#but every time they have proof ghost and hollow get away with just enough to make their claim baseless

[oreosmama]

What's in a Virtue (Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary:

Gaz wants you, but the hotel bar you work at has rules; when a bartender calls dibs, all others have to back off. It's how the peace is kept, and as the new girl just trying to rack up some savings, you're not willing to rock the boat.

But Gaz doesn't take kindly to you avoiding him, and he's never been one to beat around the bush. From confessing his love on the first night you met to shouting your name seven times from across the bar, he's not letting you off the hook that easy. Not when he's seen the proof that you've fallen just as hard for him.

A/N: idk man i accidentally googled who ghost was like a week ago and fell so deep into the hot cod men rabbit hole so here we are. Enjoy!

Word count: 8261

Gaz is pretty sure he’s in love with you. 

It’s a surprising discovery at 11 pm in an American hotel bar drinking the worst scotch he’s ever had. It’s even more surprising because he just discovered you existed all of thirty minutes ago. 

He’s got his glass swirling between two nimble fingers, trying to find that line between hating his drink and actually putting it down. And he’s watching you. 

You’re the same bartender who’d asked him (in a horrible imitation of his accent) if he’d wanted his neat scotch “shaken, not stirred.” You’d flushed after you said it and promised to leave him joke-free for the rest of the night. He’d laughed, a bit hollow from his circumstances, and told you it was all right. That he liked it, and that made you flush a little more. 

Now, you scuttle like an ant past the other worker, a blonde who’s been making eyes at him all night. Your face is split into this unabashed grin, grippable hips bouncing off the counter as you sweep by and reach below for a bottle, giving him a view of the enviable dip between your breasts. 

At first, he thinks it’s just that. Too much American booze, not enough inhibitions; both sending him into that post-mission spiral that makes him touchy and want to touch all at the same time. And he finds it’s nice to watch you rattling glasses and wiping up spills; it’s soothing, the way your eyes are alight with life in this ritzy place, seemingly unbothered by the high level of customers. He especially likes the way you mock the spoiled sods when you can get away with it. 

The hotel must be experiencing the perfect storm of weddings, proms, and business meetings—not to mention one very unfortunate layover for one very unlucky special forces sergeant. 

He watches as teens keep stumbling back to the counter with pink cheeks, flashing their IDs every time they ask for a new drink. Despite their prom getups and obvious ages, they swear they’re just guests from Mr. and Mrs. Weddington’s ceremony. 

The girl you’re with now, stumbling from her heels but selling it as though she’s tipsy, begs and begs for another lemon drop before she “goes back to work on Monday.”

You nod either way, and he watches as you make a display of pouring alcohol into one shaker and juice into another, swapping them out when the teen looks back towards her friends. 

You send her on her merry way with a sugared rim and a lemon rind, saying something like “Go easy” as she wanders back to her table. You smile to yourself, amused at this little game you’re playing with half the customers here. 

You must feel the heat of his gaze, because you glance at him then. He hopes it’s burning you up as much as it looks, that nervous pinkening of your face as you give him a shrug like what else was there to do?

And Gaz, again, thinks it’s just that. Lust. He thinks about wiping that small smile off your face with his lips, stumbling with you into his hotel room, frantic fingers peeling off clothes. He thinks about how it would be—giggly, probably, despite his surprising coordination when he’s plastered. It’d be you and him swapping words back and forth, back and forth the whole time, silence only filling the room when you’re kissing him and when you feel so fucking new it steals your and his words away. 

He doesn’t know why he latches more onto the idea of the moments afterward, the biggest thing being that you decide to stay. Then it’s more back and forth, hobbies and pet peeves and every little thing that’s been on your minds since the 2000s. He gets to know you inside and out, inside again a few more times even as your conversation runs on. 

It’s no longer lust at that point. He knows that. 

He’s ruthlessly torn from the fantasy by the blonde bartender who, judging by the looks you’re swapping with her, has gotten the entirely wrong idea about the direction of his stare. 

He swears to God he was being obvious about it. It was you—it was fucking you that whole time. 

But he’s noticed a couple things about you.

The first is that you’re quiet when your customers aren’t overwhelmingly sloshed; awkwardly so, for a bartender. You’re something of a mirror when they are, far more relaxed, laughing easy and cracking jokes, like you preferred your real self be forgotten the next morning. 

The second is that you’re soft. Around the edges, all pillowy at the hips and thighs, a sloping curve down each side. And you were soft with your words, no yelling, no arguing with customers, just easy little jabs that no drunk mind would ever cotton onto. 

