, we know that you'd be a valuable asset to the human realm, but we kind of have…guides, for that. Uh, besides! The more vampires in the human realm, the more complicated things get. Ace and I are pushing it as it is."

"Yea, and you eat people, dude." Ace added.

"I can control myself!" Carter protested.

Ace inflamed. "20 MINUTES AGO I HAD TO PEEL YOU OFF-"

Leo panicked. "I THINK WE'LL BE FINE WITH FOUR." He interjected.

Marnie gave him a suspicious glance.

Carter just huffed. "Alright, Fine. Head to the human realm without your humble guard dog. It's not like there was a hunter out for your necks just last night."

Harley nearly sat bolt upright.

"A hunter?"

"Oh, yea." Ace scratched his head, chuckling sheepishly. "I forgot about that."

Carter smirked.

Harley sighed for probably the millionth time that day. "It's getting late. We should let the humans get home. We can continue this conversation later."

Leo suddenly realized just how late it was. Looking to the clock on the wall, he watched the dial approach four. He did not look forward to the walk home at this hour. Besides that, he was now realizing just how tired he was.

Ace looked at Leo sympathetically. "It is getting late. Sorry we ended up keeping you so long. I'm sure you two are exhausted after everything that's happened."

Leo chuckled. "Yea, a bit."

Lilli popped her head into the conversation. "It is late- much too late to make the walk home. Why don't we let them sleep here? We have guest rooms."

Harley, among others, looked hesitant. "I'm..not sure if that's a good idea," He began.

"Aw, c'mon Harls! They're harmless." Ace winked.

Harley frowned at him. "I know they're harmless, Ace. It's their comfort I'm worried about." Carter's name did not have to be said.

Marnie peeped up. "I don't mean to impose, but I don't really want to walk home at this hour either. And I wouldn't mind having a sleepover in Lilli's room, personally. " She smiled, and Lilli smiled back.

Harley made a face. Then he looked at Leo. "What about you?"

What about Leo. He wasn't sure he knew himself. He looked to Ace, at his left, and then Carter, to his right.

It was like an angel and a devil on his shoulders.

But he, too, really didn't want to walk home tonight. Dangerous or not, he mostly didn't wanna have to wait that long before being able to get the fuck to sleep.

"...Just for tonight, I don't think I'd mind."

Harley huffed. "Well, if you're comfortable with it, then you're free to. Ace, Lilli, please take good care of your guests. And Carter,"

"Alright, alright! I got it! Not like you've said it a thousand times tonight…"

"For you, it bears repeating." Ace mumbled.

Marnie and Lilli, predictably, did end up having a mock-sleepover. Lilli grabbed some extra pillows and bedsheets from the guest bedroom and insisted on sleeping on the floor so that Marnie could have her bed. Marnie protested, of course, but couldn't win against Lilli's diplomat arguments. Her bed was unbelievably fancy- the kind you could tell was actually high quality, not just expensive- and it smelled good, too, like flowers and linen.

Leo, however, spent the entire walk upstairs trying to decide which would be more safe from possible vampiric attacks: a guest bedroom, all to himself and vampire free, but open to attacks from Carter or any other thirsty home member who walked by.

The alternative, however, was sharing a room with Ace, which was intimidating for multiple reasons. And also meant sleeping in the same room as a vampire, as much as he had come to like Ace.

It was still only Day 1. He had a while to go before he would fully trust him.

Once they were upstairs, and everyone else had departed, Ace put a hand on his hip and asked Leo his plan. Leo had decided that he'd ask for a guest bedroom if Ace didn't outright offer him to room with him. Besides, he didn't wanna overstep his boundaries. It was like inviting yourself over to someone else's house.

"You sure?" Ace asked, upon hearing Leo's decision. "I wouldn't mind if you slept with me. Besides, how else am I supposed to protect you from Carter?" He grinned a quirky grin.

Leo blushed. "Well…when you put it that way,"

Ace cackled, throwing an arm around Leo's shoulders. "C'mon, I'll show you my room. There's a futon in there you can crash on."

He guided Leo there with his arm perched on Leo the whole time. Leo would not admit to himself that he thoroughly enjoyed the other's touch.

When they reached Ace's door, a dark blue with a pair of aviator glasses hanging from it, Leo realized this was the first time he'd spent the night at someone else's house. He'd never really gotten to do it as a kid.

Inside, Ace's room was much like Lilli's. Classic wallpaper and furniture but Ace-isms all over the room. A guitar sat in the back corner, a few clothes messily hung on chair backs, some old tools sat on his desk. Surprisingly, it was relatively free of key motifs. There were quite a few airplanes, though.

His bed was a canopy, like Lilli's, but the sheets were a navy blue. He pulled them back and grabbed an extra blanket from the mess of comforters, handing one to Leo.

"Let me go grab you a pillow."

Leo put his blanket down on the futon and sat.

What a weird day this had been. If you told him 12 hours ago that his first masquerade night would end with a sleepover at the home of his new vampire friends, he would have told you that that was an extremely strange, specific scenario. And also that you were crazy.

But here he was.

He heard footsteps come back in the room and expected to see Ace, but instead-

Well, take one guess.

Surprisingly, though, the raven-haired visitor didn't look sly, or mischievous, or even amused. He seemed relatively even-faced, if not worried.

Leo made a face despite that, preparing for the worst. Carter avoided eye-contact, but spoke.

"Hey. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable earlier."

…Oh?

"I mean, some of it was on purpose, but I don't want to genuinely make someone uncomfortable. If I was, coming onto you, that is, and-"

Leo interrupted him after getting the gist of what he was saying.

"It's alright. Thanks…for apologizing. And…Sorry."

Carter looked at him strangely. "What are you sorry for?"

"I don't know. Making you look bad?"

Carter just stared at him for a moment, then cackled, his fangs out and proud. Then he crossed his arms and shook his head.

"You need to raise your self-esteem. You're cute, you should have some more of it."

Leo blinked.

"I would say I won't flirt with you anymore, and I won't, if you don't want me to. But I don't mean anything by it, really. It just really pisses Ace off." He said, grinning.

Speaking of, the blonde appeared in the doorway shortly afterwards with some pillows. The moment he saw Carter he nearly flipped a lid, going on about how he can't leave him alone for a second- but Carter ignored him, spinning his finger around at his temple to indicate that he was crazy to Leo. As much as he loved Ace, he had to admit, it made him laugh a bit. Carter and Ace's relationship was…entertaining, to say the least.

"Alright, alright, I'll get out of your room. I just couldn't keep myself away from our visitor. And not for the reason you think!"

Ace squinted at him. "Uh huh. And what would that be?"

"I just thought I'd ask him if he was single."

"GET OUT!"

Eventually, Ace got him out of the room. Carter managed to wave goodbye to Leo, who halfheartedly waved back. Any romantic inkling that had briefly appeared between him and Carter earlier in the day had been ruled out by now, but he didn't mind the other's presence as much as he thought he did.

Still made him dreadfully nervous, though.

By the time they got settled, it was practically 5 am. Ace said goodnight, climbed into bed, and assured Leo that all the doors and windows were locked, and that he had the key.

Leo layed on the futon with his gaze to the ceiling, considering what he had gotten himself into, but it didn't last long. Within minutes he'd fallen into a peaceful sleep himself, completely forgetting to worry about his vampiric roommate for the night.

—

Sub-Chapter: Girls

"...Hey, Marnie?"

Marnie blearily blinked her eyes open, having almost completely fallen asleep. They laid down just minutes ago.

"Yea?"

"Sorry, were you asleep?"

"No, no, what's up?" She slurred.

"...Do you guys really want to help us? I mean, you didn't get a lot of time to think about it. And I know it's…a lot. No one will be mad if you decide against it."

"..." Marnie lay still for a moment, then sat up in bed and pushed the covers from her legs. She put her bare feet to the cold, hardwood floor and shuffled over to where Lilli was. She gestured for Lilli to scoot over even though it was completely dark in the room. Luckily, Lilli could see anyway. She complied.

Marnie sat down with her and pulled the blankets over her cold toes.

"Lilli, you seem so…insecure, about humans. About what we think of you. Did something happen…? I mean, you don't have to tell me, but….We don't have anything against you. Leo- I know he acts scared of you all, and I'm sorry, he's just-"

"No, no! Leo is fine, he hasn't hurt my feelings. I understand. Nothing has happened to me, actually, but…I've heard stories, and I know family who…have had to deal with things. I don't know, I guess I'm just scared humans will think I'm…disgusting. Or a monster."

Marnie was quiet a moment. "...I like monsters. I think they're misunderstood."

Lilli looked at her. She'd never heard a response quite like that before.

"And besides. Isn't it cool having a friend that could totally kick your ass? Especially knowing that they totally could, but they won't. ‘Cause they like you. And you like them."

"...I've never thought of it that way. But, with us, it's like…We could beat you up, and sometimes we really want to beat you up. Our whole lives were designed around beating you up. It's not like we can just pretend that isn't true."

"Well, then, doesn't that make the fact you choose not to even more meaningful? And whether you think your lives were 'designed' that way or not, you and your family are doing just fine as you are right now, aren't you? Getting food from blood banks? That's like saying humans were designed to eat fruit, but how many people do you know that actually go looking for fruit trees when they want an apple? We don't, we go to a store to buy it prepared, just like you. And I don't think the apple tree holds it against us."

Lilli thought for a long time. "Marnie, I don't know if I fully agree with your metaphor yet, but…It's very thoughtful. I appreciate that you care so much, even though we've really only just met."

Marnie smiled a sad smile. "I should be thanking you. I'm just happy to have a friend. A girl friend. I've just…had trouble…in the past. Feeling comfortable with other girls accepting me, I guess. It isn't, like, a competition thing or anything. Just…personal stuff. But, so, it means a lot to me to finally make a friend who's a girl and who also isn't Leo." She said, chuckling. Lilli laughed too.

"Well I like you a lot already. And I'm excited to talk about anything and everything with you. My sisters were nice to have around, and I love them both dearly, but they weren't much like me. So this is nice for me too."

Marnie snorted. "We sound like we just started dating."

Lilli laughed at that. "I don't think I could have romance in my life right now."

"I don't think I could have romance in my life, like, ever. For some reason, it's just not my thing. I think platonic relationships are just as important and special. Have I hammered that home too much tonight?" She yawned. "I feel like I'm repeating myself."

Lilli smiled. "Nah, it's nice to be reassured. You should get to bed. You need more rest than me."

Marnie stood, yawning again. "Yea, yea, rub it in."

"Hehe, maybe I will. You keep saying I should get more comfortable with who I am!"

"Is who you are relevant to me going to sleep right now?"

"I don't think so."

"Then I care not. G'night." She said, flopping back down into her nest of blankets. Lilli rolled her eyes, smiling, and went back to bed herself.

#masquerade story #masquerade update #oc #original story #vampires #vampire x human #lgbt writing #lgbt #supernatural #aroace character #asexual characters #woohoo lets goooo marnie moment #my writing

3 notes · View notes

sirrenhd · 4 years

Text

the last painting i did in my first year of high school. have progressed a lot in the ten months i was given. hoping the next year will be just as good

6 notes · View notes

t00turnttrauma · 2 years

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inspired-jmk

This was really short, but sometimes short is good.

Warnings- teensy blood, like one drop

Thump, thump, thump

Josh tugged at his hair. His upstairs neighbor was going crazy. “What is going on up there?” He asked himself, scoffing at another thump as if the noise was talking back.

He hadn’t slept right in four days. By the time the noise stopped, he was taking every silent moment he could to work. Instead of sleeping like the neighbor was doing, he was working until he passed out from exhaustion. Once he did, the same noises would start. Screams and yelps along with pounds and grunts. Unintelligible things were cried out. Anyone would have thought they were having rough sex, but it was only one voice.

While Josh wasn’t the best lyricist, in his own mind, he wanted to prove that he could write one song on his own, completely his own work. His brothers were doing the same thing, a competition, a test of egos. Unable to handle the constant interruptions, he stomped up the stairs, creating his speech in his mind on the way there. Going to the middle door, he pounded on the door angrily. It took a few extra rough knocks for someone to open.

“Can I help you?”

Josh took in the sight in front of him. A woman in paint-stained overalls, a wine bottle in her hand and a pair of goggles on her forehead. Red rings on her cheeks made it evident that she had been wearing them for a long period of time.

“I just came to ask you to be quiet. I have to get this-“

“Really? I have work to do too. Invest in some headphones or something.” Before he could respond, the door had closed, nearly hitting his face in the process. Scoffing, he knocked again. Once again, the door opened, and she had her arms crossed. “Seriously?”

“I have to get this work done before- you’re bleeding.” When he was talking, the woman had turned her head, glancing into her apartment. His eye caught a drip of blood from her cheek.

“Yeah,” she said softly, looking at the red on her fingers. “I got a little rough with my piece.”

She moved out of the way to let him in. She wiped her cheek with a wet cloth, putting a band-aid on with help from her reflection in the hall mirror. The apartment was set up just like his. Except hers was decorated the opposite. Josh had big furniture, and very little things on the wall. The neighbor had almost every inch of the walls covered with canvases and posters. The floor was almost empty except for a single Lawson sofa against the wall. In the middle of the dining room, right above his workspace, was a sculpture.

“I’ve been working on this.” She kicked some items to the side. “I apologize for the mess, but as soon as I get this finished, I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.”

Josh took in the artwork in front of him. The sculpture looked to be six feet tall. There were scraps of cut up clothes, dried flowers, photos, and other small items. Everything was glued onto a frame of what looked like to be chicken wire.

“I went through a breakup,” she explained. She let out a laugh, staring at the floor. “He said that he felt tethered in the relationship.”

Josh walked around the sculpture, noticing that everything was in the shape of two people, a man and a woman. The female figure’s head was turned up, looking at the male figure. Instead of looking back down at her, he was starting into space. Their two hands were linked together, half of a handcuff on his wrist, a gold bracelet on hers. He gingerly touched the white lace fabric around the female figure’s torso.

She laughed, scratching the back of her neck nervously. “Part of my wedding dress.”

He took it all in. The broken wine bottles were on the base of the figure. The sculpture as a whole was breathtaking once you looked at it. After a moment, Josh found the inspiration he had been missing.

“Do you have a pen and paper?” He asked, patting his pockets for his missing phone.

She nodded, pulling both items out of a kitchen drawer. He scribbled down some notes and apologized for having to leave so abruptly. The noise of her working on the sculpture was still ringing in his head. He was able to hear it in the form of a beat. He touched the keys on his piano, figuring out a few seconds at a time before moving on. Soon enough, he went from a stack of crumple pages of half written songs to a full project. He practically sprinted up the stairs to knock on her door again.

“What did you say your name was?” He asked, trying to catch his breath. “Sorry for being such a mess,” he panted. “I just have to prove to my brothers that- it’s not important.”

She giggled. “Y/N. And I’ll be coming to a gallery near you!” She blushed and looked down at the ground, apologizing for the joke.

Josh only smiled back. “Want to come to a studio nearby with me? I have to get this recorded.”

“Let me grab my purse.”

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toosicktoocare · 3 years

Text

okay, spoilers for the most recent 911 episode below (and tagged as such as well)

i haven’t written in months- i just have a lot of feelings, and i needed to work through them

It’s weird, Buck thinks, how quickly the sound around him can fade, how fast the pain in his back and his side can grow fuzzy, almost numb even, until he’s completely disassociating, losing his touch on reality in time with Eddie’s final blink.

He’s back at Eddie’s house, head burrowed in the fridge, and he’s digging around meal prep containers for hidden beers.

“Heard you flipped out yesterday.”

“Huh?” Buck’s only half listening because he’s on a quest of the alcoholic nature, and he’s pretty sure he spots a dark neck of a beer bottle nestled between a container of rice and a jar of low fat mayonnaise.

“At the well.”

This Buck hears quite clearly, and he snags the beer and turns away from the fridge, lips curving softly downward at the edges.

“Bobby said you were frantic.”

The grooves in the beer bottle cap dig into Buck’s palm. Or maybe, Buck thinks, he’s deliberately pushing it into his skin. “You were trapped.”

“And your plan was what, Buck? Dig me out with your hands?”

“If that’s what I had to,” Buck spits back, eyes narrow, shooting Eddie a gaze he is normally on the receiving end of, and it’s just enough to have Eddie’s face go soft before him.

“Not sure if I should thank you because I know that you are genuinely serious, or if I should officially declare you as the world’s biggest idiot because I know that you are genuinely serious.”

Buck laughs lowly under his breath, yet still, his eyes are warm, determined, and he cocks his head to the side. “I said I have your back, didn’t I?”

“This again?” Eddie asks, now laughing with Buck.

“I’m a man of my damn word, Eddie. If I say I have you back, then I have your back.”

“Firefighter Buckley!”

Buck’s gotten used to pulling himself slowly out of a dissociative state, cool and calm, working through grounding techniques, so the abrupt, loud voice in his ear is a gun shot that rips through his mind.

Gun shot.

Buck blinks quickly. Eddie’s face is now in full view, and he looks unnaturally pale and cold, a contrast to his blood still warm and splattered across his face.

“Eddie.”

“Sir, we’ll get to him as soon as it’s safe. We need to focus on you first.”

Buck shoves himself up into a sitting position, ignoring the thrum of pain gnawing at his side. He’s sure he’ll look purple and blue by morning.

“No, Eddie,” he repeats, unable to form much more in terms of sentences. His mind can only collect what’s currently the most meaningful in this situation, and that one thing is only Eddie.

“Eddie,” he tries again, louder, hoping to jostle Eddie awake by his voice, hoping that, maybe, Eddie’s only passed out from the pain and that the pool of blood isn’t actually draining from a potentially severe gun shot wound.

“Firefighter Buckley—”

Buck shoves away from the firefighter beside him. He ignores the hand grabbing at his shirt, ignores the voices shouting for him to come back, and then he’s hovering over Eddie, shielding him, assessing what he can of the wound with shaking hands.

Eddie’s unresponsive below him, and Buck’s stomach twists so tightly, he could double over in pain. He’s just turning around to yell for help when he’s being jerked to his feet by a cop. His eyes stay on Eddie as Eddie’s rushed onto a backboard, and he’s so focused on Eddie’s face, so desperate for a hint of life, a crease of the brow, that he doesn’t process the hand squeezing his arm or the voice close to his ear until the cop is speaking.

“Go with him, and stay low.”

Nodding, Buck hunches over and runs to the ambulance Eddie’s being lifted into, and the second he gets a nod, he pulls himself up, and the door’s closed in front of him.

With as loud as it had been outside, it’s eerily quiet in the ambulance, even with the siren blaring overhead. The paramedics are working quickly and quietly, discussing the best course of action under their breath. Buck stares at Eddie’s sodden shirt, at the too dark stain toward his shoulder, and he reaches over, ripping the shirt open to get a clear look.

“Sir, please let us handle the patient.”

One of the paramedics swats at Buck’s hands, and he leans back, eyes glued to the small silver bullet nestled inside of Eddie’s chest. It wasn’t a clean shot, and Buck knows that poses more recovery complications. He’s sure surgery is just on the horizon for Eddie.

He only pulls his eyes away from the angry wound when Eddie groans, his brow furrowing.

“Eddie?” Buck leans forward, one hand resting just above Eddie’s forehead, his hair soft against his palm. “Can you hear me?”

Eddie’s eyes squeeze before he pries them open. Even through the small slits, Buck can see how glossy and unfocused Eddie looks.

“Buck?”

His voice is shot, weak, and thick with pain, and Buck nods, one thumb smoothing across Eddie’s forehead.

“Hey, man. Yeah, it’s me. You’re going to be okay.”

Eddie frowns, and he lifts one shaking hand to Buck’s cheek, fingers pressing to the blood on Buck’s face.

“You’re hurt?”

“What?” Buck asks, shaking his head. He goes to explain more, to reassure that he’s fine, but Eddie goes slack below him, and the paramedics push him back, shouting for the driver to pick up the pace. Eddie’s crashing, and the frantic beeping is deafening to his ears.

He won’t because he wants all focus to be on saving Eddie, but still, Buck kind of wishes he could throw up to ease the pressure in his gut.

***

“Buck!”

Bobby’s voice rings out across the waiting room, and Buck lifts his head from his hands to see Bobby running toward him with Athena hot on his heels. He can see the question written all over Bobby’s face, and he holds up a single hand, shaking his head.

“It’s not my blood.” What he leaves off is how he’d give anything for it to be his blood. For him to be the one carted off to surgery, not Eddie.

Bobby nods, and Athena sighs softly.

“You okay, Buckaroo?”

Buck’s not sure if it’s just because it’s Athena, or if it’s her motherly nature, but his composure crumbles at her words. He wants to tell them he’s fine— that Eddie is the one everyone should worry about. But, he can’t stop shaking, and his eyes have been burning with unshed tears.

Athena pulls him to his feet, and he falls against her, a sob ripping up his throat. He can feel Bobby at his back, a warm, grounding hand to his shoulder, and Athena’s arms are wrapped tightly around his back, keeping the pieces together.

“You’re okay, Buck.”

He clings to Athena until he’s sure he can stand up on his own, and then he falls into the soft question and answer process, revealing all he knows: Eddie was shot; the police who took his statement have yet to find the shooter, but they don’t think Eddie was specifically a target; he’s in surgery, but the doctors are extremely optimistic.

“Are we going to be able to pry you away from this hospital?” Athena asks, and Buck gives a shaky nod.

“Chris is with a friend, and Eddie was supposed to pick him up. I’m going to... I’ve got to tell him.”

“We can have someone else—”

“—no,” Buck interrupts, stepping back. “It has to be me.” He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the smudged glass of a vending machine: pale face smeared red with dried blood. “I should,” he notions weakly to his face, laughs awkwardly, and Bobby nods, a frown etched across his lips.

“I’ll drive you back to your jeep after you wash up.”

Nodding, Buck slips to the bathroom, thankful to find it empty. He looks at himself, but all he can see is the muted, pale shock written across Eddie’s face looking back at him, painted in the blood splattered across his face. He turns the tap on as hot as it will allow, and then he scrubs, hands moving roughly up and down his face, the hand soap slightly stinging his skin. He scrubs until his entire face burns, and then he stumbles backward with a gasp he covers with his palm.

He holds in a deep breath that quakes against his lungs, and he doesn’t release it until he’s sure he can without falling apart.

“Eddie’s going to be fine,” he says aloud, practicing now to sound as confident and as believable as he can.

***

“Did you get hurt at work, Buck?”

Buck’s not surprised that the first question out of Christopher’s mouth is about his well-being and not of his dad’s absence— typical Diaz behavior.

“Uh, no, bud.” Buck kneels down, leveling himself with Christopher. “It’s not mine.”

“Where’s my dad?”

“He...” Buck stumbles with his words, swallows thickly. “He won’t be coming home tonight, bud. He got hurt at work, but I’m going to make sure he gets better real fast.”

“Is he at the hospital? Can I see him?”

Christopher’s voice is growing more and more unsteady, adopting a waver that’s a brick smashing to Buck’s heart.

“He is, but he’s still busy getting patched up, so he can’t have visitors just yet.”

Christopher nods, and Buck wonders just when it was exactly that Chris matured without his seeing. “He’s going to be okay, bud. But you know what will make him get better faster?”

Before Buck can answer, Carla slips into the room, supplies in hand.

“Make him a really big card!”

“Yes!” Christopher’s smile turns into a giggle as Carla drops markers and glitter and poster boards onto Eddie’s kitchen table.

“Chris, Carla’s going to watch you while I go back to the hospital. As soon as I get the okay for visitors, I’ll call.”

Christopher nods and shuffles to the table, already scoping out markers to use for the card. While occupied, Buck slips toward the door with Carla hot on his heels.

“Is he okay?”

“Still in surgery,” Buck answers on auto-pilot, having muttered those words too many times already to count.

“Are you okay?”

Buck laughs weakly, rakes a hand through his hair. “Ask me again when Eddie’s awake.”

“Oh, honey—”

“It’s okay,” Buck mutters, casting his eyes to the floor. “Sign my name on the card for me?”

“Buck, why don’t you stay for a little bit? Change your clothes? Eat something?”

“I can’t,” Buck shakes his head, unsure how to explain that the only way to easy the jutting pain in his chest is to be back at the hospital. “I need to—”

“Go,” Carla rolls her eyes. “But I’m bringing you food.”

Buck smiles, small but genuine. “Thanks, Carla.”

***

Buck scans his text from Hen, gnaws at his lower lip.

[From: Hen] where’d you run off to? We’re all in the waiting room.

He pulls his gaze up to Eddie’s sleeping form, to the wires sticking out of him.

[To: Hen] I may have waited until a dr walked through the double doors and snuck into Eddie’s room...

His phone blows up shortly after with texts and calls, and he ignores all, instead typing to a 118 group text.

[To: Fire Fam] look, I know I’m not supposed to be back here, but don’t tell on me okay? I know the dr said his surgery went well, but I had to see for myself

[From Chim in Fire Fam] Hen’s rolling her eyes

[From Hen in Fire Fam] damn right I am. So is Athena

[From Bobby in Fire Fam] how is he?

He looks terrible, Buck thinks. His skin is still too pale, and there are dark purple spots coloring below his eyes. His breathing is labored, and his face is pinched as if in pain.

Terrible, Buck thinks, yet so beautifully alive. The relief is edging his nerves, hesitant to completely encompass him.

[To Fire Fam] he looks like hell, but he’s alive

Buck locks his phone and leans forward, resting his head on the edge of Eddie’s bed. He lays one hand over Eddie’s, and he drifts somewhere between awake and asleep, coming to fully when Eddie groans above him.

He jerks forward, leans in close, and squeezes Eddie’s hand. “Eddie? You with me?”

It takes an impossibly long time for Eddie to open his eyes, but when he does, his smile is weak but warm enough to bring Buck’s relief fully over him.

“Buck.”

There’s no confusion in Eddie’s voice this time— only soft certainty, and Buck squeezes Eddie’s hand once more.

“In the flesh.”

“You’re here.”

“Yep,” Buck nods, smiling. “Though when I have to duck behind a chair when a nurse comes in, pretend like you didn’t see me, yeah? Kinda breaking hospital rules right now.”

Eddie laughs, and then he coughs weakly, wincing. Still, his eyes hold Buck’s gaze, and Buck wouldn’t look away even for a second.

“Chris?” Eddie finally croaks out, and Buck nods.

“He’s okay. He’s with Carla. They are coming as soon as the doctor gives the okay for visitors.”

“Legal visitors,” Eddie clarifies, and Buck smiles. If Eddie can joke, he must be on the mend.

“Hey, a part of having your back means I simply must sneak into your hospital room to make sure you don’t croak.”

Eddie’s laugh turns into a harsher cough, and Buck smooths a hand over Eddie’s forehead. “Maybe stop laughing?”

“Stop making me then,” Eddie pouts, and Buck leans back with a smile.

“I gotta talk to Carla.”

Buck cocks a brow. “She’ll be here as soon as she can.”

“She told me to make sure I’m following my own heart.”

Frowning, Buck tilts his head. “Uh, Eddie? You okay, man?”

“She was right— I thought I was but I wasn’t.”

“Okay, maybe I’ll give myself up and grab a nurse. You are talking too weird right now. Clearly something’s not clicking right in that old head of yours.” Buck makes to stand, to leave, his concern heightening behind his poor joke, but Eddie grabs at his wrist, a weak grip that Buck frowns deeply at.

“Eddie, I—”

“Stay. Please.”

Slowly, Buck takes his seat. “As long as you stop being weird as hell.”

“I will for now.”

#911 fox #911 spoilers #buddie #evan buckley #Eddie Diaz #9 1 1 fox #9 1 1 spoilers #christopher diaz #athena grant #bobby nash #look i haven't written in months #i just have a lOT of feelings and i needed to dump them out #i may go back and write something less shitty when i can regain my composure

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silkenstarlight · 3 years

Text

a night in crimson valley

Summary: Reader is a bartender at the Crimson Valley Motel. After she is accosted by a drunk John Walker, a familiar face offers her protection and comfort.

Pairing: Biker!bucky x bartender!reader

Warning/s: language, violence, alcohol use; sorta fluffy end

Word count: 5.6k

Author’s note: I’m unsure whether I want to turn this into a series; please let me know your thoughts!

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Her nose burned with the scent of blood and cheap vodka, no matter how hard she scrubbed.

In the early days, when she had first been stationed at this bar, she had stocked the cupboard beneath the register with supplies. Lemon-scented bleach, candy-blue windex, a dried up tube of wet wipes. Every night before closing, she had tugged on a pair of yellow rubber gloves and gone to work. Rubbing, scouring, swabbing away every spilled shot, every stray fingerprint. The dirt and spit and grime seemed to accumulate instantly, and yet, she continued her sisyphean housekeeping, trying to paint over the bar’s run-down reality with a layer of chemical gloss. But, all of that effort was to no avail; this was a roadside establishment, so there would always be sloppy drunks, and there would, most assuredly, always be bar fights, new stains to replace old. No use in hiding it.

Now, she’d grown numb to it, the cleaning supplies below the register covered in an ever-thickening coat of dust. The once shiny, lacquered surface of the bar now reflected dully beneath the low light, encrusted with old dirt and sour deeds. The floor was sticky, a years’ worth of spilled cocktails accumulating in a tacky glue trap. The mirror behind the bar, its surface cloudy and warped, reflected the late-night debauchery of men in desperate need of respite.

Every night, she wiped foggy glasses with the same gray, fraying rag, watching the same blurred, bearded faces pass through. The Crimson Valley Motel, owned by (Y/N)’s father, was a dependable option for truckers looking for a night away from the cramped quarters and lumpy cots of their vehicles. With its low nightly fares and extensive parking, and her father’s promise of discounted drink prices at the attached bar, customers returned without fail. Even still, she tried not to grow too attached to any patrons. They were just passing through, after all, with separate lives waiting for them beyond the road and the walls of the motel. But, sometimes, she just couldn’t help herself.

Bucky Barnes was one such case.

The first things she had noticed the moment he walked into the bar two years ago were his eyes. Piercing blue, stern and ever-watchful, set beneath the overhang of his perpetually furrowed brow. That first night, he had nursed his whiskey glass with two gloved hands, staring at the bar’s surface as if he were trying to memorize every intricacy and flourish in its woodgrain. She had appreciated his presence ever since, so quiet and watchful, a stark departure from the raucous drunkards and wild military men who usually frequented the Crimson Valley Bar. And, despite the fact that he drank as much as the other patrons, he never seemed affected by the alcohol, his gaze as clear and haunting as ever, even well into the dark hours of morning. It almost made her laugh, his perfect stoicism and strong jaw, the classic image of unperturbed masculinity. But she could sense the ghost of some deep sadness in the downturned set of his mouth. His shoulders always seemed tense, and he continually shifted his weight in his seat, peering over his shoulder every once in a while, as if suspicious that he was being watched. It made her swallow any skepticism about his demeanor, instead deciding that he was likely a very broken man, deserving of the space and quiet his countenance demanded. For that reason, she never asked him any questions, never made a move to satiate that burning curiosity within her. Better to keep a respectful distance than stir up unwelcome memories.

She had never even really spoken to him, and only knew his name because she once caught his signature on a receipt. By the time she read it, he had whisked away to spend the night in his motel room and prepare for departure early the next morning.

Whenever he came back, it was like she could sense his presence, could feel his steely gaze sweeping the bar. It was comforting, a sweet bubble of solace beneath the humming neon and peeling rock n’ roll posters, a space of quiet surrounded by the pressing screech of electric guitar and deep boom of drums. She never knew when he would return, his trucking routes and schedule difficult to predict with such minimal information, but she secretly looked forward to it. Another day, another opportunity to unwrap the quiet mystery of Bucky Barnes.

Tonight, the bar was crowded. Hopeful thoughts of seeing Bucky retreated to the very back corner of her mind as she poured sparkling streams of amber liquid into lines of waiting glasses, shaking and stirring and swirling again and again in the rote, mindless motions that a full house required. She had no room to daydream, not on a Saturday night, when more lonely truckers sought out the bar for company, and when the local military base flooded in on their night out. In a room full of loud men with wanting mouths, she needed to work quickly.

On nights like these, the men mostly left her alone, too absorbed in their own festivities to take much note of her. Beyond the simple “pleases” and “thank yous,” they seemed to recognize that any attempt to strike up a conversation would interrupt her flow and leave her begrudging, frustrated, and not exactly an ideal conversation partner. But, some men couldn’t take a hint.

She had been cutting lemon wedges, concentrating on creating an even slice and avoiding her fingertips with the dull knife blade. She counted each slice before pouring the wedges into a chilled metal bowl, her movements precise and rhythmic. 1, 2. 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, pour… 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, pour… 1, 2, 3--

“Hey, bartender! I asked you a question.”

She knew it was John before she even bothered to look up. She sighed heavily, placing the knife on the counter and wiping her hands before tilting her gaze upwards.

John Walker was another regular here, but her opinion of him was very different than the tentative infatuation she harbored for Bucky Barnes. To put it simply, she did not like John. Whenever he swaggered past the bar’s threshold, flanked by his two favored cronies, she shuddered. Unlike the relatively polite regulars who frequented the bar, John was demanding, expecting (Y/N) to cater to his every whim without complaint. He was, apparently, a favored recruit at the military base. She just thought he was a privileged asshole. One time, he refused to tip her because she didn’t smile at him when she served his drink. And, another time, he broke his glass on purpose just to watch her clean it up.

Now, he was staring at her, head cocked and arms crossed, expecting an answer to a question she hadn’t heard him utter.

She sighed again, leaning against the counter. “Sorry, John. Didn’t catch your question.” Her voice was flat, lacking in genuine sympathy. “Mind repeating it?”

“Can’t even listen,” he said to himself, shaking his head in disappointment. “As I asked earlier, did you water down my fuckin’ snakebite?”

She stared at him, eyes boring into his cold blue ones, and she thought for a second. She was annoyed by his interruption, but this could go poorly if she didn’t handle it with care. If she said the wrong thing, he could get offended, and she was the only woman in a room full of men. She could hold her own in a fight and had some experience with self-defense, sure, but that wouldn’t hold up against a man with John’s stature and training. She couldn’t predict if any of the other men in the room would come to her rescue if things went south, but she couldn’t really blame them. He was tall and strong, and had a temper to boot. But his fragile masculinity, which compelled him to talk down to her and order such ridiculous drinks as a snakebite, wouldn’t survive if she talked back. So, her decision was made.

“Well, John,” she said, her voice low as she smirked. “Usually, you’re already plastered by the time you make it to my bar. I always have to water down your drinks because you can’t hold your fucking liquor.”

His face darkened, brows drawing downwards in a chilling expression of anger. He gritted his teeth together and pushed back from the bar, motioning to turn away from her and back to his friends. “I can handle my liquor just fine, thank you.”

She cleared her throat, catching his attention. “Actually, just last weekend, you threw up all over the parking lot. My poor Pops had to clean it up.” She chuckled at the memory of her father, grumbling with a bucket and mop in hand, as John sat with his head in his hands in the front office. “You might not remember it, John, but I do. We all do.” The incident had occurred well before closing time, so many of the bar’s customers had seen it with their own eyes. One or two had surely caught it on camera.

“Are you fucking mocking me?” A vein popped out on his neck, his face growing read and hot.

She felt her pulse rise in fear, but she ignored it, hand resting next to the knife on the counter. “Maybe I am.” She leaned forward, leering at him. “What are you going to do about it?”

“What am I going to do about it?” He laughed incredulously, picking up his half-full glass and examining its amber-colored contents briefly before hurling it at the mirrored wall behind her.

She ducked, shielding her face from splattering liquid and broken glass. “Shit.” She dropped onto her hands and knees and crawled, frantically clambering below the bar for the cleaning cupboard. She knew how this encounter would go, but she was starting to realize that she shouldn’t have pushed it. He had never actually threatened her physical harm before, resigning himself to simply being an asshole. Tonight, that had obviously changed.

“Nuh-uh, where the fuck do you think you’re going?” His voice was still loud enough to pierce her eardrums over the pulsating music. He reached down to where she was, grasping for Windex in the dusty, cavernous cabinet, and roughly gripped her hair in his fist. He pulled up harshly, causing an unpleasant sting to radiate down her scalp. The breath caught in her throat.

She had fucked up. Badly.

He wrenched her close, until their faces were just inches apart. He examined her face, his own visage arranged in an unpleasant sneer. She looked straight into his eyes, unwilling to back down, even though she was frightened of what he might do.

“I should put you in your place.” His voice was quiet, only audible to her. She shuddered, lip curling in distaste. The sour taste of bile rose on her tongue at the violating way his eyes scanned her face, as if he were a predator examining his prey. A few patrons were watching, pausing their conversations to watch the show. But, none were helping, jumping up to arrive at her aid. A dark pit grew in her stomach at the observation.

He loosened his grip on her hair and she moved to pull back, but before she could, he spit in her face, a thick, hot wad of saliva landing on her cheek. Her mouth gaped in disgust, nose flaring, and she stepped back, wiping the insult from her face with her sleeve and slipping the knife she had been using earlier into her hand, concealing it behind her back. She retreated until her back was flush with the mirror behind her, eyes flitting wildly, trying to find a gap in the crowd where she could disappear and distance herself from him. But all she could see was his face, his hooked nose and hooded eyes, that awful, sneering expression, as he prepared to jump over the bar and bridge the gap between them.

But, before he could, his head slammed into the bar’s wooden surface with a sickening crack!

Her mouth dropped open in confusion, the rushing bout of adrenaline quickly waning in her veins as she took in the sight of John, head pinned to the counter by a gloved hand. Wait, is that--?

Her suspicions were confirmed when she looked up from John’s floundering figure to find Bucky, his hand firmly wrapped in John’s hair, his face contorted in an expression of rage. She had never seen him like this, nose scrunched, eyes dark. His eyes briefly flickered to hers, and when their gazes met, his face softened slightly, as if to provide her with some sense of reassurance. The breath stalled in her throat, but before relief could flood into her limbs, she saw John stirring in Bucky’s grip.

“What… what the fuck, man?” John turned his head, cheek pressed against the bar’s cool surface, to stare at Bucky out of the corner of his eye.

“Watch yourself, buddy.” Bucky’s voice was gruff and uncaring.

“Buddy?” John scoffed.

“Well, what’s your name, then?”

A laugh rose in John’s throat, bubbling over into a bitter, joyless sound. He was trying to intimidate Bucky into backing off, shifting his weight below him in an effort to distract him.

It didn’t work. Bucky simply pressed John’s face even harder into the counter, until the breath whooshed from John’s lips in a muffled, defeated gasp.

“I asked you a question.”

“Fine-- fine. Name’s Walker.”

“Well, Walker,” Bucky replied, leaning in close until his face obstructed John’s vision. “Keep your fucking mitts off my girl here.”

“What?” She couldn’t help it as the question left her lips in a surprised gasp. Bucky’s eyes flicked up to her again, lips pulling down in an embarrassed grimace, as if he hadn’t meant to call her that.

That moment was enough time for John to act.

Bucky grunted and stumbled back a couple of steps as John pushed out from under him. There was no time to think, no time to act, before John strode towards Bucky and socked him straight in the nose, Bucky’s head whipping violently to the side.

(Y/N)’s heart plummeted into her stomach. She stayed anchored to her spot in front of the mirror, unable to move. There wasn’t much that she could do. Now that John had initiated a physical fight, he likely wasn’t going to stop throwing punches until either he or Bucky collapsed. And with Bucky eliminated as a threat, there would be no one standing between John and her. With that thought, she brought the knife out from behind her and clutched it to her chest like a lifeline. She watched Bucky and John with rapt attention, waiting for the fight to turn back in her direction again.

Blood began to gush from Bucky’s nostrils in a thick stream, staining his lips a wet scarlet and dribbling down his chin. But, he smiled, shaking his head slightly and chuckling darkly.

“You’re really askin’ for it now, Walker.”

Before (Y/N) could even blink, Bucky sprung, landing a jab and a right cross that hit John square in the chin. He grabbed John by the collar and slammed him into his knee, the pure force knocking the wind out of John’s chest with a meek groan. Bucky pushed John roughly into a table and John stumbled, causing a chair to clatter and fall, but he remained upright, leaning heavily against the table.

“You going to fight back at all?” Bucky’s goading tone took (Y/N) by surprise. Why was he egging him on?

John snorted and cracked his neck, trying to shake an encroaching sense of uncertainty from his limbs. He pushed off from the table and began a slow, circling orbit around the center of the room, sizing Bucky up with a violent, wolflike gaze, pushing the other customers flush against the wall. Bucky simply stood in place and watched, trying to anticipate John’s next move.

John stopped circling when he was directly across from (Y/N), Bucky between them. She felt John’s gaze slide from Bucky to her, his eyes languidly raking over her body, sensing out her fear. When he saw the knife in her hand, he raised an eyebrow in disapproval, shaking his head. Her heart pounded, adrenaline beginning to thrum through her veins once more.

John widened his stance and bent his knees, assuming an athletic stance in preparation to tackle Bucky. Bucky imitated his movement, planting his feet firmly into the floor. John inhaled deeply through his nose, once, twice, and then, he took off, running towards Bucky at full speed.

The room watched in silence, holding a collective breath. The only sound was the pounding of John’s boots against hardwood, the music paused long ago.

He hit Bucky with the force of a mack truck. It was enough to knock anyone off their feet, even someone who had fared as well as Bucky in the fight so far. John hit him so hard that they went flying, suspended in the air for a moment. For (Y/N), it felt so much longer, watching her savior struggle against the grip of his opponent in midair, uttering a quiet “Shit!” as his back slammed into the floor. And then, Bucky was still, John crouched over his immobile form, a triumphant smile plastered on his face.

(Y/N) felt her body move off its own accord, pushing away from the wall, past the safety of the bar’s counter, towards the aftermath of the fray. Her legs quivered, a hard lump rising in her throat as she pushed towards the edge of the crowd. She couldn’t see Bucky’s face, his head concealed by John’s hulking body. A shudder wracked her body, her hope waning.

It was like John could sense her presence. He looked up, his sickening grin showing glistening, too-white teeth. She flexed her fingers, adjusting her grip on the knife. John’s eyes caught the movement, sensing the glint of low light against the blade, and he smirked. He was about to rock back onto his knees, to get up and finish what he started, when Bucky’s head slammed into his.

Disoriented, (Y/N) stepped backwards, once again flush with the crowd. One moment, she had been preparing to fight, to let the blood-soaked evening devolve into even more violence. Then, the next, Bucky had suddenly reanimated, an almost superhuman force driving power into his limbs. He bucked John, still reeling from the unexpected headbutt, off of him with an aggressive, thrusting twist. John tumbled and collapsed on the floor next to Bucky, who slowly knelt, then stood, eyes on John the whole time. When John didn’t budge, splayed on the floor with a distant, vaguely dazed expression, Bucky turned his gaze to (Y/N).

The room was dead silent, save for John’s labored breathing and the sound of Bucky’s boots against the hardwood as he slowly walked towards (Y/N). The room seemed to fade around the two of them, the confused, awed, and fearful faces of the spectating patrons blurred together in an anonymous mass. It smelled of sweat and rust and spilled liquor, but she didn’t care, because Bucky was okay.

“Anyone else?” Bucky asked the rest of the room, not taking his eyes off of (Y/N), even for a moment, lest she disappear, or worse. But she didn’t, staying rooted to the same spot, eyes glistening with gratitude. And no one responded to Bucky’s challenge.

When Bucky came to a stop a foot in front of her, the other customers began to quietly file out, afraid to utter any remarks that may provoke another altercation. John’s two cronies picked him up from the floor, hefting his arms over their shoulders and bolting for the exit, his boots dragging on the floor. (Y/N) watched them exit, watched them stuff John into the backseat of their car before they peeled out of the parking lot and took off with the screeching sound of retreating rubber.

“You know,” Bucky said, his voice soft in spite of the evening’s violent course. “You don’t have to worry about using that. You’re safe with me.” He pointed at the knife, still clutched in (Y/N)’s hands.

She looked down at the knife in her hands and then looked up at him, formulating a response, when she noticed that he had a gash on his jaw, as well as a still steadily-flowing nosebleed. The knife clattered to the floor as she reached for his hand. “You’re bleeding.” Her voice was thick with worry, regretting the fact that he had suffered for her sake.

He shook his head. “I’ve gotten worse.”

“Let me help you.” She glanced urgently around the bar, now empty save for the two of them. “I can close up and bring the first aid kit to your room. I owe you, after all of that.”

“You don’t owe me anything.” He paused for a second, considering. “But, sure. A couple of bandaids wouldn’t hurt.”

She smiled. “I’ll be there in ten.”

His brows creased together slightly, a chagrined smile curling his lips upwards. “Oh, I’m not leaving you alone just yet. We didn’t see where Walker went. He could be waiting just outside with those two other guys.”

She knew that both she and Bucky had seen them drive away, but she nodded anyways. “Alright. Just let me grab the first aid kit and my keys.”

“Deal.”

She picked the knife up from the floor and walked back to the bar, placing it gently in the sink. As Bucky walked towards the entrance, surveying the parking lot outside from the small, frosted window, she reached into the cabinet of cleaning supplies, pulling out a rusted, white box with a blaring maroon cross emblazoned on its front. She blew off the thin layer of dust that coated it and stood, grabbing her keys from the hook next to the mirror and joining Bucky at the entrance.

He turned towards her, noting the first aid kit, and grinned. “Room 102, here we come.”

She returned his smile as he opened the door, midnight air washing over them in a brisk, drafty waft. They stepped outside, engulfed in nighttime chill, and she shut the door and locked it, fumbling with the cold metal of the keys. Bucky stepped closer to her, his arm brushing against hers, his body emanating an intoxicating warmth. She welcomed his proximity, wondering if he could sense the fact that she was cold, as they walked across the parking lot to his motel room.

He pulled his key from his back pocket and slid it through the card swipe, the door unlocking with a crisp click. She was looking out at the parking lot, at the trees and darkness beyond, wondering if John and his friends were in fact lurking out there somewhere, biding their time for the right moment to strike again. He was definitely the type to hold a grudge for a night like this. If he didn’t retaliate tonight, he would soon, would let her soak in the fear for a few days and then arrive at the bar unannounced with dues to pay.