You were only snappy with him the second his head started growing fuzzy. 

He wants more of it, even as the pretty bartender makes friendly conversation. 

She asks about his day, then his job, then his adventures. Three of the last things he wanted to think about tonight, let alone discuss with a stranger who wants in his pants. However, because she “loves a man with a British accent” and he’s too damn polite to give her the boot, he reveals a little. 

Yes, his job is hard. Yes, he’s jumped from an airplane. Yes, he’s killed someone. Of course they were bad.

Until they weren’t. But he won’t tell her that. 

However, above all things, Gaz is a planner. And though he’s caught the wrong fish with his bait, his plan B is working excellently. 

Gaz glances at you, brushing your hair behind your ear in the increasingly crowded room. The wide array of customers spread out among the limited seating are starting to flood the bar. You can’t pass out beers and shake cosmopolitans at the same time, and a wonderful warmth blossoms in his chest the second you glance at him too, growing desperate. 

There’s something like an apology in your eyes. You’re sad you have to ruin your friend’s chances; meanwhile, he thinks it may just be the best part of his night.

The third thing he discovers about you: you’re trying to be the wingwoman for your pretty friend here, and Gaz won’t have it. 

You’re going to have to come over here. Beg for help from your friend.

Ruin this little flirtation she’s got going on—what a shame. 

You’re too damn polite, just like him. The second he talks to you when you make your way over, you’ll think you have to stay. Humor him for a bit. He’ll ask you for a drink, forcing you to come back a second time around, when the bustle has slowed. He’ll rope you in for the rest of the night by then, and the wait’ll be over. 

He feels like a damn schoolboy when you take that first step toward him, and he’s practically vibrating when you get close enough that he can hear your voice for the second time today. It’s far less grating than your friend’s, he’s certain of it—he wouldn’t mind if it was you badgering him, is what he means.

After all, Gaz was on leave, and when Gaz was on leave, he liked things slow. Fresh off a mission, he liked to roll through the motions, order drinks and let the memories turn into static from the corner of the bar. He’d planned on calling Price and damning him for saying it was a blessing to get trapped in the US, set up at a posh hotel on the task force’s budget. 

But you stop before him, contrite eyes softening, and he’s getting better at seeing the upside of it all. 

“Hate to interrupt—I know you two are trying to get all cozy in the dark over here, but I could use your help, Jeanne. ‘Hugh Janus’ is asking for another beer and our non-alcoholic tap just ran dry.” You look off into the distance, frowning slightly. “I fear we may have genuinely drunk teens on our hands soon.”

Jesus, was her name Jeanne? Gaz hadn’t caught that. 

On the bright side, he’s able to confirm one of his sneaking suspicions. Your eyes really are fucking gorgeous up close, and they’re so expressive that he can read you like a book. 

But he hates the way you say “you two.” It’s so nonchalant. 

Was it too much to ask for a little envy? Just a hint of spite, to prove that some part of what he’s feeling, even a little speck of it, isn’t one-sided?

Your friend— Jeanne , apparently—gives him a disappointed sigh, looks at him like he and her are two conspirators planning on eloping any second. “Duty calls. I’ll be right back.”

He nods, trying to find that balance between polite understanding and absolute relief, but his head grows foggier by the minute and all he can manage is a “sounds good.”

You dive into an explanation when the pair of you are far enough away to inspect the taps, gesturing at a couple of them, and then discreetly at a group in the crowd. 

From here, he can see it a little more clearly. You’re younger than the blonde, probably just by a couple years, which means you’re newer here. Younger than him, too, since he pegs Jeanne at around his own age. 

The blonde disappears into a storage door wedged between two shelves loaded with glass bottles and illuminated white-blue. A manager, maybe.

Only thing he knows for certain from observing this quick interaction is that you’re finally alone. 

He flags you down, and his chest floods with that warm, fuzzy feeling all over again when you hustle over, genuine smile on your lips—because you’re so damn easy to read.

“Know you’re busy, ’nd I hate to bother you, darling, but can you get me another scotch? Shaken, this time, if you please.”

The pet name lands perfectly. Even through all the chatter and music, he can hear the quick stutter in your breath. Then you laugh at his joke, like you think he deserves it. 

It’s cheap of him to force that laugh out of you with a shitty joke like that, but he’s feeling a little needy. Wants a preview of what the real thing would sound like. 

Fucking music, surely. 