Bucky cleared his throat, and (Y/N)’s attention snapped back to him. She looked up at him, eyes wide and surprised, and found that his smile was gentle and knowing.

“You’re safe with me. Come on, let’s get inside. It’s cold.”

When they stepped inside, they were greeted with a welcoming warmth. The door shut behind them. He walked over to the little oak nightstand next to the single queen-sized bed and turned on the bedside lamp, its bulb washing the room in a dim, glowing halo of amber. She sighed, muscles relaxing, seeming to melt into the warmth, into the comfort of being somewhere besides the bar. She placed the first aid kit on the bed and shrugged off her cardigan.

“So, doc,” Bucky teased, approaching her at the foot of the bed. “What’s the plan? How’re you going to fix me up?”

“Well,” she said, squinting as she examined his face. “We’ll have to wash all that blood off first, so I can assess the damage.”

He gestured to the bathroom with one hand. “Lead the way.”

They walked into the bathroom and he flipped the light on, its white fluorescence a stark contrast from the soft light in the other room. She grabbed a bleach-white washcloth from the shelf above the toilet and turned on the faucet, dampening the cloth under the steady stream of water. She turned off the faucet and stepped back as Bucky leaned against the sink, crossing his arms.

“This might sting,” she said quietly, stepping into the space between his legs, his stance framing hers. He simply nodded in response. She tried not to think about their sudden proximity, the fact that she was alone in a motel room with a man who had risked his own safety to protect hers, a man she had been secretly pining over for a while now. Instead, she smoothed the wet washcloth in her hands and brought it up to his face, dabbing gingerly at a stream of blood that had dried on his cheek. When she brushed against the cut on his jaw, he winced, a sharp huff of breath leaving his nose.

“Sorry,” she apologized, trying to handle the cloth with light fingers. “He really got you there.”

“Even if that’s true, part of me thinks I should thank the guy.”

(Y/N) paused. “W-what?”

“Well, he’s an absolute ass. Deserved what he got,” he chuckled. “But now, I’ve got the pretty girl who works at my favorite bar taking care of me. It was definitely worth a couple of scrapes.”

“I--” her response died in her throat, choked by the deep blush that was creeping up her neck. She paused dabbing at his face, looking at him quizzically.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, noting her creased brow and parted lips. “Too soon.”

“No-- no. It’s okay.” She shook her head and smiled, moving the washcloth to his upper lip as she wiped away the evidence of his bloody nose. I just didn’t think you felt that way, too.

After a few more minutes of tense silence, (Y/N) trying to avoid direct eye contact the whole time, lest her blush return, his face was clean. She stepped back and examined her handiwork before throwing the bloodied washcloth in the waste bin and leading Bucky back into the main room. She sat down on the bed, its springs groaning in a rusty bounce beneath her, and she opened the first aid kit, searching for a suitable bandage for his jaw. He knelt on the floor in front of her, placing his hands on the bed on either side of her, caging her in with his arms but refusing to let his touch drift any closer without permission. He watched her fingers flit indecisively between the different band-aid choices.

Finally, she plucked one from its box, carefully unpeeling its wrapping. Bucky tilted his head slightly, allowing her easy access to the cut on his jaw, and she delicately placed the band-aid over it, careful not to press too hard against the tender skin. Her touch unconsciously lingered a moment longer, lightly caressing his face with the pads of her fingers. But after a few seconds, when she didn’t pull away, they both inhaled sharply, his face quickly growing hot. Their eyes met, and she dropped her hands to her sides, his piercing blue gaze boring into hers.

He blinked and stood, walking over to the door and hunching down to glance at the parking lot through the peephole.

“I should get going,” (Y/N) said, voice hushed as she snapped the first aid kit shut. She stood, grabbing her cardigan, preparing to meet the cold outside and run to her permanent room. “Thank you. For everything.”

He turned away from the door. “Hold on.” His voice was grave, a stark contrast to the light, flirty turn of the evening since they had entered his room. “We still don’t know if he’s out there.”

(Y/N) bit her lip and shifted her weight, silently grateful for his hesitancy to let her be alone. “What are you suggesting?”

“You can take the bed.” He gestured to the spot on the carpet between the bed and the door. “I can take the floor.”

“A-are you sure?”

“If I was in your position, I wouldn’t want to be alone,” he said, voice rough and quiet. “But, it’s your decision to make. I can walk you back to your room, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

She thought for a second. She agreed with Bucky’s observation that John may still be out there, lying in wait, and he had been spot-on with the remark that it would be frightening to be alone after tonight’s violence. So far, Bucky had proven himself to be good. She felt comfortable around him. He didn’t try to touch her, and he still gave her options, despite the fact that he seemed oddly protective of her. She knew that he wouldn’t hurt her, that he wouldn’t try to slip into bed next to her in the darkest hours of morning. He was a good man. He would live up to his promise and give her space, acting as a blockade between her and the outside world. For tonight, he would be the promise of warmth, of comfort, of safety.

“I think I’d be more comfortable here. With you.”

“Alright.” He offered a simple reply, walking over to her and taking the first aid kit and her cardigan from her, placing them on top of the dresser. “You’ll be safe with me,” he reassured her, bending down to look her in the eyes when he said it, uttering each word with heavy truth.

She nodded and bit her lip. When she felt her blush creeping back up her face, those stern, icy blue eyes of his fixated on her, she turned away, directing her attention towards the bed, hands smoothing over the covers. She grabbed a pillow, its blanched case stiff and rough from continual washing, and handed it to him. He smiled and took it, humming a low laugh and placing it on the floor next to the bed.

She pulled back the sheets as he went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Her eyelids were suddenly heavy, her body absolutely exhausted, but grateful for a safe place to rest after the day’s peril. She felt herself lull into a hypnotic state of rest before she could even pull the covers over her body, listening to the rumble of the motel’s heater and the whoosh of cars driving past on the distant highway.

Bucky finished in the bathroom and tiptoed to the closet. He grabbed the extra blanket from the top shelf, its woolen fabric starchy and coarse, and plopped it onto the floor next to his pillow. Then, he looked down at (Y/N), curled up on the bed, already halfway into a dream. He sighed, a soft smile gracing his lips, and he reached for the blankets on the bed, pulling them up over her sedated form. She shifted under the covers, settling into their warmth, and he turned off the bedside lamp, the room submerged in a sudden, but not unwelcome, darkness.

✧

She woke to light streaming through the gap in the curtains.

The room smelled of lavender detergent and carpet cleaner, and of something distinctly masculine and unfamiliar, the scent of mint toothpaste and rainfall. She stretched, her body grateful for a restful night as memories of the previous day trickled back in. John’s threats, Bucky’s heroism. Her shyness, her inability to tell him how she felt, despite the fact that he so clearly reciprocated those feelings he had hinted at.

She sat up in bed and looked around the room. On the floor next to her, the spare blanket was folded neatly, the pillow she had given to Bucky the previous night stacked on top of it. His duffel was gone from its perch on the dresser. Any trace of him had disappeared, save for the scent that hung in the air and the memories that clung to (Y/N)’s brain.

She sighed, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and standing up. She had a lot of work to do today. She supposed that she should probably clean up the bar after last night’s incident, and should break open the cleaning supplies that she had left untouched for so long. She wished that she had had the chance to say goodbye to Bucky before he left, a faint sense of longing gripping her throat. But, at least the cleaning would take her mind off of that, for the time being.

As she stood, she brushed through her hair roughly with her fingers, gathering the first aid kit and her cardigan. She surveyed the room one last time, bathed in soft morning light, when a square of white on the nightstand caught her eye.

Brows furrowed with confusion, she walked over, abandoning her things on the bed. On the nightstand was a notepad, an uncapped pen sitting next to it. A brief note was scribbled on it.

Call me if he comes back.

Or, if you need me. For anything.

-Bucky

The message was followed by a phone number.

(Y/N) ripped the note from the pad and stared at Bucky’s slanted, spiked handwriting for a moment, noting the sharp angles and rushed script of his letters.

She stuffed the note in her back pocket and smiled.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #james bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes self insert #bucky barnes fluff #fluff #bucky barnes one shot #marvel fanfic #marvel fanfiction #marvel fluff #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier fanfiction #winter soldier fanfic #winter soldier

215 notes · View notes

youwerenevermeanttofeelalone · 4 years

Text

Not Planned | Damian Wayne

Pairing: older!Damian Wayne x Plus Size Reader (she/her)

Word Count: 4k

Request(s): Can you do one where the reader used to have a crush on Dick? Like a child crush because she’s Damian’s age so when Dick gets married to Kori, Damian consoles her and things happen? & older damian wayne smut plz!!

Warnings: nsfw, mentions of alcohol, a little angst, unprotected sex (please don’t do this), oral sex (both receiving), vaginal sex, mentions of food, fluff, probably language.

❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎

Damian shook his head. The dress you had worn the prior night was carelessly laying on the living room’s floor. He remembered how long it took you to pick the color and length which only annoyed him more.

Placing the paper bag he had been carrying onto the kitchen counter, he turned the coffee machine on. The place was silent, almost deadly — he would’ve found it soothing if he didn’t know you so well.

As Damian pushed your bedroom door open, he took note of the mess near your bedside table. Curious, he stepped into the room in effortless silence. There were a few drawings on the floor, some of them were half-finished silhouettes but others were full heart patterns with his oldest brother's name in the center.

He remembered watching you do a few of the latter while babbling those crazy theories you would come up with about the way you would make Dick fall in love with you. Damian had imagined you were upset when you left the wedding early the night before yet he never considered it was affecting you that much. In fact, he had assumed you were partially over Dick years ago when you started dating around.

The wine bottles next to the bed didn’t go unnoticed by him. Damian picked them up and put them on the bedside table so you wouldn’t knock them and make a mess when you woke up. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he stayed still for a few seconds to hear you breathing.

Your usual light sleep was gone. The softness in your features made him pause, wonder if waking you up was needed or worth it. Seeing you upset had never been easy, not even the first time he did. Damian wasn’t always nice, he knew he still needed to work on it but when he realized how upset you could get when he carelessly spoke something inside him switched.

Bruce had been shocked. Psychiatrists and psychologists had branded Damian as a nightmare to work with, they said he didn’t want to be helped. And Damian didn’t, there was nothing wrong with him.

You had never complained, but he could see some of his words got to you. Making you feel bad wasn’t his intention, other people didn’t matter but you did. It was hard not to care, so being nice became second nature around you. His brothers would only ask things from him when you were around, he had thousands of annoying memories where he had caught himself saying please and thank you to the people he had called nuisances on a daily basis before you arrived in his life.

Alfred said he was changing because he had needed a friend which in Damian’s mind made sense, but you would always tell him his nice persona had always been there — you believed that, you had seen it before he started showing it.

He shook his head again. Dwelling on things wasn’t good. Not to him. As softly as he was able to, he placed his hand on your arm and lightly shook you awake.

You covered your eyes with your forearm, whining. Damian scoffed. “I woke up early to buy bagels from your favorite bakery, the least you could do is eat them fresh.”

“Can I take a shower first?” you dragged your words, too sleepy to argue, certain Damian would win.

He hummed to then softly command, “be quick.”

You wouldn’t say breakfast was tense, but it was different than anything you had experienced in Damian’s presence. He watched you carefully throughout the meal as if expecting you to say something.

There were things you wished you could say, but words often fell short around him. Not many things surprised him, and the ones that did were never emotionally transcendental.

Making matters worse, unaware of the effect the chastising could have on you, Damian reminded you he had gifted you reusable handkerchiefs so you would stop using Kleenex.

You should’ve imagined he would visit in the morning, therefore you should’ve discarded the Kleenex before going to sleep. You had been drained, and dizzy after drinking wine past your limit.

“I forgot,” you mumbled, avoiding him by washing your plate and mug. As you dried the latter, you observed he wasn’t in the kitchen anymore.

Damian popped back in, with the empty bottles in his grasp. Silently, he handed them to you and disappeared back into your bedroom.

Leaving the bottles on the counter, you followed him. At first, he ignored you, roughly fluffing up your pillows.

“You don’t have to do that. Let me.”

Shaking his head, he gripped the pillow more tightly.

“Da—“

“Not now, please, not now.”

You lifted your arms in a surrendering gesture. Reading him had never been easy, but you had gotten better at it as time progressed and he allowed you to see more of his true self. Still, you weren’t as good as you wanted, or as he was with you. You were an open book in his eyes.

And his favorite one. You were that story he never wanted to like, the one he begrudgingly read only to end up becoming devoted to halfway through the first chapter.

He pulled your vanity’s chair out and sat down, looking down at the yellow spot on the rug. He had offered to buy you a new one after he ruined it with his oil paints, you asked for the painting he had done in exchange.

It was a beautiful piece. You had never been a big fan of paintings, preferring posters and photos, but the warm tones in that particular one made you feel safe in such a way you feared you’d never know peace again if you didn’t own it.

You kneeled on the opposite side of the room, picking the scattered papers and stacking them up to store them in their hiding place. You heard Damian shift on his sit.

“If you have other things to do, you can leave,” you assured him. The only instances when Damian was antsy were when he was in need of doing something else.

“I don’t.”

“Ah.”

He scoffed at your reaction. “You want me to leave?”

You carelessly threw the stack of papers into the drawer. “No, but you’re acting weird.”

As you stood up, he crossed his arms. Oh, God, not one of his challenges. Damian could get too competitive and although you enjoyed it 90% of the time, that day was part of the other 10%.

“I thought you were over him.”

His lack of tact while saying it would’ve hurt you mere months ago. You sat on your bed, nodding. “I am.”

“Right,” he condescendingly gritted.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You left early last night and got drunk looking at the dumb drawings you did of him, what is that supposed to mean?”

There was no mocking in his voice which made the question harder to answer.

“I—“ you breathed out a nervous laugh, “I miss those days.”

A part of your adolescence had evaporated the night before. Your innocent illusions of marrying Dick, of eventually having a happy home with a nice and caring man. You had understood it was a childish thing very quickly, and Dick himself had explained to you he was too old for you very early into your crush on him — yet you clung to it, such a romantic and beautiful dream couldn’t hurt you.

“I miss thinking everything was a fairytale.” You shrugged. “Dumb stuff like that.”

Your attempts to dismissing the depth of your words were ignored by Damian who shifted on the chair again. You looked down at your thighs.

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” you admitted, “it’s just a nostalgic bout.”

“Like those ones you get watching animated films?” he teased. Your only answer was a hum. Damian frowned for a millisecond. “Come here.”

Lifting your head, you lingered your gaze on him. He opened his arms, fixing his position on the chair. With wobbly legs, you walked toward him. You enjoyed the sensation you felt through your system by seeing him have to look up as you stood in front of him — something swirled in his eyes, a glint you had seen a few times yet had never deciphered.

Damian placed his hands on your lower back, pulling you closer. “Come on,” he encouraged you to sit on his lap.

“What for?” you inquired, not used to being so close to him. He lifted both eyebrows, prompting you to ease down onto his lap very slowly.

“I just want you to do it,” he answered, shifting his legs so you wouldn’t fall off his lap.

You focused on a spot on the wall behind him, wishing the earth would swallow you before you got any stupid ideas.

Damian whispered your name. You dragged your eyes toward his face, too abashed to look into his green ones.

“You do know I care about you, right?” His voice dropped.

You nodded with your attention on the tiny scar in his left cheek.

He confessed, tilting his head to find your eyes, “I hate seeing you sad. I feel useless.”

“It’s nothing, it’ll pass. You know how I am.”

“Pretty and angelic? Yes, I know.”

Rolling your eyes, you scoffed. “Now you’re flirting with me? Really?”

“I always flirt with you. This is just the first time you’ve seen it like that.”

You searched for his eyes. His curious gaze, endearing and bright, fixed on you. “Why?”

“Because I like you, why else?”

With elaborated breath, you caressed his soft skin by brushing his cheeks with your thumbs. “I didn’t know,” you mumbled. “You were never explicit. I thought you were just being nice.”

He traced your spine with two fingers, up and down. “You were obsessed with my brother.”

“You know why.”

He hummed in agreement. “But I didn’t know what to do.”

The two of you allowed a moment of silence to linger. You wished you could be surprised, but him liking you made all the sense in the world. Damian was more than a comfort in your life, he wasn’t the calm before the storm nor the storm itself — he was the rainbow, the security that things would eventually turn out okay and that if they didn’t it wasn’t the end of the world. A reality check and the assurance of not having to go through adversities alone.

As the seconds passed and everything sunk in, a question came to you. “Were you mad about... that... earlier?”

“Perhaps.” He lightheartedly scoffed when you glared at him. “I thought you had been crying over him,” Damian explained, trying his best to not grit his words. You breathed a nervous laugh out, taking your eyes off him. You could hear the smirk in his voice as he added, “but now I think you were crying over me.”

You failed to hide your amused smile. “You wish.”

“I would kill myself before making you cry.”

You felt him fully relax under you as he slid his arms around your plump hips. Damian rested his head on your shoulder, prompting your hands to slip — hugging him by the shoulders, you started playing with the small hairs on his nape.

Shuddering, he exhaled on your skin, “you always smell so good.”

“My mom always buys me that lotion for my birthday.”

He already knew that. Like most things about you. Your favorite color, the way you liked your tea, your sleep schedule, your clothing size, your least liked brand of sparkling water... he knew every twinge in your voice, the length of the scar you had on your upper back from when you fell off your bike as a child, he had long ago gotten every twitch of your face mapped into his brain, and for the same amount of time had longed for kissing every inch of it.

“Are you sure you’re comfortable?” you asked, remembering he must’ve been tired from patrolling the night before after the wedding.

Damian angled his face, nodding against your skin. His hot breath on your neck gave you goosebumps, prompting you to shift on his lap as you shuddered. Seeing the effect he was having on you, he boldly peppered a few kisses on your skin which earned him a whine.

Gripping his hair, you tugged on it to pull his head back. The wanton look in his face took your breath away, his eyes were glowing as they dilated. You kissed him, moaning when his hands dropped to your ass as he stood up.

Damian put you down onto the bed, sucking on your bottom lip as he trailed his hands down your soft stomach. You whispered his name, not sure as to why but desperate to do it. He hummed, manhandling your hips to fit himself between your legs.

Urgently, he rubbed your thighs as you explored his mouth with your tongue. You needed him, your breath catching in your throat burned like your still clothed skin was burning under his touch. Sliding a hand down his side, you stopped at his hips to then palm his crotch by spreading your fingers over his bulge. You felt immensely proud of yourself when he immediately moaned.

Damian gripped the edge of your top, dragging his mouth to your jaw. He breathily spoke on your skin, “can I take this off?”

“Please.”

It took you longer to answer than it took him to kneel between your legs. He pulled the material off your torso, licking his bottom lip at the sight before him. You reacted quickly too, seeing the opportunity to unbutton his shirt — he looked down at your hands as you painfully slowly undid the shirt, button by button. His breath hitched when your hands caressed his naked chest as they moved upward to his shoulders.

You pushed the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall behind him. Damian pounced you, palming your breasts on top of your bra. Moaning, you arched up into his bare torso. Dragging your hands down his back, you brought them to the front, between your belly and his abs, to unbuckle his belt.

He sneaked his hand under your back, unclasping your bra with an easiness you wished you could do it. A whine escaped you as he latched his mouth on one of your breasts, sucking on it. Meanwhile, he kneaded your other breast, giving both your tits the same amount of attention by switching the order.

You bit into your bottom lip in attempts of muffling your sounds. Damian kissed down the valley of your breasts, mouthing your stomach as you struggled to pull his zipper down.

Damian circled your nipple with his tongue before speaking on the wet spot, his breath giving you goosebumps. “Let me hear you.”

He suddenly pulled away, rushing to take his shoes and pants off. You kicked your own shoes off, planting your feet on the bed in order to slide your pants down your legs. Damian’s eyes, full of lust, bored into yours as he placed his leg between yours while getting back into the bed.

You rut your wet core against his muscular thigh. Only your underwear was on the way and yet you felt as if you would explode. Damian was panting just by watching you, pushing his leg forward to prompt one of your sweet sounds to come out.

He gripped your hips, moving them up and down against his thigh. You moaned, placing your hands on his lower back. “Do something, Damian, please. Something else.”

“Tell me what you want,” he ordered with a sly smile on his face, you could hear the rumble of his words in his chest. “Use your words, beloved.”

Fuck. The look he gave you, raw and hungry, was so startling and enticing at once that you wondered why hadn’t you done this sooner. He lowered his hands and gripped your ass. Lust radiated off both you, so intense you had already broken into a sweat. Damian moved you closer to the edge of the bed, withdrawing his hands from your ass to pull your underwear down your thick legs.

“Words,” he reminded you, sniffing up as he once again licked his lips.

He was driving you completely crazy. “Anything,” you begged, “please.”

Damian kneeled, burying his head in your pussy with no warning, hungrily lapping and purring. You rolled your hips further against his mouth, squealing when his tongue flicked your clit while he dug his fingers into your soft legs.

“You taste so good,” he hummed on your pussy.

Kissing his way up to your hip, he rested his head on your lower belly as his fingers trailed up and down your slit. Your hips bucked up, covering his hand in slick. Damian circled your clit, pressing hard on it as he rubbed.

You whimpered, “just make me cum already, please.”

Grunting, he nodded. “You sound so hot when you beg.” Damian went back to your pussy, sucking on your clit harshly — the sounds of your slick and his mouth filled the room in the dirtiest way, then the howl you let out of his name joined. He overstimulated you while lapping at your slick as he cleaned you up, humming happily.

He popped up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. You licked your lips at the sight of his tight underwear. Sliding off the bed, you kneeled before him.

Damian placed a hand on the back of your head, softly, cursing when you nuzzled against his dickprint. You mouthed his length, licking the salty wet spot on the cotton material. “Shit,” he breathed out.

You smiled against him, pawing at his underwear to slide it off. The sight of his cock, standing proud a mere inch away from your lips made your mouth water. You had never seen a prettier cock, or a bigger one.

“Hurry up,” he urged you, pushing your face onto his cock.

You licked a line up his shaft, swirling your tongue over his tip smeared in precum. He hissed. You took him into your mouth, little by little as deeply as you could. Your hand came up to hold his base and so you comfortably loosened your jaw.

Sucking him down a little further, you felt him twitch on your cheek. Damian pulled you off him, growling, “on your back, now,” he pointed at the bed.

He beamed down at you as he made sure you were wet enough. Lining himself at your entrance, he plunged inside you in one swift motion. Your mouth fell open, not a sound was able to come out as you felt him bottom out. You moaned in unison then, him while holding your waist and you gripping his biceps.

You stretched around his size as he slammed back into you after having pulled out. You cried his name and that was all it took for him to start hammering into you with all his strength, so hard the bed rocked.

His soft lips bruised yours as he kissed you, teeth clicking a few times as he pounded into you, making you feel your eyes roll back into your head even while closed.

As he pulled away, he panted, “fuck, (Y/N).” Your name dropped from his lips in such a sinful way, so sensually as his bottom lip trembled.

You let yourself go wild, latching your mouth on his neck and shoulder blade. Damian grunted when you bit into his skin, leaving a trail of saliva behind.

Licking a line up his neck, you whispered into his ear, “Damian, I’m close.”

Damian started fucking you harder and faster, determined on making you come again. He brought you closer, making you wrap your legs around his hips as with his knees he rocked himself in order to plunge into you deeper.