“I’ll go get it—”

Not yet. I need more time.

“Not right now. I’ll finish this one off while you work through that fresh hell–” he nods toward the anxious crowd “–then you can come back to me. You’ll find I’m pretty patient.”

A little less so, when it comes to you, but you don’t need to know that yet. 

The slight slur to his words must be comforting, because you give him that small smirk you’ve been conservative with all night. “I’ll hold you to that. I’ve heard Brits are perfect gentlemen; be a shame if you proved me wrong.”

“I’m all that and more, darling.” He winks. “You’ll see.”

He could be the bloody worst man on the planet, too, if you wanted. 

And he could come out and say that to you, all the things he could be for you tonight, if he wasn’t so keen on the instant change in you. 

Because here’s what he expected: a few more little flirtations back and forth, everything kept light and easy. He’d keep you smiling and smirking like that, comfortable in your own skin for just a little bit longer before you have to go back to the other customers and slither back into your shell. He’d get to see that breathtaking blush of yours, pink splotches that tell him he’s on the right track. And then he’d get your rapt attention for the remainder of your and his night, quite like he’s given you his. 

But that’s not what happens. 

Instead, you’re instantly sheepish, finding yourself leaning a little closer, so close he could reach out and run a finger along the back of your hand (a small touch, but it would certainly floor him). 

And then guilt. Pure, heart-wrenching guilt, like you’re taking every word of his to heart in the worst possible way.

Gaz panics. 

But you’re not wearing a ring, so no husband, no fiance. He guesses boyfriend or some long-standing crush he can’t—shouldn’t—burrow his way in front of. It’s a disappointing discovery, something he’ll be stewing on for the rest of the night or maybe week, depending on how long he’s stranded here. 

He’s not a fan of infidelity, and he sure as hell isn’t changing his opinion on that anytime soon. So he settles himself for a night at the bar cut short. Maybe he’ll order drinks up to his room from now on, praying the task force won’t try and shift the bill onto him. He can’t imagine coming down to the bar and seeing you will be nearly as satisfying anymore. 

“I shouldn—I mean, Jeanne really likes y—I mean, we kinda have this rule where we, um,” you fumble with the rag on the counter, suddenly invested in a stain he’s been avoiding all night. You swallow. “I’ll just, uh, bring you your drink later. As promised. I should go help her.”

And you dash off as fast as you can between the counter and the precarious wall decor, almost running into the storage door the other bartender whips open while dragging out a new keg for the tap. 

Meanwhile, Gaz… 

He has a question. 

Were you feeling all that guilt over some “dibs” rule at your bar?

He wants to laugh. The whole first-come, first-served thing makes you look as guilty as if you clubbed a baby seal. So what if Jeanne wants to ask him out? If he says no, does that mean he gets you?

Then he actually laughs a little, because it’s so ridiculous that it’s honestly cute. You care about and respect your coworkers, and support them when they’re hitting on guys at bars. So cute. You’re like the ultimate wingwoman, he’s sure, but that’s not going to change the fact that he wants you. 

But the night drags on, and this half hour of patience Gaz promised you becomes paper-slim when you pass off his drink to Jeanne and avoid his end of the bar for far longer than is acceptable. 

But you’re still giving her reassuring smiles and manning the bar as she lays her interest on thick, asking how long he’ll be staying and telling him when she gets off. 

Gaz isn’t laughing anymore. And that little thing you do where you back off and play wingwoman? Definitely not as sweet as he’d thought it was. 

Fuck, it might be the one thing he hates about you. 

Because you avoid him for the rest of the night, and he still can’t take his eyes off you. 

Not to worry, though. Gaz is a patient man. More importantly, he’s a planner. 

He’ll find a way. 