Kissing you sloppily, leaving a string of saliva hanging between your mouths, he gasped. Your walls were tightly hugging his cock, making it pulse against them.

He rode out his high in quick and deep thrusts, hitting your spot as your legs trembled around him. You held yourself by gripping his shoulders, moaning and arching up as you looked into his eyes.

Feeling warm strings coat your walls, you jumped. A spasm broke through you as you came at the same time as Damian, crying out his name once again as he roared yours — both sounds vibrated in your chests and into the other’s.

He dropped his face into your neck, catching his breath as he inhaled your scent mixed with your sweat. His cock softened inside you as both of you calmed down, along with your arms and legs that fell limp onto the bed.

You moved your head to keep his hot breath away from your neck, slower than you had thought you would be able to move.

Damian huffed a teasing laugh. “Tired?”

Humming, you shimmed on the bed to lay on your side. Damian copied your movements once you were comfortable, giving you enough space to cool down.

“Do you want some water?”

“I want a shower,” you responded honestly, “you shouldn’t have made me shower earlier if you were going to fuck me like that.”

“I didn’t plan it,” Damian defended himself, rolling on the mattress to leave the bed. “How warm do you want the water?”

He didn’t give you a chance to answer, or to tell him you could do it yourself. You dragged yourself toward the bathroom, almost regretting having said anything.

The situation was surreal. You wouldn’t have let Damian watch you in underwear the day before, but there you were comfortably standing in front of him as he unabashedly stared at your naked body.

Entering the shower, you sighed as the water fell onto your head. The temperature was perfect. Damian closed the stall as he entered too, eyes not leaving your form. You made way for him to get under the water too, reaching behind him for the shampoo. There wasn’t much space to move, but you weren’t complaining and he wasn’t either.

You watched him from the couch, pouring coffee into a mug, only his boxers and with a frown on his pretty face. The sight of Damian in his underwear, walking around your apartment with such familiarity had to be what dreams were made of.

Placing the mug on the table after taking a gulp, he occupied the spot next to yours. You offered the remote to him, but he swatted a hand dismissively. Shrugging, you put the controller down and sprawled your legs comfortably.

He silently rested his head on your shoulder, ignoring the movie playing on the tv. He didn’t even know the title, and he was sure you had put it on just to have something in the background so asking was pointless.

“You’re like a cat,” you chuckled when he nuzzled onto your shirt, trailing your hand up to run your fingers through his hair.

Damian hummed, hugging you by the waist. “I’ll never speak to you again if you tell anyone,” he half-heartedly threatened.

“And risk someone else getting cuddles instead of me? No thanks.”

“This isn’t cuddling.” You bounced your shoulder, making him lift his head. Annoyed, he asked, “what?”

“What’s going on with you now?”

“Nothing.” Damian dropped his head back onto your shoulder

“Tell me. Is it something I d—“

He interrupted, tightening his arms around you and pulling you toward him, “I was trying to find the words to ask if this was only a one-time thing without sounding like an idiot, but you clearly ruined it.”

“Of course not.”

Resting your cheek on the top of his head, you went back to play with his hair. At first, you had assumed he would be against you touching his hair again — he surprised you by purring happily.

Damian hoped nothing would ruin the moment, his family was known to call at the worst time. He would do anything to not be forced to move, faking tiredness or an emergency wasn’t below him — not when it came to being around you and having your full attention.

#damian wayne x reader #damian wayne x plus size reader #damian wayne smut #plus size smut #plus size fanfiction #robin x reader #robin x plus size reader #robin smut #damian wayne #robin #dc x reader #dc x plus size reader #dc smut #batfam x reader #batfam x plus size reader #batfam smut

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babylooneytoonz · 4 years

Text

Sweet Temptations - Tommy Shelby x Reader

Part-2

Read Part-1 here.

Warning - SMUT

Requested by - @girlwith-kalei-do-scope-eyes @peakyfooky @bubblegumflamingos @thomashelbyswhore

You looked at your reflection in the mirror; you were glowing. Your eyelashes curled perfectly over your eyes and the corner of your cherry painted lips puckered into a smile of your own. It had been a month since you had let that blue eyed Peaky Blinders gangster bend you over your desk and fuck you like there was no tomorrow. Since then, although you hadn't met him again, he made it a point to be a part of most of the important events that you and your husband happened to be a part of.

Lingering glances were shared, lips licked fervently and the man slowly undressed you with his piercing, blue eyes, fucking you with his eyes. The way he admired the olive green dress that hung over your ample arse at the Epsom Derby, you couldn't get the look off your mind. It was tantalizing, refreshing yet scandalizing if someone was to notice, but no one did.

You had tried hard to find yourself a minute alone with the man, your carnal desires clouding over your perfectly sane, sharp mind for a bit that day but much to your dismay, Michael was glued to your side all the time, although he paid you no heed.

You were laying in your massive king sized four postered bed, revelling in the fact that your husband was out on a business trip to London and wasn't coming back home for atleast a few days. Your newly shaved legs rubbed against the soft, silken sheets, the friction causing slight irritation and inflammation but you didn't seem to mind. A lit cigarette rested in your left hand and a half empty bottle of Irish Whiskey lay on your bedside table, the tip of the bottle imprinted with your lipstick.

A loud knock on your door caused you to sharply turn your neck towards it. There was an urgency in the knock, and the knocking wasn't dying down.

"For fuck's sake, stop trying to break the damn door, will ya? I'm coming."

You slid out of bed, wrapping your robe around your body as you made your way to the door and unlocked it. One of Michael's men was standing there, his eyes thrown open, his face and his clothes covered in dried up blood. At first, you were shocked. You threw the door wide open, letting the man get in, and followed him.

"Mrs. Button, we've fucking been cornered, those fucking Blinders, they attacked the pub in London—"

Your heart skipped a beat at the mention of the Blinders; the image of the handsome Blinder devil plastering itself to the back of your eyes like a still of a black and white movie. You wanted to smile as it felt like Tommy had after all, been true to his words. You knew he had done it for you.

Donning on a mask of sudden sadness, you blinked rapidly, hoping to get fake tears to provide a blanket of cloud to your eyes, you spoke, "Michael? What about him? Is he okay?"

"Mrs Button, the news is bad, he was shot at the back of the bloody skull."

You bit hard on your tongue; trying your best not to smile.

"And?"

"You tell us what to do, eh, you're the new boss, ain't it?" The man sluggishly replied, a tiny hint of a smile on his lips; it was ghostly, barely there, but yet you noticed it.

"Well, we plan a funeral, what else?"

He nodded, finally letting himself smirk freely around you and so did you.

These were your men now. You didn't have to be scared of a dead man anymore. He could do you no harm.

"Lad, wait."

Your voice rang out in the hallway, the moment he turned to leave. He turned towards you, blinking, waiting for your command.

"Remember the crate Michael kept hidden in the barn? That fine single malt Scotch Whiskey?"

"What of it, Mrs, er, Miss?"

"Pull out a bottle, and go celebrate with the men. And get a drink for me too, will ya?"

Your smirks matched each other's as you saw him nod briefly and leave.

Freedom felt amazing.

Thomas Shelby had not only freed you; he had also given you a chance to get everything Michael owned, down from his business to the mansion you lived in— it was all yours now.

The chill at the cemetery was biting, your long black overcoat did nothing to protect you from the frost that was causing your cheeks to wither and turn stony. You stood in a corner, a few of his men on either of your sides, heads burrowed slightly. You knew it was all an act, and the minute they stepped out of the cemetery, they would be out celebrating, for Michael was not a pleasant boss to work for. But you couldn't blame them, you felt the same.

You felt elation, you felt free and you wanted to celebrate. Worst of all, you wanted to see him.

Your Thomas Fucking Shelby—

As the coffin was lowered to the ground, and the short, bald headed priest mumbled verses from the Bible, you looked down at your feet, your mind distracted. You needed a smoke.

"Excuse me." You mumbled to the woman standing next to you, and lowering your head, you pushed your way away from the ceremony through his men, making your way up to the embalming area, to smoke. The minute you stepped into those close confines, you took off your overcoat and dumped it on a chair, straightening the crease on your black mourning dress.

The embalming area was sheeted with a blanket of quiet, a solitary confinement. This place had a lot of stories to tell perhaps, of death, of tears and of the human mortality.

Then how could a place such morose be a cause of a start of your new life? It wouldn't even have crossed your mind, but a part of you knew, death and life, there is a fine line between it. A death can pave way for a new life— the life of a newfound love, built on the extermination of your abusive husband.

You knew Tommy would come; so it wasn't a surprise to you when you whiffed his fragrance lingering in the air— of cigarettes, alcohol and a bit of mint.

"You're here, I can feel it." You whispered into the thin air, only to feel his arms creep up behind you, in a teasing manner, his fingertips trailing against the fabric of your black mourning dress. You were not this kind of woman, a woman that would rejoice in someone's death, but the countless years of torment you had seen, in the form of your now dead husband was enough to wipe off any traces of the respect you had for him in the dead form. You couldn't care less, if outside, his coffin was being lowered into the ground.

"Thank you," your whisper came out breathy, your eyes rolled back in the back of your head and slowly, you rolled yourself to face the Blinder devil, placing your hands on either of his shoulder while his hands held you tight by your hips, holding you in place.

"Hope you gave him a peaceful death." You mumbled, nuzzling your nose into the side of his cheek, his wafting fragrance seeping through your nostrils.

You heard him hum and nod, his plump lips moving along as he peppered soft kisses down the side of your neck, "As peaceful as that bastard deserved," he mumbled into your shoulder; in his thick brummie accent.

You stayed glued to the man like two trees rooted side by side, for a few minutes. Finally, after what felt like a short period of time, but would have probably been minutes; you reluctantly pulled away, bringing your palm to cup his cheek as you leaned in to kiss him; waiting for the minute the fireworks will erupt.

The kiss was warm, his lips plump and salty, a bit dry, owing the countless cigarettes the man smoked during the day but he knew how to make you weak in the knees but just a kiss, making you want more and more. "Oh Tommy.. Tommy.." His name slipped out of your tongue, your honey like voice repeating it as though it will fly away if you stopped saying it.

Tommy grunted in response to you dragging out his name from your lips, his arms grabbing you by your hips and lifting you up slightly. The moment your feet lifted off the ground, you locked your legs behind Tommy, who had by now seated you on the embalming slab, his hands raking over your sides, trying to feel your curves and inches.

You were panting in desire by the time you felt Tommy hoist your skirt up, running his cold fingers along your inner thigh, in a teasing manner. Your core was throbbing, your panties already soaked and waiting for him.

"Tommy please." You whined, need dripping off your lips like saliva.

"Oh the things you bloody do to me." Tommy murmured, letting his palm rub over your lips over the fabric of your panties, letting out an inaudible grunt when he felt his fingers start coating with your slick, even before he'd taken off your panties, "I haven't even done anything yet, and look at you, getting all wet for me already, yeah?"

"All you have to do is look at me like that, Mr. Shelby," You purred through pursed lips, fluttering your lashes.

"I want to do a lot more than to just look at you, love."

Tommy's hands came to rest over your shoulders, and you felt the strap of your dress slide off, letting your bare shoulders glisten under the semi lit light of the embalming room. Pressing his knee in the space between your legs, Tommy bent slightly, taking in your hard, erect nipple into his mouth, letting his tongue teasingly swipe over it before he started ravishing your nipples, one by one. Instinctively, your hands flew to his head, your fingers burrowing in his matted hair, tugging on it. You arched your needy core forward towards him, hoping that the friction and the heat from his body would provide a soothing pleasure to your aching core.

"Impatient, aren't we?" Tommy smirked, slowly letting himself drop on his knees, so your core was parallel to his face.

"Tommy, please," you pleaded, your voice heavy and coated with lust.

Your panties were tugged down, and Tommy's digits ran fervently over your entrance in a teasing manner, causing you to throw your head back and let out a whimper. His finger finally slid into you, causing you to squirm at the welcome visitor to your body.

"You like that, eh, you like being my whore?"

You bit your lip, letting your palms out of Tommy's hair as you started rubbing your own breasts in a teasing manner.

"It takes two to tango, Thomas, if I'm your whore, then what are you to me?"

Your question was buried without an answer, and you didn't ask again. But this was because you felt you had lost your capacity to think. The feeling of Tommy's lips, pressed to your core, his tongue sliding in and out of your entrance, circling around your sweet spot was too much to keep your wits. You fell backwards, spreading your legs as wide as you could, to provide the man an easy passage.

"Tommy, I'm going to —"

You felt fireworks in your body, a sudden feeling of ecstacy, of what you'd call nirvana. Your eyes clouded with pleasure as you came even before you could provide Tommy with the warning, squirting all over his face. Satisfied with himself, Tommy slowly pulled back, licking your juices off his lips; and all you could think was, how hot he looked, with your juices all over his mouth.

"I thought it will take a lot bloody more to get you to do that, love," he smirked, pulling himself back up on his feet as he unbuckled his trousers and slowly let it fall to the ground. You could already see the massive tent poking out like a mountain in his boxers so you reached out, grabbing his cock over the fabric of it, stroking it, feeling it get even harder under your touch.

"Fucking hell," he grunted, letting his eyes shut for a brief second before he tugged off his boxers and adjusted himself right at your entrance.

Your eyes met his; as though he was asking your permission. You didn't know why you did it, or why he let you do it but you leaned forward, letting your lips meet his, the exact same moment he slid his erect cock into you, slowly filling you up. It wasn't just sex, it was something much more, he was making love to you.

"Am I still your whore?" You murmured, your panting heavy and bothered.

"You'll always be my whore in bed, look at you, driving me nuts with that tight little cunt." He murmured back.

When you both finally came undone, panting and moaning and covered in sweat and each other's bodily fluids, Tommy slowly fell on you, exhausted, his eyes shut, his head buried between the crevice of your breasts. You wrapped your hand gently around his neck, holding him close. It felt strangely intimate, and strangely, you felt your heartstrings being tugged at. This was an all new feeling for you; you had never experienced anything remotely close to this.

Were you falling for him?

Or was it just lust?

What if he just left you after today?

What if you were his means of getting his stress out?

These questions that you asked yourself were enough to give you an answer for your first one.

You were falling for him. And you were scared he'll leave you. And you were scared that your heart will be ripped apart, and there will be no one to mend it.

Instinctively, you winced and pushed him off you. He was startled, confused and he followed you with his eyes. You pulled up your panties and tugged the skirt of your dress back in place and pulled the straps back up, adjusting your dress again.

"Where are you going?" He asked.

"They must be looking for me, yeah?" You mumbled, absentmindedly. You couldn't, for some reason, look at him.

He didn't reply. From the corner of your ears, you heard the sound of the fabric of his trousers, that he had finally pulled back up and buttoned. He then slid on his wrinkled shirt and started shuffling through the contents of his trousers pocket to look for his packet of cigarettes.

You sighed, grabbing your box of cigarettes that was laying abandoned on the embalming table, and tossed it to him. He caught it mid air, pulling out a stick and sticking it into his mouth.

"This was just sex to you, wasn't it?" He was blunt, his voice cold, unlike what you had seen him the two times you had met him. Up close. Up front. He was now what he showed the rest of the world that he was. But his question was raw, bringing out the broken man inside him, a man who'd been trampled on, left, rejected.

"That's the funny thing, Mr. Shelby." You whispered, your voice soft, broken as you looked down at your hands, nervously fumbling with the hem of your dress, so you didn't have to meet his cold icy stare. "I wish it was just sex to me. But unfortunately, it's not. And I'm not ready to get my heart broken even before its fucking started beating again, you know?"

The man let out a soft sigh, smoke coiling around him as he exhaled and he slowly walked up to where you were standing, hesitantly.

"This has been lovely, Thomas and you have saved my life, saved me from a monster. If I can ever repay ─" Your palm mechanically flew up to his chin, slowly cupping his cheek, your thumb stroking against the side of his face. You had half expected him to move away from this affectionate embrace, but he didn't. Infact, he seemed to melt into it.

"You can repay me."

Your hand fell to your side, clenching at the fabric of your dress.

There he was, finally revealing the truth, of course he wanted something from you.

"What?" You almost snapped.

As if thinking, the man in front of you blinked , before you saw him slide his palm into his pocket and pull something out. You couldn't see it, whatever it was, was too tiny and was masked securely inside his palm, sheilded from your eyes.

"I know this is not the most appropriate places to ask, but will you marry me?"

You took a step away, or rather, your body suddenly went limp with elation. You couldn't feel your legs, it was as if your knees had turned to jelly. You'd heard it right, didn't you?

"Say that again, will ya?" You croak.

Tommy shook his head, almost faintly, with a tiny of annoyance in his eyes, but somehow he did it again. But this time, even more creatively. Your eyes widened as you saw him go down on his knees, and this time it was different. It wasn't sexual and he wasn't going to ravage your pussy with his mouth. He opened the box and in rested a beautiful diamond ring, the diamond massive enough for your heart to leap in joy. It was beautiful.

"You, Miss (Y/N) (L/N), will you finally accept my offer to marry you, yeah?"

You couldn't help but laugh. He really didn't know how to do this.

"Is this a business deal?" You chuckled, throwing your palm out that he caught with his free hand.

"A business deal for a fucking lifetime." He slowly slid the ring over your ring finger and you swear you saw a warm smile on his face, as he looked up at you, with love.

#thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders #tommy shelby #peaky fucking blinders #peaky blinders x reader #tommy shelby x reader smut

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peanut-in-the-goal · 3 years

Note

7 or 34 for some good ol’ angst

tw for child abuse and flashbacks (kinda)

also no i did not proofread who do you think I am?

this isn’t goodbye; It’s just you and me

Sirius turned away from the door, his door. Just on the other side lay his bedroom. The one that was painted an ugly green, with posters upon posters up on the wall. Stick charms in place, keeping them there. He had pictures of his friends hanging there too. James, Peter, Remus, all of them laughing, arms slung over each other’s shoulders.

He hated leaving it, but it had to say. He never thought he’d leave this place, as much as he hated it, it was his home. At least somewhat a home.

Not like Hogwarts, where people loved him, they laughed with him, celebrated after quidditch games together. They grew up together, they’re growing up together. And it hits him that he’s just a kid, because it’s so easy to forget that sometimes. He’s sixteen, and he’s leaving this home for good. He hated it here, since he was 8 and understood what the word family meant he hated it.

Home has always meant a person for Sirius, not a place. Home used to be Grimmauld Place, here with his parents and his little brother, they were their own little family. And it had worked, for a while. But the illusion of safety and love had quickly faded into something else entirely.

The next time he picked a home, it was at Hogwarts. As soon as he got on the train with that messy-haired boy who had glasses that magnified his eyes, he knew this was where he wanted to be. There wasn’t the need to prove himself to his parents, he didn’t have to sit up straight at the table or isolate himself in his room.

He was at Hogwarts with his friends and his found family. That was the best feeling in the world.

He shouldered his bag, his trunk was shrunk and safely stored inside. He was finally getting out, the thought brought a smile to his face. He started down the stairs, the last time he’d be walking these steps, last time he’d be in this miserable hell of a house.

House, not home.

His footsteps sounded louder as he padded down the steps, reaching the landing. His wrist still throbbed from his run in with his father earlier that day. His ribs were sore too, and he could feel his ankle swelling under his sock. But that wasn’t going to stop him.

His vision blurred and unfocused as he reached the landing, moving as quietly as he could from then on as to not wake Kreature. He almost made it to the door, hand outstretched, but he paused. Did he really want to do this? Did he want to leave his baby brother here?

He curses himself for stopping, because he knows how hard it was going to be to get going again.

He couldn’t leave without saying goodbye, but he also knows he won’t leave if he sees his brother’s face again. He doesn’t really have a choice, does he? Sirius’ head snaps around when he hears a creek at the top of the stairs.

He panics, ready to fling himself out the door and run if it’s his parents. But when he turns to look, he sees a pair of the same eyes looking back at him.

“Regulus…” He whispers his name, and he hopes it’s not going to be the last time he says it. That this isn’t going to be the last time they see each other, looking at each other, or even talking. He doesn’t want it to be the last time before staring his brother down on the war field.

He’s not going to hurt him then either, he can’t. He still sees his baby brother, the one that promised to follow him anywhere, the one who said he wanted to be a Gryffindor. Just like his big brother.

And now, looking him up and down, he’s grown up. The kid who used to be afraid of the monsters under his bed now sneers at him across the hall, the one who keeps his head down while his “friends” curse the mudbloods.

He sees the kid who wants to rebel but won’t because he’s too afraid to face the consequences.

But then again, he sees the scared grey eyes of his little brother who would come to him when he was afraid of the monsters under his bed.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Regulus is walking down the stairs, slowly with one hand sliding against the railing. “You’re finally getting out.”

Sirius didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t place Regulus’s tone, whether it was defiance, or bitterness, or even sadness.

“I’m sorry.” He faced Regulus fully now. “I just… I can’t stay.” He looked down and to the side, ashamed. He didn’t want to see the disappointment on his brother’s face, not that he’s never seen it before. But something in this moment felt different.

“Leave.”

“W-what?” Sirius snapped his eyes back up to his brothers. “You want me to go?”

Regulus stepped off the landing, “I want you to live, you idiot.” He walked towards Sirius, with a sad smile on his face. Sirius had to swallow a lump growing in his throat.

“Come with me.” The words surprised both of them.

“I can’t, you know this,” Regulus shook his head, pushing lightly at Sirius’ shoulder.

“Why, Reg, come on. We can get out, the both of us.”

“Sirius, look… You got to rebel in your own way, let me rebel in mine.”

“Quoi?” Sirius was affronted, not expecting that answer. “What do you mean, how are you rebelling.”

“You daft idiot. You rebelled by, let’s say showing your displeasure—”

“Their ideas and viewpoints are stupid.”

“Not the point. You rebelled out loud, showing your displeasure, and spoke. Sometimes yelled—”

“—yea, sometimes.”

“Can you just let me talk? We don’t have much time you prat.” Regulus sighed, running his hand through his hair. A habit he picked up from Sirius.

“Okay, okay, fine, speak.” Sirius held his hands up in surrender.

“Thank you. You rebelled in your own way, out loud and in front. I want to rebel in my way, from the inside. Let me do this.” Regulus pushed.

Sirius sighed, there was never talking Regulus out of something he set his mind to.

“Be safe? Promise me you’ll be safe.” Regulus shoved Sirius again, towards the door.

“I’ll be safe. Now go, Mother and Father should be up soon.” Sirius nodded, hating the tears that were welling up.

“This-This isn’t goodbye Reggie.” Regulus’s smile shrunk a little at that.

“It never is.”

That was the last thing Sirius heard as the door swung shut behind him. The journey ahead was still so far. He let the tears fall, slipping down his face. But he wouldn’t give up yet, not when he had the chance of starting over.

He starts towards one of the few places he wants to call home. James. And he runs, he runs as fast as he can before remembering something. James isn’t home. He won’t be home for another 4 days.

He goes to the next logical choice. Remus, or course Remus. The two had started dating last year. He doesn’t know if the thought of Remus makes him more upset or relieved, but the tears are still spilling down his face, and he wants to know how he even fit that much saltiness in his tear ducts.