He always does. 

~~~~~~

Gaz barely sleep that night. Too busy thinking about the mission, the lives that were lost, all that blood that had coated his hands just three days ago. 

The way it bothers him comes and goes in phases. Some missions slip off him like rain water over a slick road, rivulets down drives, and he sleeps just fine. 

Others soak into him, further than skin deep, where his body becomes a subcutaneous cache of nightmares and gunpowder, and he wakes up choking, smoke filling his lungs, tearing at the tissue of his throat enough that water can’t soothe the burn. 

Mornings like this is where he fights fire with fire. 

The hotel bar is unsurprisingly destitute but still oddly open at 11 am on a Thursday morning, and he takes a seat more daringly center-staged than he had last night. He glances around, letting thoughts of you, a bartender whose biggest issue was a dibs rule on men, swathe around him. 

Admittedly, a lot of it is foggy. He remembers wanting you—a lot , actually. Too much, he might even say, but after all he drank he’s surprised he even found his way back to his room. But the place, a little more aglow with the open windows (that make his head fucking spin, by the way), looks the same as last night, which means he can still envision you wandering over every inch of it. 

And he thinks no, you probably weren’t that attractive. Maybe your snipes weren’t that funny, and he’d had no reason to get so upset with you over a rejection. And every little wish he’d had that you were the woman who could warm his bed while he was out on missions and greet him when he came home was a bit over the top, even for drunk Gaz. 

Sober Gaz knows better. Sober Gaz knows that no other human being can have that much of an effect on him anymore, because he’s had to rebuild himself after joining the military, after seeing the most honorable and dishonorable things humans can do, and he’s just not fit for something unconditional. 

Drunk Gaz, though….

Hammered and horny. That’s all it was. A terrible mixture, and he’s damn ashamed that an innocent girl like you became the target of it. God, did he even tell you his name? Or was it just instant come-on and creepy watching from the corner of the bar? 

Gaz notices he’s not alone as he lets his eyes wander; there’s a group of three elderly women jabbering in the corner, waving too-friendly when he spots them. He tosses them a dashing smile, the one that makes his grandmother’s friends burst into titters and giggles. 

It has the same effect. 

“Who knew you’d be just as charming sober?” a familiar voice rings out. 

Gaz’s heart thump-thump s forcefully.

“In all fairness, you do have a shot with them too, if you really wanted to take it.” You lean a little bit closer over the counter, one-ended smile pulling at your lips, and when he catches a trace of that same perfume, his chest twinges. 

Fuckin’ hell. 

“She’s newly widowed,” you nod to the gaggle again, demeanor conspiratorial, “and happy to be, apparently. Why am I not surprised you’re popular to all ages?”

He’s got no clue what you’re talking about. Damn, he’s not even listening. Your lips look too soft to him right now, and it’s downright unfair how domestic you look in morning light, placid and playful, like the last thing you were made for was exacerbating nightlife. 

“All ages?” he mumbles, because he can’t quite think straight, and the best thing he can do is repeat the last few words he’d heard you say before his train of thought had caught fire, derailed, and crashed explosively against brick wall. 

He’s struck still, is what he means. He can’t quite think past the idea of you, coming a little closer to him, letting him trap you against his chest. Letting him breathe in the scent of your hair as you tell him about your day—boring, maybe, if it wasn’t you who was telling the story. 

But your voice and tone, that playful edge that sounds like the sweetness of cotton candy and would taste like fucking everything to him, it draws him in. 

Gaz comes to the conclusion that not everything was a drunken haze last night. 

And he realizes that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t quite the fisherman he thought he was, trying to catch you. If anything, he was the fish snapping after your line, bait or no, wanting to be yanked out of the water and gutted until everything he ever was was bare for those pretty eyes. 

And he’s that very same fish this morning, gaping and blinking wide-eyed. 

Fuckin’. Hell. 

“My God, those teenagers last night? And then Jeanne, and the bridesmaids? And, okay, I shit you not, even the bride. You’re a menace in this bar, you know that?”

“Are you included in all that?”

If he remembers anything from the night before, it was the way you clammed up after he made his first move. You’re the spitting image of it now, pursed lips and antsy fingers, even after all that big talk. 

It’s an absent thought that flies past him in that moment, but he recalls that you were only loose enough to joke around with people already tipsy. He lets a small consideration tag along, a half-thought, really, that maybe you felt as comfortable around him as he did around you.

That, or he still looked smashed from last night.

You dodge his question completely.

“So what can I get you this morning…?” You let the tail end of the question drag on a bit, and he decides it’s because you can’t remember his name. He tries to stave off the gross pinch in his stomach by recalling there’s an all too real chance he never even told you. 

“Kyle.”

You shake your head quickly, mumbling, “No, I—I remember.”

Gaz, though he can’t help but feel like an asshole for it, grins at your stutter. 

“Surprise me, then.” He sits back, not remembering when he made the decision to lean a bit closer. “YN,” he tags on, smiling a bit more at your nervous laugh. 

You look him over, some short glance that stuffs his head full of cotton, and start working on a concoction with a small grin. 

He’s patient, minds his own business and fiddles with his phone as you shake and pour. 

No messages from Price, and Gaz shoves down any distant panic that he might have sent an aggravated text or two in his state last night. 

But no messages means no updates, which means it’s safe to assume he’ll be marooned at this hotel for another two weeks. 

Not as bad as he thought it would be, so far. 

You step away with a tray of drinks and return empty handed. Then you slip a glass in front of him, frosty and golden, slowly seeping red by a single maraschino cherry. 

He guffaws. “Mai Tai? What, no umbrella?”

You slip a mini umbrella into his drink. “You underestimate me.”

His headache is killing him. The sun’s too bright, and he’s thanking God that the music in here isn’t nearly as pounding as it was yesterday. The memories still haunt him, horizoning his mind. Every drop of blood, every plea, every blank-eyed stare. 

And then there’s you. Just you. You read like a sheet of paper, and you’re soft around the edges, and you couldn’t even comprehend half the things he’s seen. 

You spoon another maraschino cherry out of the cooling jar and pop it into your mouth, laving your tongue over it before biting down, the juices dying your tongue red. 

Fuck. 

Gaz wants to kiss you. 

He wants you to taste the Mai Tai on his tongue and sigh happily, eyes rolling the exact same way. He might die if you don’t.

“It’s on the house, only because you were true to your word.”

He gets peeks of that red tongue of yours and shifts in his seat. “What d’you mean?”

“You were patient, as promised, and I’m afraid I’ll need a little more of that today.”

Any of it. All of it, for you. Fuck, he could be so patient for you. 

Gaz furrows his brow anyway. “Didn’t know you were so greedy. Why d’you ask, love?”

“I guess you couldn’t tell from last night, but I’m a pretty shitty bartender. That’s why they got me working mornings.”

He glances at the Mai Tai. “So you’re sayin’ I’m shit outta luck.”

“I’m saying that if you’re going to let me pick your drink, you’re going to keep getting whatever’s left in the mixer from formerly Mrs. Jones’ group of three. I should warn you, they party hard.”

Gaz sighs. “What’s next on the menu?”

“More mimosas. That was their warm-up. You wanna catch up?” You frame a carton of orange juice in your hands enticingly. 

Fruity drinks from here on out. Gaz doesn’t exactly mind the idea, though he’d come down to the bar for something with more of a kick. But he’s wondering how long your shift runs if you’d worked the night before and the morning after. 

He’s got a chance here; without your friend present, your guilty conscience must feel balmed.

Gaz shakes his head, tearing a finger at the mini umbrella’s ridges. “I’ll stick to their schedule. Have a feeling I should be pacing myself with that crew.”

“Good feeling,” you nod. 

The air of silence that settles is comfortable. There’s the rattle of ice and champagne, the slow slosh of orange pooling in three going on four glasses, and Gaz watches you through it all. But he can see the way his gaze makes you nervous. Your movements are all rickety, and you can’t quite find that rhythm between shaking the mixer and making eye contact. 

Gaz wasn’t lying. Most if not all the women he’s met (sans a few of his targets) agree: he’s a kind man. Chivalrous, soothing, amiable. 

So he’s not sure why seeing your nerves gets a lovely thrill rattling its way down his spine. Sure, he wished you felt a smidge less timid, a lot more loose and sunny in his company. But, he guesses, it’s because with you, he’s willing to settle. Take what he can get; it’s not unlike a stakeout, really. He’s parked here, waiting for you to come out of your shell on your own time. 

Can’t really help that he’s greedy when it counts, though, and when you set the mimosa in front of him, he reaches before you can pull away, getting that warm slide of your fingers against his. 

“So what are you doin’ here, in a place like this, if you’re not a good bartender?”

He has to salvage your courage before you slip into the backroom for space to think. He can’t let that happen, overthinker that you are, and you’re too nice to abandon him mid-conversation. 