It takes him longer than he’d like to reach the young werewolf’s house, but he’s so tired, and his backpack feels like it’s weighing him down. It’s so dark out and he just wants to sleep. Just a few more steps… Just a few.. more… steps...

He wants to collapse, to just lay there in the fluffy grass of the lawn, but he figures his moony’s arms are much more comfortable. His limbs ache, a mixture of all the adrenaline that’s wearing off and the wounds that are starting to present themselves. He can still feel the harsh tingle in his spine from the aftershocks of the cruciatus curse. The wounds that have long scabbed over on his back and stomach are reopening every time he shifts.

Finally, he drags his feet up to the door. The tears that are dried on his face came flooding back, prickling at his eyes.

It’s around 4 in the morning when Sirius finally gets there. He’s cradling his right arm to his chest, shaking like a leaf from the cold. Sirius hesitates yet again at another turn. Should he knock, and disturb one of the only people who’s ever loved him. Did Remus love him?

He almost walks away, but he doesn’t. He’s come far too far to give up.

He knocks on the door softly at first, before a little louder. He still isn’t sure if he should do it. But lucky for him, Remus was awake. He still has no idea what the button on the right does, he doesn’t push it even though he wants to.

He had gone to bed hours ago, and he meant to sleep, really he did. He just got so invested in his book that by the time he checked the clock it was half-past 3 in the morning. He was in the kitchen, filling a glass of water before going back upstairs. He was startled by a quiet yet insistent knock on his door.

He jumped, almost dropping the cup. The knock was so quiet, he thought he imagined it in his sleep-deprived state.

Then, it came again, followed by a barely-there whimper.

His heart pounding, racing in his chest. He could hear his pulse in his head. Who would be knocking at this hour? Was it safe? Should he get his parents? Should he-

“Re?” The voice was weak, followed by almost silent sobs that he wouldn’t have heard if it weren’t for his advanced hearing.

His heart raced for a different reason this time, he knew that voice.

Sirius

He rushed towards the sound, not even thinking this could be a trap. He threw the door open and revealed a tear-stained Sirius.

“Moons?” His voice cracked, and his eyes flitted around widely like he couldn’t believe Remus was really there, standing in front of him. Like he was still trapped in that house, and he never made it out.

Remis stared at him with wide eyes, Sirius’ hair had been cut uneven and choppy. His pale skin was looming with bruises.

“Sirius,” he whispered, not having meant to have said anything at all. But he can’t believe that this is the same boy he fell in love with. He doesn’t want to believe that his boyfriend, the boy that was brighter than life, brighter than his star in the sky, was reduced to-to this. After only a few days over the holiday at that.

What kind of monsters would do this?

The Blacks apparently.

It takes Remus a moment to react before pulling the probably disowned heir into him. Sirius goes willingly, melting into the embrace. He feels comfort, cared for, safe. He feels like he’s finally home.

He lets out a small cry as Remus squeezes him tightly, the painful wounds making themself known to Remus.

The pain in his arms, his ribs, the pain of leaving Regulus. The pain where the mark would have been burned into his arm, The pain of showing up on Remus’ doorstep in the early hours of the morning. The pain of forcing himself to stay living there, under those conditions, for so long.

All he knows is pain and part of him wishes he were numb.

He’s apologizing, a mantra of “Please, I’m sorry,” spilling from his lips. He’s not sure who he’s apologizing to. Whether it be to his parents for failing them, to Regulus for leaving him, his friends for not being good enough, or Remus for coming. He doesn’t even know if he’s apologizing to himself, but that’s not likely.

His knees give out, and his hands are shaking from where they’re gripped onto Remus’ nightshirt. He registers the flashes of pain shooting up his arm from how hard he’s gripping, but he’s not ready to let go yet.

He’s reliving it, all of the abuse, and the spoken words. All those years he felt abandoned inside those walls. And he feels like he’s back there again. He doesn’t know how to make it stop. He wants it to stop.

He feels a hand on his chin and he flinches. Please, don’t hurt me, he thinks. But his eyes meet honey brown ones, his parents don’t have honey brown eyes. They have grey and terrifying ones, not the comforting ones he’s seeing right now.

It’s moony, I made it to moony. It’s okay, I got out.

“It’s just you and me,” He hears the whispered words, the lips saying them being pressed against his forehead in a soft kiss. He finally feels safe when his eyes involuntarily close and he falls into a deep sleep. His wounds can wait until tomorrow. Because nothing else matters when he’s wrapped in his moony’s arms.

#GG writes #wolfstar #withrewings #im tired #Sirius Black #Remus Lupin #runaway black #regulus black #remus x sirius #james potter #Kreature #harry potter #implied/referenced child abuse

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goldencuffs · 4 years

Note

heyyy......how about babysitter laurent and dad damen?? 😝😝

The dining table is a mess. There’s coloured paper scattered over its surface, red paint smeared across the apron, and dried glue on the right leg. The floor is worse: loose, tiny pieces of confetti and bits of glitter are strewn over the tiles like a kaleidoscopic painting.

Damen closes his eyes briefly in exasperation as he takes it all in. It’s been a long day, filled with lacklustre product development, incompetent staff, rude clients, and an uncomfortable, silent dinner with his in-laws.

Jokaste, in her silk blue dress, assesses the mess with flinty, cold eyes.

“What the fuck is this?” She makes for an intimidating figure, despite the flush in her cheeks betraying how intoxicated she is.

Damen touches her arm: a small, fleeting gesture to keep her from saying anything else.

Laurent, standing in the middle of the mess, is the epitome of guilt. He keeps wringing his hands together, and he can’t keep himself still, shuffling on his feet in agitated movements. Like Jokaste, his cheeks are flushed red, but he’s much more unkempt than her; even from here, Damen can make out the glitter stuck to Laurent’s forehead.

“I’m so sorry,” Laurent says. “I’m going to clean everything –”

“Where’s Theo?” Jokaste interrupts. Damen hates this habit of hers; he can’t even count how many times she’s done it to him over the years, and it drives him nuts every time.

Laurent pushes back his hair. His fingertips are green. “I sent him to bed.”

On a different night, this news might have made Jokaste melt; Theo is two and has been increasingly difficult during his bedtime. But Jokaste is in a combative mood tonight. She’d been particularly vicious on their way to her parent’s place and had only grown more irritated as the night wore on.

Damen knows her next comment won’t be pleasant. He feels his usual protectiveness towards Laurent and turns to her.

“Why don’t you check on T? I’ll make sure everything gets cleaned up down here.”

Jokaste hesitates; Damen knows, after years of being married to her, that she’s debating on whether having the last word will be in her favour.

Ultimately, she decides it won’t be. She turns back towards the staircase and heads upstairs without another word.

In a quiet voice Laurent says, “I really am sorry.”

Damen sighs. He takes another look at Laurent’s furrowed eyebrows, his pink, pursed mouth and feels some of the tension bleed from his shoulders.

Shrugging off his blazer and loosening his tie, he keeps his smile genuine and wide. “It’s okay,” Damen says. “Knowing my son, this could have been a lot worse.”

Laurent’s body seems to loosen. He ducks his head shyly and nods. “He was actually very good today.”

Damen snorts. Theo, lately, has been impatient and cranky all the time: a true poster child for the terrible twos.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he says in an undertone, and Laurent smiles, looking for the first time, relaxed.

When Damen heads over to the inbuilt pantry to hoard the cleaning supplies, Laurent says, “No, please. You go upstairs Damen; I can do this myself.”

“You’ll be here all night if someone doesn’t help you. It’s fine,” he adds, when Laurent opens his mouth to protest.

Amongst amicable conversation, they get to cleaning. The damage isn’t as bad as Damen initially thought; the paint is watery and comes off with a half-hearted swipe, and vacuuming the confetti takes less than a few minutes.

As they reorganise the papers, Laurent crowds further into his space, until their elbows are touching, and the line of Laurent’s thigh presses up against Damen’s. Damen glances down at him, captivated by the shimmer dancing on his face, and swallows.

Laurent has been their regular babysitter since Theo was just six months old. Back then, he’d been a shy twenty-year-old college student, who could hardly look into Damen’s eyes. Damen had hired him because he was the younger brother of one of his long-time clients, but over the years, Laurent has shown characteristics Damen highly values. He’s kind, empathetic, incredibly loyal and smart. The way Laurent treats Theo is enough for Damen to like him; Theo thinks Laurent is the best person in the world, much to Jokaste’s consternation.

So, yes: Damen has always liked Laurent. Recently though, their dynamic has changed to this: to sure, but fleeting touches, heated glances across the room, and texts sent late into the night.

Nothing so far has been too scandalous; from an outsider’s perspective, the way he and Laurent interact is still innocent.

But Damen knows it isn’t, because whenever his phone chimes at three in the morning, or whenever Laurent walks into his house wearing shirts that show off too much of his collarbone, he feels like he’s on fire. He feels like he’s losing control. It’s dangerous.

It had started a month ago, when Damen had offered to drive Laurent home on a rainy night. Laurent had invited him inside for drinks and Damen had said yes.

Several hours later, drunk and sated, Laurent had said, “You know the only reason I agreed to babysit Theo that first time was because I thought you were super hot.”

Stupidly, Damen said, “I thought you were too.”

Laurent gave him a long, measured look. Underneath it, there lay a margin of surprise. “Thought?” said Laurent, shifting closer on his terrible, sagging couch. “You don’t think so anymore?”

Damen eyed the paleness of Laurent’s throat, the pink across his cheeks and said, “I think you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.”

The surprise took over Laurent’s face. His mouth, darkened from the wine, grew slack, and his cornflower blue eyes widened. He leaned even closer. Damen did too.

Then, his phone had rung, and Damen felt a huge, overwhelming amount of guilt as he’d read his wife’s name across the lit screen.

He should have stopped it then. Instead, Damen found himself constantly checking his phone for messages from Laurent or calling him in the middle of the day to plan outings together.

Last week, they’d gone to a new, fancy restaurant out of town for dinner. Damen had told Jokaste it was for a last-minute business meeting with an important client.

Underneath the table, Laurent had hooked his foot around Damen’s leg and smiled.

Damen couldn’t look away for the rest of the night.

Now, the tension in the kitchen is pulsing. Damen is aware of the lack of space between them, the shortness of his own breath and the flush on Laurent’s skin.

Laurent moves impossibly closer, until he’s nestled into Damen’s chest. He’s still rearranging the papers with ease. It’s a test, Damen thinks.

Slowly, Damen steps back, just far enough to properly cage Laurent against him. Laurent’s back is to his chest, warm and firm. Damen moves his hands up to grip Laurent’s hips, and Laurent goes stills, his body tight.

They just stand there for a moment, then two. In the silence, Damen can hear the sound of running water and creaking wood; Jokaste is getting ready for bed.

Laurent shifts. It’s a deliberate movement. Damen grits his teeth as the curve of Laurent’s backside meets his groin. Laurent does it again, slower, and Damen closes his eyes.

It’s wrong that he’s doing this, in the kitchen of his own home, with his wife and kid upstairs, but Damen can’t think of anything else besides Laurent in his arms.

Laurent’s hair, so fine and golden, tickles Damen’s nose. It smells nice too, like coconut.

The water is still running. Damen, emboldened with the fact that Jokaste willl not be out for a while, does what he’s been desperate to do for a while: he carefully kisses the unblemished side of Laurent’s neck.

Laurent drops the papers.

He whirls around so fast, Damen almost loses his balance. Laurent’s eyes are wide in anticpation, and in excitement. It’s exhilarating that Damen can read him so well.

Laurent grips the collar of his dress shirt; it makes Damen stumble forward, his thigh slotting in between Laurent’s legs.

Laurent gasps, and Damen kisses him.

It’s not a chaste kiss. Immediately, Laurent opens his mouth, fingers digging into Damen’s hair. Damen kisses him hard and open mouthed, hands tight and unyielding as they hold onto Laurent’s waist.

Damen pins Laurent further into the lip of the table, Laurent’s hips moving in tiny, jerky movements. It’s so obvious he’s inexperienced, and for some sick, twisted reason, it lights a spark of arousal in Damen’s gut.

Laurent tastes like vanilla cake, Damen thinks, as he licks into Laurent’s mouth. His mouth is sweet, completely at Damen’s mercy. If Damen bent Laurent over the table and fucked him right now, Laurent would let him.

The thought makes Damen dizzy. Of course he can’t do that, but it doesn’t stop him from lifitng Laurent’s shirt, exposing his pale, flat stomach and digging his fingertips into the skin there.

Laurent moans into his mouth, hands clenching onto Damen’s curls even tighter.

Jokaste’s voice rings from the staircase. “Damen?”

Heart stopping for a brief moment, Damen pulls back. He almost groans at the sight of Laurent, whose lips are wet with Damen’s spit.

It’s a miracle Damen’s voice sounds normal as he says, “Yeah?”

He waits for the guilt to overcome him. It doesn’t.

“Has Laurent gone home yet?”

They’re still standing too close. It’s recklessly stupid. If Jokaste were to duck her head, she’d see them clearly.

Laurent’s fingers finds his. His thumb traces over Damen’s ring, over and over.

Damen swallows. “No,” he says, looking right at Laurent. “I’m going to drop him home now.”

Laurent smiles.

#this was supposed to be a drabble.......its 1.6k #i was going to release all the prompts at once but seeing how this took me 6 hrs it might be a while #anyway hope you enjoy??? idek what this is lol #captive prince #my writing #also someone tell me why the read more link isnt working Tumblr is so annoying 🙄🙄🙄🙄#my fic

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elderkale · 3 years

Text

chapter five

tell me we’ll never get used to it - chapter five

Sometimes he wondered if he had her in his trap, or if she had him in hers. And then he’d wonder if it mattered.

Her truck more ground than screeched to a halt and she was thrown forwards, face colliding painfully with the steering wheel. Theta swore and pushed her glasses up onto her forehead, rubbing her nose.

A rapping sounded by her ear. She pushed the hair out of her face and squinted through the window. Jack waved, holding up a cup of what Theta prayed was coffee.

The door squealed as she threw it open and Jack made a noise of distress, nudging a scratch against the blue paint with his hip. “What have you done to her?” he asked, a look of dismay on his face.

“Been busy,” Theta grumbled, snatching the cup out of his hand. It scalded her throat as it went down and she wrinkled her nose. Decaf. Shame.

Jack huffed and took a sip from the bigger cup he’d been holding out of her reach. Bastard. “That’s neglect, Doctor,” he said, shaking his head disapprovingly. “Who do I send the complaint to?”

“Oxford.” Theta took another gulp of the barley-coffee and smacked her lips. Two arms, she noted. She glanced down at his leg. “Good day?” she asked.

“It was.” He scowled and glanced up, the sunlight bouncing off his dark lenses. Not that many people would have need for sunglasses in mid-October, but, well, Jack. “You good for this?”

“Will be when you stop asking that.” The drink in the cup rattled as she took another sip. It wasn’t doing much to wake her up, but at least she was warm. “Lead the way, Captain.”

It always surprised Theta just how many people they could manage to scrounge up for a body. Nothing but contamination, in her opinion (See the scuff marks you just walked over? The eyelash that fell from your cheek when you shook your head? The dust in the carpet, the group arguing over the splatters? Yes, Johnny, even if it is just mildew). Good for her, she supposed, but also really, really bad for her. Not that she could reasonably argue too much. No stone unturned, and all that.

“Motels,” she grumbled, pressing up against the wall to let a man toting a bucket walk by (See? Contamination! She wasn’t even wearing a hairnet!) (Which wasn’t really anyone’s fault other than hers, but it wasn’t like anyone had offered her one, either). “Why’s it always a motel? Can’t anyone ever leave a body in a park, or a nice ballroom, at least?” She wrinkled her nose. “One that doesn’t stink of asbestos?”

“I think that’s the air freshener, Doc,” said Jack, lifting the tape for her to slip under.

“I think I know what asbestos smells like, Jack.” He ducked after her awkwardly. She sniffed again. Blood. Lots of it. It clung to the air, the smell, giving it a weight like the lightest veil. She could almost feel it seeping into her pores.

“End of the hall.” Jack pointed around the bend. “I’ve got SOCO to clear out. Five minutes?”

She ignored the gloves a passing officer tried to hand her, tucking her spare hand into her pocket instead. “See you when I see you.”

“Five minutes,” said Jack wryly.

She winked and flounced away, pivoting around the corner.

Ah. She stopped dead (oh, no, bad phrasing). Well, that explained something.

She crept down the hall, tiptoeing around the splotches of blood seeped so deeply into the carpet they looked like they’d been there from the beginning. There were still puddles in some places. She wondered whether, if she stepped on a dry spot, it would crack, or simply bend.

Not just the floor, either. The walls were dripping and crusted with red, like a gruesome parody of a bad paint job, and there were even flecks on the ceiling, frozen mid-drip and dried into tiny brown stalactites.

And there, at the end of the hall, the pièce de résistance, the crowning glory, the centrepiece, the highlight. The ebony jewel in the middle of the crimson crown, and whatever passed for a gallery in a world blinded by blood.

Wrong was the first word to pop into her mind. Wrongwrongwrongwrongwrong. Her hair was too bright, too verging on yellow, her fingers just barely too long. Chin too sharp, legs too short. Nails painted sloppily, pink polish staining the skin around the cuticles, a shirt that didn’t fit. Wrong.

Imitation.

Of what? who? what? ???

Pieces of hair tucked behind ears with deft hands, rings cleaned carefully of blood before being slipped back on. Thorns woven into braids like silken ribbons, eyes that were only just too green pried out with care and locked gently between bleached white teeth, jeans cuffed neatly at the ankles. Anchors driven through flesh and bone with what you could even call tenderness.

This, she heard it who her him him whisper, my dear, is love.

A eulogy is not an epilogue. She licked her lips. But you wouldn’t understand that, would you?

She lifted her hand and held it next to her face—the icy chill of death against burning human heat. Drained—no question about that. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d loaded it into water pistols and sprayed them willy-nilly.

No cameras, obviously. It’s what she would have done.

She couldn’t find the door, for some reason. She couldn’t find any doors. In fact, she wasn’t even in a hall. The windows spiralled around her, and then they shattered. There was nothing behind them.

It was in her hair, too butitshouldn’thavebeen, turning flowing blonde strands into stiff brown spikes ithadbeeninherhairtoo.

She was running towards the door, and then she was running along it, and then she was banging her fists against an empty wall, and then there was no wall.

She stumbled, and heard something break.

No walls no floors no doors and what was she standing on because it sure as hell wasn’t a sea of shattered glass so whatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwh

atwhatwhatwha

She fell to her knees and the world turned white.

She didn’t know how long she stayed balled-up in the corner, arms tight around her legs like a vice, face buried in her knees. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, it could even have been days—she didn’t think she would have noticed. The movements of the other people were to her like flies buzzing behind an inch of glass. She felt, rather than heard or saw, them passing in front of her, like shadows in a pitch-black room. They gave her a wide berth, inching around the invisible barrier with the care of treasure-hunters trying not to wake a sleeping dragon, or children creeping around a swollen balloon, pins held behind their backs.

Most of them already thought that she was mad (which she was—just not in the way they thought they thought she was) anyways. No harm in cementing the notion.

She felt like she’d been there for days. At the same time, she felt like she’d just sat down. When she was approached, it felt both like it was too soon and that she’d been waiting for far too long.

She’d expected Jack, or maybe Martha. She’d expected someone to crouch down next to her, to duck away from a gentle hand and leap to her feet like a coiled spring. She’d expected to plaster a smile as fake as the light in her eyes across her face and sweep out before anyone had time to ask her anything else. She’d expected to shiver and stumble her way out of the building and make the hours-long trek home down the side of the highway. Maybe she’d even have the good fortune to be murdered on her way. Or to commit one. She hadn’t decided yet.

That wasn’t what she got.

A shadow fell over her, and the hair on the back of her neck bristled. “Get up,” said Koschei. “I’m taking you home.”

Theta managed a muffled noise that could have been a groan, and a minute twitch of her head that might have been a shake. She heard Koschei sigh, and imagined his nostrils flaring in exasperation as he rolled his eyes to the heavens in search of divine guidance. “Christ’s sake,” he growled. She heard the rustle of fabric as he crouched down, and felt surprisingly gentle hands unwind her arms from around herself. She kept her eyes squeezed tightly shut as he slung one of her arms over his shoulders, and wrapped one of his own around her waist. She was just glad he didn’t try to carry her. If he would even be able to manage. She let out a faint, high-pitched giggle at the image.

“You’re not going into hysterics, are you?” Koschei asked drily. She was walking, she noted. Knees bending, bones rolling in joints. One foot in front of the other, muscles tightening and contracting and loosening and stretching. So much put into the simple action and, yet, humans did it with less effort than breathing. Neat. “Fuck. Fine.” She half-stumbled when he stopped, feet dragging against the carpet. “Hey.” He patted her shoulder. “Stairs. C’mon.”

His car was just as ridiculous as she’d expected. She thought she might have been blinded a bit by the vibrant purple (or maybe that was just her—she was still dizzy), and it had no business having that much leather inside it.

The driver’s side door slammed shut and Koschei turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, and Theta felt her seat rumble beneath her. “Address,” Koschei demanded.

Theta squeezed her eyes shut. Deep blue door, paint chipped and worn from where it kept slamming into the wall. Purple couch, strewn with rainbow cushions and worn flannel blankets. Counter, stained with rings of tea and spilled soup. Bedroom. Office, books on the ground and jackets slung over the desk, and photos turned down on their faces. She shook her head and dragged her hands down her face. Where was that, again?

Koschei sighed, and Theta heard gravel crunch beneath wheels (crunchy crunch crunch). “Fine,” he said. “Alright, then. Don’t get on my case about it later, then.”

She didn’t remember what her dorm had looked like. Had she pinned up posters, or photos, or strung scarves and tinsel from the bedposts to the walls? What had the ceiling looked like when the curtains had shifted and let slivers of sunlight shoot through? She’d had a recorder, she remembered, and a habit of leaving it on her roommate’s dresser or her desk in the morning, and finding it on the ground in the afternoon.

Not that she’d cared. She hadn’t spent nearly enough time in that room to call it home, and wouldn’t have even gone back had she not been frog-marched every night. A place to sleep, to work, to sit in silence and contemplate whatever it was people spent their time contemplating. And dreadfully wasteful, she remembers saying. She could have done any of that just as well, if not better, on the roof, on a bench, or in Magnus’s bathtub, and given no one any reason to complain (except Mortimus, maybe, but they’d all known that he didn’t shower anyways).

At most, she thinks, it would have been a mirror of Koschei’s. His had been an impersonal one, she remembers, even in contrast to Vansell’s monotone, showroom sheets and pillows. No point, he’d said, and she’d agreed and forgotten about it.

Koschei’s house wasn’t small. Normal-sized, a jogger passing by might call it. Average. A bachelor’s pad would be the words on a real estate agent’s tongue, and condo on the lease.

The Koschei she’d known wouldn’t have given it a second thought. The Koschei she knows tosses a throw out of the way and deposits her on an overstuffed brown armchair smelling faintly of cats.

He didn’t sit down across from her. She didn’t know whether or not she was grateful for that. “Tea?” he asked, tossing his coat over the back of the couch. “I’ve got chai, ceylon, and some weird pink stuff I got on sale.”

She cleared her throat. “Pink stuff,” she said, a bit hoarsely.

He vanished. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, resting her elbows on her knees. The chair was soft, even softer now that she was thinking about it. Soft enough that she was actually a bit worried about sinking into it. And that was definitely a cat smell.

She’d had a cat once, in a sense. A stray that used to wander around the grounds sometimes that she would throw chunks of biscuit at, until Millenia told her that they were bad for cats. She’d called her (the cat, not Millenia) Stinky, Tyche, O Mighty Ball of Rage, and, on one occasion, after being scratched, Irving (she had later gone back and apologized for her actions—Theta, not the cat).

She puffed her cheeks out and let her breath out until her lungs were sagging and her chest ached. She leaned back and dragged her hands down her face.

She peeked through her fingers and let her eyes roam around the room. Walls the colour of a robin’s egg (She’d never actually seen a robin before, but their eggs always looked very pretty in pictures.) (They sounded quite nice, too—the birds, not the eggs. She’d searched up a recording of their song and listened until Max from next door had banged on the wall and yelled at her to turn it off.), a coffee table covered in scratches and stains sagging under the weight of more books and magazines than she could count (she tried, then got distracted by a headline about a unicorn, Sherlock Holmes, and Jesus), heavy brown drapes she could have drowned in, and an almost-carbon copy of the rug in his office that had definitely seen better days. Faded elegance and false mosaics. About as far from his Baroquian office and tailored suits as she could imagine.

Cramped was a word. So was messy. Cozy was another.

“Tea.” She jumped. “Here.” She took the mug that was, indeed, full of steaming pink liquid. She sniffed it suspiciously.

Koschei leaned against a wall, next to an unframed painting of a desert scene. Theta felt distinctly like the tumbleweed should have been bouncing through the room, not the canvas. He shifted his own mug from one hand to the other. Theta raised her own and took a cautious sip. It tasted, to her (pleasant) surprise, more like lemons than boiled Pepto-Bismol. She took another, larger sip.

Koschei tugged idly on the string of his teabag, watching it bob up and down in his mug. “Wanna talk?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Don’t know,” she said. “Is this therapy?”

He swirled his teabag around in his cup. “This is me trying not to be an arse.” A few drops slashed over the rim, and he caught them on his finger before they fell to the ground.

“Huh.” Theta took another sip. “Needs work.”

“Yeah?” The floorboards should have creaked when he walked around her. It felt like they might have, at least. It felt like they did.

They didn’t, of course. Koschei probably wouldn’t have lived in a house with creaky floorboards even when held at gunpoint. Probably. “What happened?” he asked.

“Nothing.” She took a gulp of tea, then coughed as it scalded her throat on the way down.

“Bullshit.”

“Is that any way to talk to a patient?” she asked sardonically.

“You’re not a patient,” Koschei pointed out. “Not right now.”

Theta scowled down into her pink stuff. “Bad day,” she muttered.

“How?”

She shrugged. “Tired, I guess. Unprepared.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ever chucked a body out a window?” Theta asked sarcastically, scratching the back of the head. “Bet you anything someone down there screams.”

“You’re not a pedestrian.”

“Analogy, Doctor,” Theta grumbled, dragging her hand through her hair. Her fingers caught on a knot and she tugged at it irritably. “You know, that might just be the nicest thing you’ve said to me lately?”

“A pedestrian, Doctor, a pedestrian.”

She snickered. “Sure.”

“You’re tedious. A lifeless lump. I can feel myself falling asleep already.”

Theta dragged air in through her teeth. “He—there was a serial kidnapper,” she told him. “Sounds a bit silly, saying it like that, now I think about it. ‘Serial kidnapper.’ Most people don’t talk about them, you know? Not in many crime shows, I reckon. Doesn’t sound like the brightest idea, either. Serial kidnapper. Kidnapper, but serial. What’s one person going to do with that many people, anyways?”

She was rambling, she knew. It was the most she’d ever said at one time about it since she’d given the report, but she couldn’t seem to stop. “It wasn’t hard, in the end, to find him. Wasn’t too clever. Not clever enough, at least. You know?”

“I know,” said Koschei.

“It was a house in Leeds,” said Theta. “His house. The house wasn’t the kidnapper. That’s where he was keeping everyone. House in Leeds, on Satellite and Fifth, in the basement. Cliché, I guess, but if it ain’t broke. . .” She waited for him to cut her off. He didn’t. She took a big, harsh gulp of her tea, and coughed when it went down the wrong way.

“I didn’t—” Her fingers turned white against the mug. “It was my fault,” she said. “I know that. Jack knows that. She probably did, too.”

“Who?”

Shit.

Theta drained the last few drops of tea. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Obviously it does,” said Koschei sardonically.

“You know.”

“Not from you.” Was it her imagination, or was that softness in his voice? She tried to take another sip from the empty mug. “What are you afraid of?”

Not you, she didn’t say. Not myself. Not her.

Slowly, carefully, she lowered her right hand into her lap. She turned it palm-up, shakily uncurling her fingers. “Her name was Rose,” she quietly. “She was my—” Girlfriend sounded wrong; young, trivial, insouciant. Fiancée hurt. Partner made her want to scream. “She was my friend,” she said softly. “She was my best friend. More than that. She was everything. More than that, even. And I don’t think I ever even told her.”

“Why?”

She bared her teeth bitterly. “Because I’m an idiot,” she said, the mug hot beneath her palm. “Isn’t that what you always said?”

His fingers twitched against his knees. “What happened to him?” he asked. “The kidnapper.”

Theta shrugged. “Ran,” she said. Ran past right in front of me and I couldn’t even get up to stop him. “I don’t think he knew what he was doing, not really. He was half-mad to begin with. They caught up with him a day later.”

“What else?”

She closed her eyes and bodies laid out neatly like books on a shelf metal doors swinging shut blonde hair vanishing behind cold unforgiving steel pain in her hand weight inside her heart and another one in her pocket against it let her breath out through her nose.

“She looked like her,” she said. “That girl. On the wall. She looked like Rose.”

“Do you ever think about revenge?” The question burst forwards abruptly, like water from a split balloon.

She frowned. “Where’s that coming from?”

“It’s a question,” said Koschei, eyes never moving from hers. “Do you?”

Theta tapped her fingers on the rim of her mug. “No point,” she muttered. “Just causes more trouble.”

“That’s changed,” Koschei muttered.

“Be bad if it hadn’t, though, wouldn’t it?” Theta put the empty mug down on the coffee table, then instantly regretted it. She settled for picking at her fingernails instead. “I think that’s what people call growth.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Too bad. It’s all I’ve got.”

“Hypothetically?”

She prodded at a hangnail, and imagined peeling it away. She could see it in her mind, clear as day: the thinnest strip of skin hanging from her hand like a loose thread and a trail of red in its wake. “I hear pushing them off cliffs works great.”

“Yeah?” he said almost before she’d finished speaking.

“No.” She pried at the tip of one nail with another. “It’s shit, by the way. The cliff thing.”

He shrugged. “Same goes for most split-second decisions, I’d wager.”

“Split-second.” He shrugged again.

“I’d assume.” He moved around her, and she shifted back in her chair as he bent over the coffee table. He swept a newspaper from last month and a magazine headlining an article about a man with twelve fingers out of the way and sat down in front of her. “You still haven’t said.” He put his mug down next to himself.

She watched it teeter precariously on the stack of magazines, pinching the tip of her finger until it turned red. “Does it matter?”

“Will you tell me if I say yes?”

She huffed. “I don’t think you’re supposed to say that.”

“Oh, go on, Theta.”

She shrugged. “Kill him, I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

“It’s not like I’ve thought about it.” Not actively, at least.

“How?”

She dragged a breath in through her teeth. “I don’t know,” she said.

“But you would.”

“I would.”

He cocked his head. “That doesn’t bother you?”

“Why would it?”

He shrugged. “Ethics?” he suggested. “Moral code? You’ve got one, haven’t you?”

“You know, sometimes it sounds like you’re one bad day away from being Harold Shipman.”

He snorted. “Well?”

Theta pressed her finger against her palm. The crack echoed through the room. “Hannah,” she said, “said it’s alright. That it’s cathartic.”

“Hannah?” Koschei asked sharply.

“Yup.” Theta popped the knuckle on her next finger. “She’s a therapist. Maybe you’ve met?”

“I thought you didn’t see anyone,” said Koschei, sounding very much like he’d just been tricked and wasn’t too happy about it.

“I didn’t.” Theta cracked her pinkie. “Ianto tricked me into picking Jack up. She was very nice to talk to.”

“Yeah?”

“‘Course. Lovely woman. Like cats. Your chair smells like one, you know?”

“A woman?”

“A cat.”

“Mhm. Would you like me to arrange the funeral now, or later?”

She kicked at his shin, and he stomped on her toes. Theta’s scowl deepened, and Koschei just managed to yank his leg out of the way in time. Theta flopped back in her seat and glared at him.

Koschei leaned back on his arms. His eyes followed the faint shaking of her right hand. “Would you?” he asked softly. And then, “I would.”

Did.

Theta looked down, letting her hair fall over her face. “They thought it was me,” she said suddenly. Her nail throbbed where she’d tugged at it. “They thought it was me that—you know. Glospin.” The name felt foreign on her tongue, misshapen in her mouth. “Somehow.” She dug her nails into the back of her hand until her fingers shook.

He reached forwards and stilled her hands with his. They were warm, feverish, almost, against the cold of her fingers. “Did you ever read my letters?” he asked. “I thought—” He took in a deep, rattling breath, then let out one that sounded like a laugh. “I don’t know. No one else ever said anything about it to me, but I thought that the others were writing you, too.” His hands tightened around hers. “Did you even open them?” he asked, sounding very much like he already knew the answer.

She tried to clench her fists, and he tightened his fingers around hers. “Wasn’t exactly high on my list of priorities,” she muttered.

“What was?”

“Believe it or not, Koschei, you’re not the centre of the universe,” she bit out. “Or mine, either.”

He didn’t let go of her hands, and she didn’t pull them back, either. He toyed with the tip of her pinky—the crooked one, from when she’d broken it punching a cabinet when they were twelve. “Why?” he asked again.

She looked down at their hands. His were fine-boned and calloused, the skin around his nails darkened and bruised. Hers were smaller, but rougher, the dirt under her nails a stark contrast to his careful manicure, and shaking like leaves in the wind.

What a pair they made.

“You’d want to talk,” she said. “You’d want to talk about it.”

His fingers wrapped around her wrist, twining like leaves of grass reclaiming what was theirs. Serpents drawn to the light, closer and closer until the toothy jaws could snap shut over them. “Sounds like the pot calling the kettle black to me,” said Koschei. “You’re the talker. Always yammering.”

She rolled her eyes. “You wouldn’t have let it go,” she said. “You know you do that, right? Grab onto something and just hang on?”

He rolled his eyes. “Pot,” he said, holding up their hands, “meet kettle.”

She snorted, and tugged her hands back.

He let it go. For now.

It hadn’t been a gift. Not to her.

He wasn’t an idiot; he knew that.

Still.

It had been something.

He tugged the oven door open, and a wall of heat hit him in the face. He grimaced and squinted through the wavering haze.

She’d never been good at taking care of herself. He’d bring her something tomorrow.

#no! that's not how you show affection!#tmwnguti #masterversary #doctor who #dw #fanfiction #writing #doctor who fanfiction #fanfiction update #the master #dhawan!master #the doctor #thirteenth doctor #thoschei #spydoc #au

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soft-stormcloud · 4 years

Text

My name is Patton, and I’m your Guardian Angel [Guardian Angel AU]

Synopsis: Virgil tries to kill himself, but his Guardian Angel stops him.

Trigger warnings: Suicide attempt (not successful), crying, depression, pills, vomiting,

A/N: Really weird worldbuilding idk. This was supposed to be a high school type au but I’ve been listening to people playing DND so it’s a really weird mix between modern and fantasy. Wtv.

Virgil came in through the front door, making sure to slam it loud enough for it to echo through the entire house.

He had skipped his last class and turned his phone off, not to do anything particular, but to walk around town. He wandered through the shopping district, stopping at a bakery to pick up a cupcake, and drifted to a park with a duck pond near the gates. He was half paranoid that the guards would see him on their break and send him back to school, but no one paid him any mind. He just sat and ate his cupcake and watched the ducks and the sunset.

He had turned his phone back on on the way home and it buzzed with three messages, all from the same person.

Did you get detention?

I’ll wait here another ten minutes before going home. I’m not waiting for all the sports’ practices to get out just to find out you left without me again.

I’m coming over later. Don’t do anything stupid.

He couldn’t help the sharp pang of disappointment. He knew it was stupid, and it was childish, but he just wanted to see if anyone would notice he was gone. Adam did, but that wasn’t really a surprise. They weren’t who Virgil was hoping to hear from.

At the sound of the door slamming, another one swung open down the hall. Remus’s little feet slapped against the tile and, before Virgil could blink, he had an arm-full of his little brother.

“Where were you?!” He whined, grabbing fist-fulls of Virgil’s hair and shaking a bit.

“Ow, Remus, stop,” Virgil mumbled, settling him against his hip.

Roman came into the foyer, clutching his script. “Remus! Don’t be so loud, you know your dad just laid down.”

Remus pouted.

Roman frowned. “Virgil, did you just get home?”

Virgil’s heart rate picked up. He nodded.

His eyes widened. “Where were you? Has Remus eaten? Remus, did you eat? How did you get home?”

Remus shook his head. “Nuh-uh. I walked!”

Roman pressed his hand to his heart. “You walked? All the way from school? Virgil, what’s the matter with you?” He tucked his script in his waistband and went over to them, cradling both of their heads in each of his hands. “I’ve never known you to be so irresponsible. What’s going on?”

He shook his head and looked away. “Nothing. Sorry, I’ll make him dinner.”

Roman kissed Virgil’s cheek, and Remus giggled when Roman kissed his nose. “Just be quiet. Logan’s taking a nap in the living room. I’ll be in our room if you need me.”

The resentment-mixed-shame built up in Virgil’s stomach as he made Remus dinner. While he was cooking the grilled cheese, he slipped on some water and reached out for anything to grab to steady himself- Like the hot pan. He prepared himself for the seering burn with a small cry, only for his hand to be pushed away and his body to be righted.

“Vergie?” Remus asked with a frown. “Are you okay?”

Virgil caught his breath, breathing heavily. He was confused, but he tried not to think about it. “I’m fine.” He sat Remus’s food down in front of him and went to his room.

His phone buzzed as he sat on his bed.

Adam: I’ll be late. Don’t ask. Should I bring my camera?

Virgil: no

He flopped back on his bed, the wrinkled purple sheets a comforting, if albeit boring familiarity under him. His room was always very dark. When he was little, he had insisted, day in and day out, that he wanted to paint his walls black. He wanted it to resemble a cave, and he wanted to sleep upside down like a bat. Roman and Logan told him that he couldn’t do that, because if he painted it black he could never paint it any other colour, and that if they ended up wanting to sell the house, that would make it much more difficult. Virgil didn’t care. He insisted.

Finally, Logan did it out of spite. He bought all the paint and a bar you used for pull-ups and before he did anything, he asked Virgil if he was sure. Virgil was. So they painted his walls black together, and Virgil got it all over himself, and Roman nearly lost his mind when he got home but his parents were indestructible and Virgil had never seen them fight about anything serious. After his bedtime story, they both sat down and watched Virgil hang upside down on the bar for all of thirty seconds before he decided the black walls were enough and he wanted to sleep normally.

He now kept faerie lights to keep his room as light as he could, as many as he could find, all over his walls, purple and blue and yellow and green. There were ripped posters from bands he didn’t listen to anymore and photographs of him, his parents, Remus, and even a few of Adam, the short time they’ve known each other. By the only window, he had pushed his ferrets’ cage up against it so they got sunlight.

And as much as he loved it, he didn’t think he could bear to look at it any longer.

He reached between the wall and his bed and pulled out a bottle of pills he had taken from the medicine cabinet in his parents’ bathroom.

He had always thought he would be crying when he did this, but in truth, he dried himself out at the duck pond. He didn’t feel too much of anything, just a slowly increasing heart rate and some sweaty palms. It was like his anxiety was trying to poke through, but it was buried under wrapping muscle and bones and blood. It was all… Muffled.

He felt kind of sick after he took all of them, but that could be because of the overwhelming, chalky taste in his mouth. He grabbed the old Mountain Dew off his bedside table and downed the rest of it.

Then he went to sleep.

xxx

There were flashes of white, soft, soothing white, and he was floating. It was nice, until he threw up all over the carpet.

“Dangit,” someone whispered in his ear. He couldn’t recognize the voice, but he wasn’t scared. “Come on, a little further.”

Virgil collapsed against the toilet and dry heaved, ripping a sob from his throat. It felt like his body was trying to turn itself inside out, it was horrible. He had taken the Atarax to skip this part, sleep through it, but now it was like he was in a dream, the bathroom lights blurred and his skin tingling.

“Sorry about this,” the voice whispered before something was shoved down his throat.

It disappeared, and he threw up again. He coughed and gagged, smacking the base of the toilet a few times. An eternity later, he slumped back against the wall, gasping for breath.

“Oh, it’s not working…” They sounded panicked. “Nng, they told me not to do this… Oh, well.”

Suddenly, Virgil’s throat was cleared, and his stomach was empty. He sucked in a deep breath, blinking away the tears.

“What…” His voice came out a horrible, ugly rasp.

“Oh, no, don’t do that! You’ll hurt yourself. Here…”

A glass of water was forced into his hands. He didn’t question it, just chugged the whole thing. When he finally got his vision back, he came face to face with a boy around his age in a blue cloth dress, perched on his sink.

“We should get you to bed,” the boy said. “You need to rest after all this.”

Virgil blinked. “Who are you?”

“Oh, introductions already?” He giggled nervously. Comically small, pastel blue feathered wings sprouted from his back and carried him gently to the ground. He grabbed Virgil’s arm and helped him to his feet. “I’m Patton. And I’m… Well, that doesn’t really matter right now. Gosh, I can see now why we aren’t supposed to do this…” He settled Virgil on the bed and pulled the covers over him. “Oh, wow, I love your room…” He giggled. “Purple was my best friend’s favourite colour.” His voice trailed off into a murmur as he wandered around, his wings fluttering as he looked at photos and trinkets. “Well, his and about fifty others in my class… Anyway, it’s a good colour. Strong.”

The Atarax was pulling him in again, but… He had to know.

“I need to know who you are,” he slurred.

“Oh, you really don’t-”

“Now!”

Patton tensed up, and then sighed with a subdued smile. “Very well. Virgil Sanders-Rios?” Virgil nodded slowly. “My name is Patton, and I’m your Guardian Angel. But I’m new, so go easy on me!”

Part of him believed this was some Atarax-induced dream- He’s hallucinated before when he took too much. It’s never been this… Detailed, though.

“Huh?”

“I’ve been assigned to you for your lifetime to keep you safe. You trying to kill yourself isn’t quite something I’m allowed to let you do, so… Rest up! You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Virgil stared at him. He was asian, with a light brown pixie cut, peach-toned skin, and round, hooded blue eyes. Other than the ridiculous wings, he didn’t look like an angel. He just looked… Normal. Part of him wondered if the wings were pinned on, but no, he could tell they were real. They breathed with him, fluttered occasionally, and when Patton had bent over to look at the stack of books under his desk, they stretched like muscle.

The only thing he could possibly get out was an astounding, “But you’re… My age.”

Patton giggled and shook his head. “Unless you’re 315, I don’t think so.”

Virgil stared at him. And then he rolled over, pulled the covers up to his ear, and said, “I’m going to bed.”

There was no answer. When Virgil looked over again, a few hours later and in between dreams, Patton was gone.

Tagging everyone who reblogged the intro post, lmk if you want on or off the tag list:

@larry-angels @themysticfae26 @comicsimpson @anxietea-and-insanitea @nonasidesstuff @coffeewithhaiku @arri-aspects @sanders-sister @sanders-sides-uncorrect-quotes @anxiousmess82161 @iamthenewqueenofgames @ninjagirl9797 @luna--28 @a-deceit-salad @plunksaysnope @lovesupportandcookies @normallyaspen

#virgil is v emo in this lmao #virgil sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #remus sanders #sympathetic remus #virgil #roman #remus #patton #guardian angel au

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dont-cry2020 · 5 years

Text

“ ‘S alright, Love.”

Yungblud (Dominic Harrison) x Reader

Requested by @madscorner

//Maybe something based on his song polygraph eyes? Where a girl is maybe about to get taken advantage of in a club when she’s clearly drunk. And he saves her//

//Angst, fluff, and sexual abuse (not graphic), mentions of rape//

“Y/nnnn!” your friend, Ashley whines over the phone. “Let’s go out.”

“Ash,” You whisper through the line, rubbing your eyes and sitting up from the spot in your warm bed. “It’s midnight and my parents are asleep. There’s no way I’m going out. Besides,” you note, hearing Ashley’s pleads over the other line. “You’re clearly already drunk.”

“You’re such a downer,” she tells you. “Just...Come on, please? Meet me at our usual spot. By the shops.”

You were about to protest with your best friend so that you could crawl back into your warm bed, but the line went dead before you could even get a word out.

“You know what?” you mumble to yourself. “Fuck it.”

Stumbling out of bed, you throw on a dress and some heels that you knew you would regret wearing later on, and you make your escape out of your bedroom window and on to the back patio. You land with a thud, shaking out your ankles as you walk down the street.

It was half-past midnight and the streets were dark, the sky pitched black as you clutched tighter onto your purse. Soon enough, you saw the familiar head of long blue hair leaning against the corner store. She was smoking a joint and holding a bottle of cheap wine she had presumably just bought with her new fake id that she was so incredibly proud of. ‘I had to fuck the ugliest guy for this,’ she would tell you, twirling the plastic card in between her manicured fingers. You admired her for that. The way she was able to be so effortlessly bold, while you were too scared to leave your house for fear of your parents punishing you. God forbid you were eighteen years old.

“Y/n!” Ashley squeals, pulling her slouched body off the brick wall after stubbing out her joint. “Here,” she says, handing you the half-drunken bottle of wine. You take a swig and let the liquid course through your veins; it was just enough to get you to let loose and agree to go to the nearest club.

The bass boomed through your ears, deafening you as you grab the first shot you see off the bar counter. The alcohol burns your throat as you make your way to the dance floor.

You and Ashley grind on each other, as you let go from all your worries and fears. You let your hips move tot he music as the night begins to blur. More shots come your way and you don’t hesitate to grab two off of the tray.

“Here, Ash!” you yell over the music, turning your body around to hand her the shot. “Ash?” you question, seeing as your friend was nowhere to be seen. You shrugged it off (you were too trashed to care anyway) and took another shot. Your body began to feel numb as you thrashed your head from side to side.

Suddenly, you spot the mane of long blue hair swishing out of the bar and onto the streets. You push through the mass of bodies grinding on each other

“Ash!” you yell after her, accidentally bumping into someone. “Sorry!” you look up at the man you had just run into. He was a bit taller than you and his hair was all over the place.

“ ’ S alright, Love,” he tells you, pursing his plump lips and stepping out of your way. You giggle to yourself at the thick accent that rolls off his tongue as you continue to stumble your way out of the bar.

You push open the heavy door and look around for your blue-haired friend.