He’s okay with manipulating you that much. 

“Gap year. Several actually, but I don’t like to think about that.” You’re fidgeting with a rag, twisting it until the damp cotton creases under your fingers. 

“What are you gappin’ to?”

You huff out a laugh. “Med school, hopefully. Grad school, possibly. Just want to do something more, you know? Since apparently a bachelor’s gets you nowhere nowadays, and I’m just thirty grand in hole for nothing.”

“It’ll work itself out. For you, I’m certain of it.”

And he thinks he’s nailed it. 

Look. Look at all he can say and do to make you feel comfortable. And look! He can make you laugh and smile. And his touch was nice, right? Warm, gentle, everything you’d want. He’s got it right here. Waiting for you.

And then you blink, long and slow, eyes on the counter. Then…

“You know, I’m really jealous of Jeanne. I mean, she has it all figured out.”

Gaz fights the urge to grind his teeth, but he drops his elbows to the counter and cups at the mimosa. Not good enough, doesn’t burn enough. Too easy on the champagne, and he distantly wonders if you pull what you did last night all the time. 

That thing where you go easy on drinks by coming around less, or neutering them completely before you pass them out. 

That thing where you’re trying to do better for everyone , where you think you know better. He can only guess that it’s come so often with a cost to you that it’s all you know how to do anymore—giving, no taking. Helping always; never, ever hurting, no matter what you want. 

“C’mon,” he mutters, but you’re reaching for another red cherry. Chewing on it as it dyes your teeth pink. 

“She’s one of the managers here, did she tell you that? And she’s only a couple years older than me, and she’s just… she knows what she wants. And goes for it, too.”

Is that what it was? You weren’t willing to go for it? 

He’ll build that bridge for you, dammit. He’d hold you hand across the whole fucking way if you’d just let him. 

“She’s the only person in the whole area willing to give me a chance, even though I’d never bartended before.”

He lets you ramble, lets the sound of your voice sink into him, gives encouraging responses when he has to. 

Jeanne likes to go hiking. 

Jeanne likes to swim. 

Jeanne loves nights out. 

Sure, yeah, okay. But do you like any of that?

You don’t. You hate it all, actually. You even have a fear of drowning, heights, the whole works. You’re very much a homebody, curled up on your couch reading, drinking tea—not a huge fan of wine, or alcohol, actually, but don’t laugh! It was the highest paying job you could find, and yes, you do see the irony. Yes, you make a good cup of tea. Why?

Trying to find out even that much about you was like playing a damn tennis match. You won’t stop shoving the topic away, getting all insecure when he asks what you like. What you want. 

He plans to change that. 

But for now? Fine. You won’t talk about you. But he’s not going to let you talk about Jeanne. 

So you’re talking about him. 

“We don’t get much of your type around here.”

“Special forces?”

“British.” You give up on wiping the counter, instead leaning on two hands and watching him sip at the piña colada you’ve just made. He’d offered you the pineapple slice. After you’d said no, he watched you watch him bite in, wiping off the juice off his lips with his thumb. 

He had to remind himself that it was patience you were looking for, even with your lips parted in a daze like that. 

“Special forces, though, huh?” You glance around with faux wariness. “Should I be worried?” 

“Depends. How many people round here are up to no good?”

“I mean, there’s the occasional bad tipper but, between you and me,” you lean in, give a small shrug, “I deal with them in my own way.”

Gaz raises a brow, smile growing. “Maybe I’m the one who should be worried.”

“Depends. Are you going to be rifling around for a five or a twenty-five dollar tip in that wallet of yours?”

Gaz sighs, “The best company always comes with the highest price, don’t it?”

“Not as high as you think,” you laugh. 

If there was ever a groove to find between you and him, he’s finally located it. 

Five minutes too late, it seems. 

You’re glancing at the clock when you hear rustling in the storage room, and the blonde bartender that’s bloody haunting him now pushes through the swinging door. 

 “Jeanne.” You voice is a wonderful mixture of fake enthusiasm and slight disappointment. “Look who’s here.”

Trapped. That’s what he is.

And you leave without a goodbye or a glance in his direction, too. 

He tells himself you’re shy, insecure, delicate little thing that he keeps pushing the boundaries of, trying to find the edge of having you and scaring you off completely. 

Like taming a wild animal. 

Fucking patience. For all his years, all his adventures, he never knew he’d run out of it in the most civilian of circumstances. 

He sticks around a while longer, humors Jeanne’s interest. Amazingly enough, they have so much in common, who would have thought?

And who would have thought that after last night, that was the last thing he’d ever want.