“Ashleyyyy?” you slur, wrapping your arms tighter around your body. It was around two in the morning and the chilly London air was making the hair on your arms raise. The backs of your shoes were rubbing into your heels as you wobbled around the club building.

A few guys were sat in an alleyway passing around a spliff as you made your way past them.

“Oi, pretty girl, you lost?” one asks you, standing up from his spot on the wall. You whip your head around and take him in. He was tall, very tall and had broad shoulders. If you weren’t so drunk you would have been intimidated, but, alas, you were absolutely hammered.

“No, I’m looking for my friend Ashley. Have you seen her?” you tell him. He steps closer and you can smell the weed and alcohol on his breath. You stumble, almost falling but the man catches you by your waist.

“ ‘Ow about I take you home, Lovie. ‘elp you get out of those damn shoes... and maybe that dress.” He winks at you, grabbing your hips. You couldn’t really speak as exhaustion began to take over your body, but you could feel his blunt nails digging into your side. The man (who you still didn’t know the name of) was practically dragging you by the wrist and down the street.

“Hey! You forgot your phone!” A voice calls out from behind you. You turn your head to find out where it came from. The boy that you had bumped into earlier was running towards you, holding what looked to be your cell phone. You must’ve dropped it on your stumble out the door.

The other man tightened his grip on your wrist, leaving indents in the skin.

“Ow,” you yelp quietly as he yanks your arm closer to his body. He throws his arm over your shoulders and turns around to face the boy with the messy hair. “Please let go of me,” you plead quietly.

“Leave me and my girl the fuck alone, mate,” he ignores your pleads and spits on the younger boy.

“I’m just tryna return her phone to her,” the boy says back.

“She ‘as her fuckin’ phone. That’s not ‘ers.”

Your eyes begin to tear up as the grip on your shoulders becomes to tight for you to handle.

“You’re fookin’ hurting her, mate,” the younger boy says.

“I know what the fuck I’m doing am I’m not fucking hurting her, am I, Lovie?” His grip only tightens and your tears only get bigger, but your throat chokes on a sob making you unable to speak.

“Mate, you’re hurting her!”

The man’s fist collides with the younger boy’s jaw, letting you out of his grip as you drop to the cold concrete. The younger boy cradles his face in his hand before uppercutting the man’s nose. He falls to the ground.

“You fucking broke my nose, you fucking cunt!”

The younger boy ignores the man’s thrashing and cursing as he runs to your side. “Are you alright, Love?” You shake your head, hiccuping as you sob. “C’ mere,” he says, embracing your body. You hesitated at first, but soon melted in his embrace. It was warm, and he smelled like cinnamon and vanilla. “I’m Dom, by the way.”

You clutch onto his leather jacket, tears soaking his black shirt. “Y/n,” you say through broken sobs.

“Can I walk you home, Y/n?” Dom asks, grabbing your hand to help you off the ground.

“No!” you yell, startling him. “M-my parents are going to kill me,” you add hiccuping.

“Okay, Love,” he says. “You’re quite drunk right now, aren't you?” you nod your head, accepting the fact that you were, in fact, hammered. “You can spend that night at my place,” Dom tells you, holding your hand to help you walk straight. “I won’t try anything, I promise,” he adds quickly.

You nod your head. “Okay,” you whisper, looking a the ground.

The walk to Dom’s flat was quiet as he helped you walk down the street. You could feel bruises forming around your hips and around your wrists from the previous incident.

Looking up from the ground, you study the boy’s face. He had a yellowing bruise on his jaw and there was dried blood. Dom fiddled with his keys as you made your way up the steps. You carefully raise your hand to his cheek and gently brush your fingers over his wounds. He flinches as you catch him off guard.

“Sorry,” you whisper, looking down at the ground.

“ ‘S alright, Love,” he tells you, opening the front door to his flat and letting you in.

His apartment was a good size; the walls were painted a light gray and there were posters of bands you recognized hanging in the walls. In one corner, there were various guitars and amplifiers resting against the wall and in another corner, there was a piano and a microphone.

“Are you a musician?” you ask, flopping down on his couch after removing your heels. You lay down on your side and curl up on the soft gray cushions.

“Yeah,” Dom says, handing you a glass of water. “That couch isn’t too comfortable to sleep on,” he says after a minute. “You can ‘ave my bed.”

“It’s ok,” you say, starting to sober up. “It’s enough that you saved me and kicked that guy's ass and gave me a place to stay.”

Dom snorts. “Was the least I could do. Wouldn’t forgive myself if I let that twat hurt you. Here’s your phone by the way.” He hands you your phone and you turn it on, only to see that it’s dead. You groan.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

“It’s dead and my friend is probably worried that I’m dead or something,” you sigh, closing your eyes.

“I ‘ave a charger you can use,” he says, offering you a hand off the couch. “It’s in my bedroom, though.” You take his calloused hand and pull yourself off the couch, following him into his bedroom.

His bed was quite big and it had white sheets that made you feel at home. There was a small desk in the corner with a stack of notebooks on it. There was a hand-drawn poster over the desk that said ‘Yungblud’ on it.

You sat down on his bed as Dom plugged your phone into the wall. He rifles through his closet and finds a shirt that was even too big for himself.

“Here,” he says, handing you the piece of clothing. “You’ll be more comfortable. Bathroom’s right over there,” he points to a door next to his closet and you pad towards it, opening it and stepping inside. You turn on the light and shut the door, stripping out of your dress and your bra. Purple spots dot your hips and your waist. You choke back a sob as the events from earlier flash through your mind.

“Y/n?” Dom’s voice echos through the door as you collapse onto the floor. “Y/n, are you alright? I’m coming in,” he says, opening the door to find your body curled up on the floor. You were clutching his shirt to your chest as your heart pounded ferociously.

Dom squats down next to you and pulls you close to his body. “It’s gonna be okay,” he coos, running his hand through your hair. “I’ve got you.”

When you stop sobbing uncontrollably, he wipes his thumbs under your eyes and helps you pull your shirt over your bare chest. He sees the bruises and all he does is hold you close and bring you to his bed. He pulls back the sheets and you climb in, taking in the cinnamon smell that seems to be on everything he owns.

“Goodnight, y/n,” he whispers, turning off the lights and walking towards the door. “I’ll be out here if you need me.” You watch his body disappear into the dark living room and you get lost in your thoughts. Dom was cute and he saved you from potentially being raped and he took care of you.

You found yourself pulling the covers off your bare legs and padding towards the couch.

“Dom?” you say, quietly.

“Mmm,” he says, opening his eyes. “You alright?”

“Um,” you hesitate. “Could you maybe..” this was harder to get out than you thought. “I don’t really want to be alone right now... could you maybe...?” you gesture towards his bedroom and he nods, running a hand through his huge mop of messy hair.

He follows you into his room and climbs into bed, clad in only boxer shorts as you climb into the other side. You roll over and face him, watching his big brown eyes and his plump pink lips. The cut on his cheek was barely visible in the dim light, but all you wanted to do was kiss it better.

Little did you know, all Dom wanted to do was kiss your bruises better and hold you tight. So he did the latter, pulling your body close to his as you slept. He’d only known you for a few hours but you felt like home to him, and he was so glad you dropped your phone on the floor.

//Bonus: Imagine waking up the next morning to shirtless Dom sitting on his desk and writing and you don’t know what but it turns out it’s Polygraph Eyes and he plays it for you after he finishes it because he asks you out and you cry because it makes you realize how much worse things could have turned out if Dom wasn’t in your life and yeah hope you enjoyed lmao//

#dominic harrison #yungblud #yungblud imagine #yungblud smut #yungblud fluff #fluff imagine #angst imagine #Yungblud angst #yungblud fluff imagine #yungblud angst imagine #dom imagine #dom harrison #polygraph eyes #21st century liability

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theprodigypenguin · 5 years

Note

Can you do 204. “Is there any reason you’re wearing my shirt?.” With jegulus?

I can indeed my dear anon but you will have to forgive me because this fic went WAY out of my control. The majority of this fic is some well deserved Regulus/Sirius brotherly love and bonding, and the Jegulus bit doesn’t come in till the last tiny part. I hope ya’ll don’t mind I got really into it oof. I almost wanted to make it LONGER but this is supposed to be a mini fic. No idea how long it ended up being and frankly I do not intend on finding out any time soon, yeet. Enjoy!

204. “Is there any reason you’re wearing my shirt?”

Mr. and Mrs. Potter were on holiday for the next three weeks, that’s what Sirius had said the night before, but even if they’d been there they would have welcome Regulus inside with open arms.

“Mum probably would have scooped you up and started crying, actually,” Sirius had said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and Regulus stayed silent in the chair he’d taken, deciding not to comment on the way he called Euphemia “mum”.

It was a long time coming, Regulus told himself, keeping his eyes closed as he remembered the events of the previous day and night. It had been one of those rarely seen blistering hot days where the clouds were missing and Regulus was trying to survive summer alone at Grimmauld Place with Kreacher his only companion. His mother and father were busy with their own things as Regulus wandered from room to room, stopping to stare at photographs and ancient paintings, always finding himself standing in front of Sirius’ old bedroom door. A hand lifted as he traced where his full name was set against the wood in elegant lettering, dropping it to tap his fingertips against the doorknob but turning away after some thought.

That happened a few times, stopping at his brother’s old room and contemplating if he should go in or not. Eventually he did, but he didn’t realize it would lead to so much happening all at once. He wanted to step inside the bedroom, flick on the light and stare at the still messy sheets on the four poster bed canopy bed and the Muggle posters pinned on the walls. There was still clothes on the floor, dropped there with books still open, even his desk was still a cluttered mess. Regulus wandered over to it, automatically trying to tidy things up, straightening papers and quills and righting ink wells that had spilled and dried over the wood.

There was an old photograph tucked in the corner of the desk that Regulus narrowed in on, reaching out to trace the edges as he watched a much younger version of Sirius hugging a younger version of Regulus. Back before Hogwarts, back before Gryffindor, back when they were still brothers. Regulus would never admit it, but he missed Sirius. He was nineteen now, if memory served him. Regulus was seventeen and had just graduated from Hogwarts, suddenly feeling the crushing weight of loneliness and wondering what he was supposed to do next.

Death Eaters were coming and going from his house like party guests, there were at least three there every day, and every time they saw Regulus they would smile with menacing intent. Regulus hated it. He didn’t know who half these people were, but they looked at him like he was fresh meat. Especially the Lestrange brothers. Especially Rabastan. It made Regulus physically sick when the older wizard would wrap a slow arm around him, leaning close and grinning.

“You’re growing up so fast, Reggie! About time you join the ranks soon!”

What was he supposed to do about it? Say no? Regulus knew it was coming, knew they were planning to talk him into joining the Death Eaters. He was already a “supporter” like his parents, but he’d yet to go on missions, he’d never spoken to Voldemort or even seen him in person, and his forearm was thus far clean of any mark. The longer he was there, exposed to Death Eaters and pureblood maniacs, the more he started to realize he didn’t want to be part of it. Yet what was he supposed to do? Run away like Sirius? Where was he supposed to go? He had no friends, no one who would take him in. The Potter’s would never. James would never. Sirius certainly wouldn’t.

James. Regulus had to lift his head and stare out the window in front of him, out into the backyard, as his mind inevitably wandered to that infuriating bastard who stole his brother. He’d always had some interest in the Gryffindor, ever since the first time (the only time) Sirius wrote to him from Hogwarts. “His name is James Potter and he’s my best friend!” Who is he?

Regulus’ curiosity and intrigue grew when he was in school and met James, saw him for the first time, and even more when he started playing a Seeker in Quidditch. Every time they were in the air playing Gryffindor their eyes would meet across the Pitch, James would grin that cocky little smile of his, and Regulus would feel a million different things jolt through him that pushed him into wanting nothing more than to do better than James, to win the game just so he could hold the Snitch and give James Potter a smirk of his own.

It seemed after all these years, even though he hadn’t seen James since their graduation, the intrigue was still there. What made James Potter so special? Why did Sirius love him and cherish him so much? Because he was funny? Because he fed Sirius’ need to rebel? Maybe because he could protect Sirius? That’s what he was doing after all, that’s what he’d done the summer Sirius ran away and went to the Potter’s. James had been protecting him ever since. Regulus hated him for it, hated them both.

I want to be protected too.

“Regulus!” his mother’s voice came up the stairs and Regulus shut his eyes before turning towards the door, stepping out into the hall and down the stairs to meet her.

He didn’t remember most of the conversation, perhaps he hit his head too hard, but when Walburga set a hand on his shoulder, manicured nails digging in, saying, “I think it’s time we call the Dark Lord to initiate you as an official Death Eater,” his vision went white in shock.

Everything after that happened in a blur, the conversation of “six month trial to see if you’re worthy to take the mark” and “we’re so proud” before he felt his lips trembling apart with a cracking, “I won’t do it.”

Then yelling, confusion, screaming, a wand at his throat, Walburga cried and Orion grabbed him by his arm and shook him so hard he jarred Regulus’ shoulder. Then the first hit. Regulus didn’t know what he’d said to entice the attack really, but he did remember thinking about Sirius, so he probably brought him up. Regulus didn’t know what damage had been done to him, just remembered curling his hands around his wand, the taste of iron on his tongue as Walburga shrieked.

“You have nowhere to go! Regulus, reconsider! You’d make us so proud, this is the right path!”

Regulus had felt so betrayed with those words, so done, spitting blood and snapping, “I make my own path.”

His mother sobbed. “You sound like-! You sound just like-”

“Sirius,” Regulus breathed the name, lifting his wand. “I know.”

Then a crack and his vision blurred as he disapparated from 12 Grimmauld Place. When he landed he was disoriented, legs giving way and sending him crashing onto the earth as he panted hard, eyes wide and staring off to the side, his cheek against the dusty ground. His arm was burning, his body shaking as pain tingled at the end of every nerve. The Cruciatus curse spat at him by his mother, the fists and flat hands that had beaten bruises into his face and chest by his father, exhausted but in too much pain to sleep.

What had he done? He’d defied his parents, rejected the Death Eaters, rejected Voldemort, rejected the mark. Why? In a spur of the moment feeling of adrenaline and anger? He was an idiot, and now he had no idea where he was or where he was supposed to go, bleeding out on the ground and breathing in dust.

He tried to figure out where he was as he struggled to his knees, wand still in hand and staring dizzily around the area. After a moment he looked down to check his injuries, noting that his left sleeve was soaked through with crimson. His right hand trembled as he reached over to check what had happened, his stomach rolling when the sleeve came away sticky. It hurt too much to pull it down over his arm, so he just peeked down the sleeve to see a chunk of flesh had been taken out of his forearm. Splinched mid-apparation. He coiled forward, clutching his stomach and vomiting as his entire body shook and tears forced their way down his face.

He couldn’t stay there on the ground, someone could find him, so he wiped his right arm over his mouth and staggered to his feet as he cradled his left arm against his stomach and stumbled to the sidewalk just paces away. He seemed to be in a cozy little community of cottages and houses, squares of light shining from windows and the sky pitch black above. If it was already night, he’d probably argued with his parents for a long time.

There was a house across the little street that Regulus squinted at, finding himself drawn closer to read the nameplate in the dark and lighting his wand with a hitching breath. Potter. This was Potter’s place. Sirius was there.

Regulus only doubted that he would be allowed in for a moment, the pain blinding any sort of fear of rejection as he fumbled to open the gate and staggered through, letting it shut as he dragged himself up the walkway and to the front door, vision blurring a bit before he managed to make out the wildly pretentious lion knocker staring him in the face. He used it, banging it a few times before stepping back and nearly falling off the front step, clinging to his left arm and staring at the gold and red Welcome mat at his feet.

For half a moment he was worried no one was home, that he would end up blacking out there on the front porch leaning against the door, but after a moment he heard the distant sound of muffled steps, then the lock disengaging. Regulus silently reprimanded whoever it was for opening the door without checking first to make sure it was safe, they were in a war after all, but he lost the nerve to speak when he lifted his head and his eyes met mirrors of his own.

Sirius looked good, healthy, older than he did last time Regulus had seen him, staring at Regulus with wide, shocked eyes, like he wasn’t so sure what he was staring at. Regulus thought he’d never say anything, he’d frozen in place and would be a statue forever, but finally he opened his mouth.

“What the fuck?”

“Sirius,” Regulus’ voice was rough, for a moment he wondered if he’d been screaming. “I… do you by any chance have bandages in there? Or a healing tonic? Possibly some Dittany?” Sirius just gaped at him, and Regulus squinted when his vision blurred again. “Preferably now before I pass out, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Sirius let go of the door and reached out to steady Regulus, and though he wasn’t exactly gentle, his hands didn’t hurt or bother any of the injuries as he brought Regulus into the house, helping him stumble over the door jamb before shutting and locking the door behind them. He put an arm around Regulus, which was unexpectedly comforting and intimate, leading him down the eerily silent hall and through a door that lead to a washroom.

Sirius kept the bathroom door open as he lead Regulus to sit on the closed toilet, then pulled his wand and cast a silencing spell around them, sticking it behind his ear once he was done and reaching for the cupboard under the sink. He seemed to be moving on autopilot as he started pulling out vials and packages of bandages and gauze rolls.

“Take your shirt off. Where are you bleeding?”

“Where’s Potter?”

“Sleeping. Take your shirt off.”

Regulus had to move slowly as he started undoing the front buttons down his white shirt. Now that he was inside under lighting he could see how much blood was on him, his entire left sleeve was scarlet, and he hissed through his teeth as he shrugged the silky fabric from his shoulders, pulling his right arm free before starting to slowly peel it down his left. Uncontrolled tears spouted from his squinted eyes, his hands shaking as he managed to get the fabric halfway off his arm before his vision blurred again, the edges going black so he had to swing his right arm to the side and cling to the side of the sink to keep from slipping off the seat, panting and dizzy.

“Let me.” Sirius dropped what he was holding and stood in front of Regulus, crouching and taking his left hand, giving a firm squeeze, maybe to keep his arm in place, before pulling his wand from behind his ear and muttering a quick spell that unglued the sleeve from the gaping wound that spilled fresh blood when the covering was gone. “Bloody hell, Reg,” Sirius grit out roughly, squeezing his hand tighter and reaching for one of the vials he’d put on the sink. “What did this?”

“I… splinched, I splinched myself apparating.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be better than that?” Sirius asked, unscrewing the top of the vial and drawing out a long glass dripper.

Regulus winced from the pain as he started dripping Dittany directly onto his arm, his stomach roiling again when the missing chunk of flesh started to rapidly regenerate. Regulus turned away, clinging to the sink counter again and hiding his face in the crook of his right elbow, begging himself not to throw up.

“I didn’t think you’d help me…”

“So why’d you come here?” Sirius asked sharply, he seemed completely unaffected by his brother showing up beaten bloody.

Regulus swallowed, tasting bile. “I had nowhere else to go.”

“I highly doubt that,” Sirius scoffed. “I’m certain our precious parents would have seen to your every whim had you come home like this.”

Regulus took a breath. “Where do you think I’ve just come from?”

Sirius paused, as if not expecting the question, giving Regulus’ hand another firm squeeze that he held as he spoke softly. “They chased you out?”

Regulus shook his head. “I left.”

“You left? You actually left?” Regulus bobbed his head in a weak nod. “Why?”

Regulus pressed his lips together. How much could he even tell Sirius? They weren’t close, not like they used to be. Hell, had they ever been close? He felt out of place there, everything made no sense, he was scared. He’d run away from a choice his parents were making for him, one he didn’t want. He ran like a coward instead of facing what he was so afraid of, but he was still afraid.

“They wanted me to join the Death Eaters,” Regulus finally managed to speak, forcing the emotion out of his voice despite how his entire body was still shaking. He blamed it on the extensive blood loss.

“So you ran away?” Sirius sounded skeptical, and Regulus felt suddenly infuriated.

After everything he’d been through in just a few hours, on top of all that his brother was going to sit there and patronize him, not take him for his word, when he could be hunted down by their lunatic cousin with a hard on for Voldemort and slaughtered where he stood simply because he rejected the Dark Mark?

“Yes, I ran away,” Regulus snarled, turning his head to seeth at Sirius. “Cowardly Slytherin Regulus Black ran away, let’s laugh at how fucking pathetic he is!”

“Easy, I’ve finally gotten the bleeding down, don’t break the skin again!” Sirius snapped, moving his hand from his brother’s fingers to instead grab his wrist, pinning it straight so he could get a few more drops of Dittany on Regulus’ arm. “It’s going to be tender and fragile for a while, you hit it too hard you’ll start bleeding again!”

When it seemed like Regulus wouldn’t be jerking away, Sirius released his wrist to return the Dittany onto the sink counter, then wet a rag under the sink faucet to clean the rest of the blood off Regulus’ arm.

“I didn’t want to,” Regulus said in frustration, without prompting. “I didn’t want to join them. I don’t want to torture or kill or rule over Muggles, I want to be left alone!”

“Regulus,” Sirius draped the cold rag over Regulus’ arm, squeezing it and meeting his little brother’s eye. “You did fine.”

Regulus felt speechless for a moment, confused. “Fine?” His head was pounding, and there was a painful tightness behind his eyes and in his nose.

“Yes, fine.” Sirius turned his head back down and continued to clean off the blood. “Tell me what happened, without screaming. I put up a charm but you might still wake James up.”

Regulus was far too tired to argue about James, shoulders sagging as Sirius moved his attention to washing the blood off his face, one hand holding his chin to wipe the rag over his chin and lips, gentle against the already scabbing cut in his lip.

“Mum and dad called me downstairs and said it was high time I join Bellatrix beside the Dark Lord. Something about her pulling strings to get me closer to his inner circle and get the Dark Mark.”

“And you said no?”

“Yeah…”

“Then what happened?”

Regulus stared past Sirius blankly. “I don’t remember,” he admitted. “I remember bits and pieces, but I think I hit my head, or I blocked it out because I just… had to, to protect myself.”

“Mum crucioed you,” Sirius said, checking the red marks left over on Regulus’ chest and down his ribs.

“Don’t tell me you’re surprised.”

“It made sense when she went after me, but you?”

“It was a natural reaction to her son saying no to her will.”

Sirius looked furious at that, grabbing Regulus by the arm again. “Regulus, look at me. That woman is our mother, and a mother does not hurt her children, she does not torture her children like she did to you, to both of us. A mother protects her child.”

Regulus felt immediately uncomfortable, and he wasn’t sure why. “She did protect us-”

“She was happy to ship you off to Voldemort like a present with a red bow, all those two wanted was for you to be perfect so they could get on that monster’s good side,” Sirius interrupted, reaching out to a particularly nasty bruise on Regulus’ side, hovering a hand over it to heal it. “If those two beat you for saying no, that is a problem, and you need to understand that. This is messed, Regulus. This isn’t right. They did this to you.” He leaned back on his heels, looking up at Regulus. “But I’m proud of you. You said no, and even if you said no for your own self interest, you still said no. I didn’t think you had that in you.”

“Because I’m a coward.”

“Because you’re young, you were raised in a prejudice house and didn’t have anyone there to guide you towards the light where you belong.”

“And whose fault is that, really?” Regulus asked, wanting to smack Sirius. “You know there’s only one person who could have influenced me more than our parents. I wonder where they were when it actually mattered?”