~~~~~~

You’re doing that thing again, where you ignore him. 

He’d think it’s cute, how shy you were, if you only didn’t sic your friend on him each time you did it. He’s fairly certain his interest is clear. 

He’s been going to the bar for the last few days. Sometimes he sees you, sometimes he doesn’t. He prefers the former, and when it’s the latter, he’s reminded of just how shitty the alcohol is in the US, and that he’s trapped here, and how it’s starting to become hell. 

But he won’t tell you that. That your home and this hotel are the last places he wants to be on the whole planet, present company excluded. 

Despite the fact that present company feels like she has to include her friend in every conversation. He loves how selfless you are, no man left behind and whatnot, but he wishes you could see the failing attraction right before your eyes. 

You try to slip off, leave the pair of them alone, but Gaz won’t have it. If you wander too close, he’ll drag you in, call your damn name across the bar if he has to, wrench on that ever-guilty, ever-pleasing heart of yours to go and answer him, talk to him, pay him the attention he needs nightly, apparently. 

As of late, you’ve started playing this game. Gaz’ll bring up a topic, anything from the horrors of war to butterflies. 

And you think there might be some upsides to the horrors of war, maybe. And butterflies are ugly and gross, always. 

Gaz loves how beautiful the mountains are up north; you despise them. They look cold. 

But he thought you loved cold weather?

Well, you don’t like cold weather when it’s… on mountains. You guess. 

 An interesting play, he quite thinks. Such odd tactics you have running in your mind. But you’re trying so hard to be this good, loyal friend. You want so badly to find the middle ground here, please Jeanne and Gaz, let them both be happy. 

But when push comes to shove, Jeanne had dibs. And Gaz has to bear the brunt of it. 

Two weeks have gone by before Price contacts Gaz again. Tells him the 141 had lain low long enough that he can come back home and get some well deserved leave. The news makes him fucking ecstatic when he first hears it. Thank fuck he’ll never have to use the launderettes here again, never have to listen to the damned click-click-click of the aircon or the mini fridge. 

He misses so many things from home. 

Shepherd’s pie. Good cigarettes and tea. A whiskey sour from that bar just three blocks down from his flat. 

And his flat. His bed. His sofa, the kitchen he barely uses, the door that whines because he can’t bring himself to oil it; gone too long, too often for it to really matter most days. The toaster he doesn’t plug in ever because it damn well almost burned down his flat last time he was out for two months. 

All of it empty. Cold and bare. Too unused to really miss. 

Gaz slows while packing his things. He stops, grabs his phone, then lowers to the bed. He stares at the recent calls list, Captain still at the top, call ended twenty minutes ago. 

Home has a different taste in his mouth than it used to. Not horribly bad, but different enough to notice. 

It’ll be quiet. Gaz used to love quiet. 

Being here has changed something in him. 

Nothing big—all small things, in fact. 

A pondering floats down on him, comes to his mind and makes the rest of his body tighten, a coiled spring waiting, wondering. It’s such a small question, too, but things with you always seemed so small and insignificant, until he got a moment of quiet to consider it. 

Do they sell your perfume in the UK?

It’s not a huge thing if they don't. 

Really, it’s not life-changing. He’s just trying to consider never having it again, never having it flood his senses when you get too close, lean a bit closer to slide him his drink. 

Then it’s you not leaning in close ever again. Then no you, ever again. 

Gaz can’t quite make it make sense. 

Home is good. Hell, he misses it. 

But home is no set place anymore. Home could be two poles repelling each other but attracting him, pulling at each half of him, waiting to tear him down the middle while he tries to decide. 

Two fucking weeks? Gaz has to check his phone to make sure. Has that really all it’s been?

Bullshit. 

Tell him why it feels like it’s been years. Tell him why he can’t imagine going home as anything other than a misstep, one bad fucking decision away from sealing his fate. 

A slice of shepherd’s pie and a nice cup of Earl Grey—it can wait. 

A little longer, at least. He needs some time to make certain on some things. A month, maybe. On his own dime now. After all, what’s four thousand dollars compared to a missed opportunity for something better?