Sirius looked angry for all of four seconds before exhaustion and shame took over, reaching forward and leaning up just enough to wrap his arms around Regulus’ shoulders, one hand against the back of his head, completely unexpected. “I’m right here, you little bastard. I’m here when it matters.”

“Only after I’ve spilt blood for my cowardice,” Regulus said after the shock of embrace had worn down.

Sirius just squeezed Regulus tighter, then shook his head as he stood up. “Take a quick shower. I’ll go get you some clothes to sleep in.”

Regulus felt startled. “I’m staying?” He asked, watching Sirius move towards the door before stopping and looking over his shoulder.

“Got nowhere else, right? If you can depend on me for anything, it’s this.”

“This isn’t even your house.”

“Mum and dad are on holiday for the next three weeks, and James won’t mind. Just try and relax, you’re safe here.” He grabbed the doorknob on his way out and slowly closed it, sticking his head in through the crack and waving his hand. “Go, take a shower and get the rest of the blood off. I’ll grab you clothes to sleep in and bandage you up.”

“Fine,” Regulus agreed, his voice shaky, waiting for the door to shut fully before looking down at his arm where the splinched chunk of flesh had been healed for the most part. The bit of skin there was now scarred and noticeably paler than the rest of his skin.

He tried not to think anymore, getting to his feet and shucking off the rest of his clothes before stepping straight into the shower and turning the water on to the hottest it could go. He was rough as he washed his hair, scrubbing soap over his body to get the flaking blood off, flinching every time he hit a bruise or an open cut or scratch. Maybe he cried a bit under the water, maybe he didn’t, and when he stepped out of the shower to dry off, there was already a pile of folded clothes waiting for him.

He found Sirius waiting for him in the living room that was a little too homely. It was notably lived in, books still open on seats, old cups filled with cold tea that hadn’t been taken to the kitchen yet, and clothes draped over couches. Sirius was on the couch with vials of medicine, tins of ointment, and packs of bandages on the coffee table in front of him.

“Take a seat.” Sirius waved beside him, tearing open bandages. “I’ll wrap your arm up and such, then you should eat and drink something and lie down.”

It was long and silent as Sirius spread ointment over the tender scar on Regulus’ arm, then wrapped it carefully before bandaging the rest of Regulus’ cuts, scratches, and deep bruising before bringing him a mug of tea and a hastily made sandwich.

“I brought down a pillow and blanket, unless you want to sleep in my room with me?”

“What for?”

“I just figure after a night of getting your arse kicked,” Sirius quirked an eyebrow instead of finishing, but Regulus just glared at him, turning and grabbing the blanket before yanking it up. Sirius just sighed and set everything down, turning. “Suit yourself, but don’t blame me if James traipses down here and wakes you up at six in the morning.”

“Bitch!” Regulus yelled, throwing the blanket back and standing up. “You’re sleeping on the bloody floor!”

“S’my bed, Reggie, you can have the floor. Bring the tea at least.”

Regulus cursed as he grabbed the blanket, pillow, and tea, stumbling after Sirius and trying to keep his mouth shut as he followed his brother up the stairs and into a bedroom just at the top of the steps. Sirius cast another quick silencing spell, but kept his voice low regardless.

“James’ in the room down the hall to the left, the loo is on the right, don’t get those messed up or it’ll be strange for both of you.”

Regulus just glared at him, walking over to the right side of the bed, not stopping even when Sirius gave a noise of protest.

“I normally sleep on that side.”

Regulus threw his pillow down and set the still untouched tea on the bedside table. “I’ve just been beaten into the dirt by my own parents, you’re really going to whine over what side of the bed I take?”

Sirius grumbled in irritation but said nothing more, shuffling to the left side of the bed and flopping onto his back, leaving the covers off while Regulus dragged the sheets and duvet up over his head. For a while they were both quiet, until Sirius sighed and rolled his head to the side.

“Reg, look… I’m sorry for leaving you there. You know that, right? I’m not trying to make an excuse to make you forgive me or anything, I just need you to understand that when I left you I… I didn’t like it, okay? I don’t hate you, you’re my brother, and if there’s anything in my life I regret it’s the way I just abandoned you, and I am sorry.” There was no response, so Sirius huffed. “You’re already asleep, aren’t you? Sod you, then, sod my apology.”

He rolled onto his side, turning his back to Regulus and punching his pillow into place before flopping into it. Regulus, despite what Sirius thought, was actually awake, peeking out from under the duvet to stare at the wall and urge himself not to cry. It took longer than he wanted, but the anxiety finally faded and the exhaustion had him gratefully passing out curled up under the covers and feeling almost safe.

Sirius was still fast asleep snoring into his pillow the next morning, but Regulus barely spared him a glance as he struggled to sit up. Though it was the morning after getting smacked sideways, it was like he’d just been beaten. His entire body hurt, he felt as if he’d been struck by the Hogwarts Express, and standing up almost had him falling onto his face, but he managed to limp his way to the door, fumbling into the hall and dragging himself towards the loo, freezing when he lifted his head at the same time as James, who was wandering towards him from the other end of the hall, hair sticking up from his pillow and glasses lopsided, eyes bleary with sleep and yawning as he rubbed his shoulder.

Regulus found himself completely stuck to the spot, staring at James, who was shirtless with dark red pajama bottoms hanging low on his hips. Regulus’ cheeks burned as James met his eye, pausing and squinting, not so much angry as confused, like he didn’t recognize Regulus at first. After a moment, though, his eyes seemed more awake, sweeping over the younger wizard curiously.

“Is there any reason you’re wearing my shirt?” He asked, and Regulus gaped at him before lifting a hand to grab the front of the shirt he was wearing, looking down at it and feeling absolutely petrified when he realized it was an old Quidditch jersey with the name Potter printed on it.

“I… Sirius…”

“Gave you my shirt instead of his? Ah, maybe grabbed it from the clean laundry. That’s what I get for not putting my clothes away.” He was acting a little more casual and friendly than Regulus expected, and he nodded at Regulus. “What happened to you, anyway? How do you know where I live? What’s with the excessive bandaging? Get in a fight?”

Regulus still felt speechless and confused, trying to figure out how much he could say despite his anxiety twisting in his stomach. In the end he managed to speak, because this was James’ house after all, and if Regulus was going to be hiding there, at least until he knew what to do next, then he deserved to know what was going on. Regulus was nothing if not polite and respectful when he needed to be.

“I… last night… got kicked out.”

James looked dumbstruck, eyes as wide as saucers. “Are you serious?”

“No I’m Regulus.”

It was an immediate response that Regulus didn’t think would have any effect until James threw his head back laughing loudly. He strode forward once he’d gotten a hold of himself, reaching out to squeeze Regulus’ shoulder, gently and barely touching Regulus as if he was afraid to hurt him.

“Oh yeah, you’re fun. You can keep the shirt by the way, looks good on you.”

He passed Regulus once he was done, and Regulus continued on to the loo as James knocked roughly on Sirius’ door behind him.

“Alright, Pads, wake up, let’s make breakfast! We’ve got three to feed and I’m not eating that Muggle oat pudding crap Remus sent us again!”

Regulus shut the door once he was in the loo, pressing both hands flat against it before backing away, looking down at the shirt again and curling his fingers into the front of it, just under the name. It was odd, but somehow through his pounding headache Regulus got the idea that Sirius absolutely gave him this shirt on purpose.

Send in prompts: Dialogue Prompts | Miscellaneous Prompts

#jegulus #mini fics #amelia writes mini fics #james potter #regulus black #sirius black #slight AU where regulus actually runs away before becoming a death eater #send in prompts!

199 notes · View notes

mysweetestcreature · 5 years

Text

Tomorrow Never Knows (President!Harry) Chapter 8: Head Over Feet

(Banner by the wonderful noblewomankat!)

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Masterlist

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Thursday, November 13, 2008

In the heat of the blistering summer just before the start of ninth grade, Y/n had experienced her first kiss. It really isn’t anything she would brag about –– she might say that it doesn’t count at all –– just a measly three seconds of her nervous and shaky lips grazed against the red Gatorade doused mouth of Zachary de Gala during a harmless round of spin the bottle. Not much of that night was memorable, maybe with the exception of the cheesiest pizza she’d ever had the pleasure of stuffing down her throat (but that’s an entirely different love affair to be discussed at a later date).

Her second kiss...well, it was more of an almost second kiss, one that had been interrupted by a cute little six-year-old with an addiction to Neapolitan cupcakes and a knack for capturing the attention of every soul in the room. From the top to bottom of her smallest nail, that’s how close their lips had been to touching. If her brother had only interrupted them two seconds later, or if she’d been even the slightest bit more audacious with her actions, she’s almost certain that it would’ve happened. She still thinks about it quite often, even though she knows that she probably shouldn’t. After all, past is past. Right?

But every time Harry’s cheeks would dimple, or his eyes would light up at the mention of particularly historic play by the Green Bay Packers, all she can do is sigh to herself because he really is so darn handsome. She just wishes she could do more with how she feels than keep these thoughts so kept that it’s only a matter of time until she loses her mind.

Her dad, on the other hand, has no problem talking on and on. The way they intrigue about football and World War 2 (she had no idea that Jeremy was so knowledgeable on anything besides computers and NFL players), an outsider would think they’ve known each other for years. And maybe she shouldn’t be feeling a slight pang of jealousy with how easy the two have gotten on. After all, Jeremy had been ready to shut the door in his face when all Harry had wanted was to apologize to her for that pesky misunderstanding.

Taking that into consideration, she would have never thought they’d be in this place not even a month later. She’s completely torn about how to act with Harry sitting so close beside her with her parents (and Mason) surrounding them at the dinner table.

“You know, the Packers are playing on Thanksgiving this year,” Jeremy starts, twirling the seafood linguine around his fork. Y/n pauses just as her own utensil clinks between her teeth, eyes darting to her father as he continues to speak. “If you and your family aren’t doing anything, we would love to have you join us. It would be great to have someone to watch the game with who isn’t under four feet.”

“Really?” Harry gasps, and the crevices in his cheeks concave once more.

Y/n chokes down a gulp of water, just barely able to stop herself before she spits all her mouth’s contents onto her mom’s plate across from her. Three pair of eyes land on her –– the fourth and smallest pair staring intently at a noodle as it shrinks away through his lips –– and Harry is the one to lightly pat her on the back until the fit of coughs whimpers down.

“Are you alright?” his eyebrows lift up in concern. Unable to say anything in return, she simply nods and strokes down on his arm as though to tell her that everything is fine.

Olivia doubles up in amusement but shields it away with the use of a napkin. As if anything could ever be kept from a mother, it’s a lesson every parent will come to understand once they have kids. “That sounds like a great idea!” she elates, but she remains glued to the image the two teenagers exchanging bashful grins as they recoil touches under her husband’s watchful eye. “What do you think, Mase?”

Face covered in an abundance of marinara sauce, the little boy perks up and displays his teeth for everyone to see. His mom rolls her eyes, taking a napkin and giving him a good wipe down until only the dried streaks remain. Mason grunts, pouting as he tries to break free of the attack. She turns back to the rest of the table. “Hard to say no to a face like this, huh?”

***

“I knew you were into art and stuff, but wow,” Harry stares in awe at all the sketches and paintings that adorn the walls of her bedroom. From pieces he’s seen her work on during lunch, to new and surprising scenes decorated on canvas, he can feel a part of her in each one. “Hey,” he smiles, stopping to admire one in particular. “You finally finished it.” He’d never say it out loud, but something about it makes him feel nostalgic, brightened. It’s almost like he’d seen this image in a book, or maybe in person if he can only remember when and where.

He looks over his shoulder, only to find her in a complete daze as she stares ahead without true intent. “Y/n?” No answer. Only the sound of gentle inhales through the nose is what keeps the room from drifting into barren silence. The look on her face is far too serious, like all her energy is being channeled into such deep and unwavering concentration. Slowly making his way towards her, he ducks his head lower, trying to intercept the line of her gaze.

“Wha-” her eyes blink furiously as she snaps out of her trance. For a moment she almost forgets where she is. She shakes her head as to rid herself of the confusion, suddenly becoming aware of all that’s around her. As she meets Harry’s eyes, her lips turn up ever so delicately. “Did you say something?”

A cheeky smirk spreads across his face. “Only the plans for my next murder,” and he taps the underside of her chin, then curls his finger along the edge.

“As long as you don’t make me dig up the grave, I won’t say a thing,” she says with a tilt of the head. They hold the gaze, finding comfort in the silence that falls between them.

Would right now be the best time to ask her? After all, he’s rehearsed it over a dozen times in front of Maxxie (and Cici when she’s not in one of her moods). There’s just an overwhelming desire that blasts through him like lightning, only this keeps occurring whenever he’s able to hold her or even just be a few inches away. He’s pathetic, he knows that, and maybe half of their grade knows it as well. But he could care less what anyone thinks because he hasn’t felt so content ever in his life.

“I wanted to ask you something,” he begins, slowly lowering his hand from her face until it’s relaxed in his front pocket.

She cocks an eyebrow as she falls back to sit on the bed. “And what’s that?” she wonders, crossing her legs under her bottom. He lets out a nervous chuckle as he sits beside her. It feels strange to him, the mattress beneath him is almost too soft under his weight. He bounces a bit, as though to test its form as a possible cloud. To be honest, he’s never really stayed so long in a girl’s room before, let alone make himself comfortable on her bed.

“So, you know how there’s this...you know, this thing next month,” he blushes, already feeling his nerves begin to startle him.

“Go on,” she prods, doing her utmost best to hide her eagerness.

The back of his hand brushes along where her knee touches the side of his thigh like a feather. His mouth quirks to the side as he looks up from his actions.

Her eyes gleam with an innocent curiosity, as she gnaws on her bottom lip. She bops her head in anticipation. “C’mon! Don’t just leave me hanging!” And she nudges playfully pushes on his arm.

“Well, I just wanted to know if you’d maybe consider–”

“Hey, I just packed your bike in the trunk. Are you ready to go?”

His eyes squeeze shut as his head drops in mild annoyance. They turn to Jeremy leaning coolly in the doorway, his keys dangling from his pointer finger, legs crossed at the ankles. Harry is almost positive that he’d been listening in the hallway, there’s just no chance that he’d be so unfortunate to get interrupted, now of all times. But he’s also become exceedingly paranoid since spending so much time home alone.

Y/n looks between Harry and her dad. “Um...” she sounds, “Just tell me tomorrow in Algebra?”

***

Friday, November 14, 2008

“Do you want to go to the dance with me?”

“There’s a formal in a few weeks, right? Would you want to go...as my date?”

“I was thinking that it would be pretty cool if we went to formal together. What do you say?”

“If you were planning on going to the dance, maybe you’d want to go with me?”

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever hated himself more than he does right now. It’s bad enough that it started raining halfway on his bike ride to school (and that’s not even mentioning how damn cold it is outside), but he thinks the worst part is being put in an all too familiar position. The last time he’d hesitated with Y/n, she hadn’t spoken more than a few words to him over the course of two weeks. Of course, he has a certain red-headed cheerleader to thank for that, but he won’t mention her name at this time. Except now it’s like every single word to leave his mouth makes him want to knock himself over on the head.

The goal is to be straightforward, but he also wants to make his proposal at least somewhat romantic. That’s what every girl wants, right? To be treated well and make this kind of thing memorable? He’d seen a few of the seniors with posters and large bouquets of flowers for their girlfriends when they’d ask them. Does Y/n expect that kind of gesture? Or would that be too much considering he still hasn’t told her that he likes her beyond the boundaries of simple friendship?

“Just end me,” he groans, banging his head against his locker door. “Put me out of my misery.” The cool metal will at least soothe his aching head as he comes up with a better way to ask her to the dance. How hard can it be, really? It’s not as though he hasn’t had any experience at all. There have been at least a few times where he’d asked a girl he liked to the mall or ice cream or a middle school dance. Why is this any different? Actually, he knows why, but he refuses to say it out loud in fear that he’ll end up jinxing it all.

“There you are!”

“Shh!” he hushes, covering his eyes with his forearm. Now really isn’t the best time, not when he’s desperate to get himself together by second period. “Not too loud, aye? I already have a migraine.”

Maxxie retreats a few steps back, shifting his weight from side to side. “Okay then...” he says unsurely, digging the toes of his shoes into the freshly waxed floor. “I was just going to ask if you were ready for today? Because the bus is leaving in like twenty minutes so...”

“Excuse me?” Harry’s jaw drops, snapping his head up to look at his friend. “Why am I getting on a bus?”

“Debate with Bayview? Literally all Mr. G’s been talking about for weeks? Pretty important?”

Harry rummages through his bag for his planner. “That’s next week, though!” He swears he has it marked on the twenty-first of the month! This just can’t be right! He’s usually so on top of these things because of all the activities he’d been taken on since the start of the year. The competition isn’t meant to happen until the... “You’ve got to be shitting me...” Next time he’ll be sending alerts to his phone.

“Don’t tell me you forgot! You’re literally the best one on the team! Dude, tell me we’ll win this!” Maxxie begins to panic as he brings his fingers to his mouth and bites anxiously on his nails.

“Chill, will you? It’s not that I’m worried about,” Harry sighs heavily, closing the book harshly and tossing it aimlessly into his bag.

Maxxie pats his friend on the back. “No luck, I’m guessing?”

“It’s like her family knows when I’m about to do something! First when I wanted to kiss her, then when I was going to ask her to formal,” Harry shakes his head as he shuts his locker. He checks the time on his watch, another heavy sigh puffing out of him. “Hopefully we’ll get back before lunch.”

***

“The U.S. Supreme Court has legalized gay marriage, but the issue is still widely debated across the country. At the center of the debate are what the true definition of marriage is and whether gay couples are permitted the same rights and benefits as married heterosexual couples. Some question whether this is a legal issue or a religious issue.”

Harry stands at the podium that oversees the entire auditorium. So many eyes watching him as though he were a caged creature at the zoo. To his left, he sees his teammates, all signaling him their signs of encouragement. The papers in his hands contain all the factual evidence he’ll need to support his argument, but it doesn’t make the constriction in his chest feel any less prominent.

*** She hadn’t thought much of it when Harry hadn’t been at their lockers before homeroom, although, she had been a bit tardy this morning since Mason had come down with a sudden case of the sniffles. When he hadn’t shown up to Algebra and then Spanish, she started to worry just a bit –– okay, a lot –– but only because he’s usually quite punctual.

It’s just after eleven, and he’s usually here watching her while she bakes whatever goodie Miss Genevra has challenged her to make, or at least doing some last-minute homework on the bench. Yet, here she is, all to her lonesome self, mixing her cookie batter by hand because all the electric mixers are in use. Her arm feels a bit achy, but it’s a pain she can ignore as she continues to think about where on earth her curly-haired crush might be.

There’s one thing that’s been really bothering her since last night, and that’s all to do with the unsaid question she already has an answer for. Because of course Cici gave her the hint that Harry has been meaning to ask her to the dance. (More like sent her a long and detailed text about how Harry had forced her to pretend that she was her while he practiced how to go about asking her.)

“If he doesn’t grow a pair and just do it, I swear I’ll shave all that beautiful hair off,” she had written in conclusion.

***

Harry studies his notes one last time. “What is the definition of marriage? According to Merriam Webster, it’s the “state of being united as spouses in a consensual and contractual relationship recognized by law,”” he reads, then looks up, scanning the room with regard for the genuinely intrigued faces. “Nowhere in that sentence does it indicate a specific gender-gender requirement, nor does it exclude any individual of any background. Now imagine this, not being able to fully commit to the person you love because there are some people that say it’s wrong.”

“The United States has claimed to implement equal rights into the everyday routine of its citizens, and that includes gender, race, religion, and sexuality. And yet, how can a country that defines itself by its desire for equality be so willing to stunt that privilege for a certain group?” he pauses momentarily. “We throw the phrase “freedom of speech” around so liberally, it’s a basic right that we as citizens of this country heavily agree on. Yet, when it comes to same-sex marriage, there’s still such a heavy dispute, and conservative bias becomes the dominant factor in its opposition.”

***

Just as she’s just balled up about a tablespoon of dough, her ears perk at the door swinging open behind her. Excitement takes over her, and she swiftly pivots on her heel in anticipation.

“I’ve been looking for you all day!” she exclaims. It’s then she realizes that she’s made the same mistake she’d committed once before. She frowns, expression faltering as quickly as her shoulders. “Oh...” she hums, trying her best to hide her disappointment. “Hi, Jasper.”

The older boy smiles at her, placing his book bag on an abandoned bench before making his way towards her.

“Why do I always feel like you’re always expecting someone else?” he teases, then snags a finger’s worth of cookie dough from the rim of the bowl. “Is this peanut butter?” he asks, face twitching just the smallest bit.

“Yeah,” she replies, ignoring the first part of his spiel, gently placing another ball on the tray. Her goal is to make all her cookies as identical as possible, which means she had weighed each spoonful beforehand. “These are my brother’s favorite.” She just knows that Mason will gobble all these up when she brings them home at the end of the day.

Jasper slowly nods, bracing both hands on the surface as he leans forward. “I see,” he shrugs. “I’m more of an oatmeal raisin guy, myself.”

She has to stop herself from grimacing, considering how Mason absolutely refuses anything with raisins in it. Once Jeremy had accidentally put a few in his oatmeal, and her baby brother had cried for ten minutes straight. Sometimes she can get away with putting a few in her carrot cake, but otherwise he’ll absolutely have a conniption.

***

“The idea of a “normal” marriage only existing between a male and female has become flawed and out-dated. Marriage isn’t the same as it was a century ago, even fifty years ago. We as a society have evolved to become more and more accepting of the changes within ourselves and our peers. The American Psychological Association has continually shown its support for homosexuality and same sex marriage. It is to their belief that same sex marriage is perfectly natural, as opposed to the unnatural light that those in opposition to these rights choose to cast.”

***

“Anyway,” Jasper starts again, and he adjusts his tie around his neck and pulls his beanie down over the tops of his ears. “I actually stopped by to ask you something.” He inches closer until their arms are just barely touching.

“What’s that?”

***

“The debate of same-sex marriage stems from the words stated in the Bible. However, we must be reminded about the maintained separation between church and state. We have the right to practice our religion, but that does not extend to dictate how others choose to live their lives. It is the reason why such a demarcation exists. Who is one to tell another what is right from wrong? What is natural and unnatural? Love for another, whether that be between family members, friends, or lovers, is a force beyond the dictation of any religious belief. We are the so-called ‘melting pot,’ we take pride in the diversity that surrounds us, and we accept our neighbors for who and what they are. What doesn’t and what should never have variation, however, are the basic rights that each individual is entitled to.”

*** Her hand is suddenly encased by his much bigger one, and she inspects it with furrowed eyebrows before looking up. Only now does she notice the rose as it sticks out of his back pocket.

“Y/n Y/l/n,” he announces, and all the other students in the kitchen stop what they’re doing to stare at them. He reaches for the rose and holds it in front of her. “Will you go to the winter formal with me?”

***

Harry steps off the stage, feeling much at ease. The looks on the judges faces as he was reciting the final lines of his argument looked very promising, and Mr. G had congratulated him as soon as he’d rejoined the others.

“Never doubted you for a second!” Maxxie cheers.

“Yeah, okay,” Harry chuckles. He glances down at his watch and smiles. “I think we’ll make it back in time.”

***

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