…He’ll see if they have deals on extended stays. 

~~~~~~

“YN.”

Nothing.

“YN.”

Still nothing.

“YN!”

You’re avoiding eye contact and maintaining a six-foot radius at all times, like he’s got the damn plague. 

It’s been the same setting for the past four weeks; corner of the bar, closer to the same dark shit that swirls in his glass now, aiming for privacy and good company. 

He used to think he was a good shot, but his accuracy’s been bloody terrible as of late. 

Twelve times. He’s tried asking you out twelve times. 

After the most recent attempt crash-landed with you interrupting to tell him about your sister’s obsession with popping zits, he considered it. Oh boy, did he consider giving up, asking himself why the hell he ever got so desperate in the first place. 

Tonight was supposed to be some last hurrah of sorts. His flight leaves tomorrow morning, and his patience with you has become so thin it could snap with a single breath. 

But he gets here, sees you. 

Sees you bustling around the bar—which, in his mind’s eye, is his flat. And you look right at home, by the way. Wandering in and out of his room, his kitchen, the living room. Curled up on the settee, your soft thighs winking at him from beneath his own sweatshirt. Then you’re dancing in the same way, hips swaying to the obnoxious beat, leaning in closer instead of pulling away when he grabs onto you like he ought to. 

For all that’s good and pure, you never distance yourself like you do now.

There’s no easily spooking the you in his head that wants him just as badly as he does you.

Your name falls from his lips an unavoidable number of times from the corner of the bar, and you finally fold.

See—wasn’t so hard, was it?

Not so painful if you’d just give in and go on a date with him now, too. 

You saunter over, a world-weary sigh falling from your lips. “My God, Kyle, you sound like a damn cockatoo over here. Or my mom, which was a bit unsettling. Need I remind you I regret telling you my middle name.” 

“Then you won’t be surprised to know you’re getting a good scolding, with the way you’ve been avoiding me.”

That same look takes up your features, pouty lips and wrinkled brow, like he’s barking up the wrong tree all over again. Might be his favorite expression of yours, second only to that little grin when you see him each day. 

The same one that keeps him barking. 

“You know it’s for a good reason, Kyle. I’ve told you this.”

“Remind me again, darling. Is it a boyfriend?”

You huff a sigh. “No.”

“Husband?”

You roll your eyes. “No.”

“Lesbian?”

“What?” You stare at him wide-eyed, and he shrugs. 

“Just makin’ sure my bases are covered. So what is it, then?”

“You’re unbelievable.” 

“I’m also dead fuckin’ serious,” his voice raises when you try to walk away. He can barely refrain from swatting out at your wrist, spinning you back around to look at him. Over the weeks, he’s discovered your biggest weakness is his eyes, and he puppy-dogs them now. “Out with it. Please.”

His white-knuckled hands ache from where they grip under the bar’s ledge, and he’s trying blessedly hard to keep still as you look him over. Every scar, every bag under his eyes, every premature wrinkle. You can see it all and more, probably even see the nightmare he had three days ago, where it was you tied up, enemy’s gun pointed at the pliable skin of your temple, your cries echoing in the empty warehouse.

Where, a building over, in sniper-position, Gaz’s frozen. His fucking trigger finger won’t twitch, and he can’t breathe, can’t move even as the gunshot lit up your skin, and he rolled out of the same hotel bed, coughing on the floor, wheezing. 

He tops off his eyes with a dashing smile, pleasant like his mind hadn’t painted the picture of you bloody and dying, still haunting him. 

Gaz isn’t as easy to read as you are. You wouldn’t be able to tell. 

“You’re looking at me like that again.”

“Like I’m whipped?” As if he could look like anything else.

“No, like…” You bite your tongue, and Gaz would give anything to know what you’d planned on doing with the hand you’d raised toward him just then, only to let it drop down at your side. “Never mind.”

“C’mon.” God , his hands ache. “Just tell me. Thought we were friends?”

“We are friends, Kyle.” You ignore how smug he gets, fixing him with a look. “But that’s all we are.”

Gaz scoffs, “I don’t get it. Just because your friend has, what, a li’l crush on me, and she doesn’t even know me, this can’t happen?”

You know what this is. He knows you know what this is. And he knows you want it, too. 

“It’s…” you bite the inside of your cheek while avoiding his gaze, and he knows it’s because you can’t think when he looks at you like that. Pleading. Desperate. And so damn breathless at the sigh of you that it makes it that much harder for you to say you don’t want him. “It’s a whole big thing we agreed on when I started working here. It’s how the peace is kept, not just between Jeanne and me—but for everyone. That’s just how we do it.”

“YN…”

You ignore him. “And I like this job, Kyle. I do. I don’t care that I’m horrible at mixing drinks, and that I can’t handle drunk people to save my life. It feels good to have something to do when I don’t know what else to do with myself, and I can’t have some little lover’s quarrel ruin that.

“And Jeanne is a great person. And I know you don’t like it when I bring it up, but it’s true. She saw you first and called it. So I’m stepping back, not getting in the middle of it because I owe it to her, and I don’t get why you won’t just do me that solid and give her a chance. You two are a much better fit than you and I would ever be—”

“You hate camping.”

You fall silent, staring at him in confusion. “What?”

“You hate camping. And the woods. The outside, really. You told me that. Then you told me your daily circuit is the bar, then your home, sometimes to the café down the street from here, but that’s rare. And that you like books, but I know s’not the cute, adventure-y ones you pretend to like. I googled a few of yours, ones I caught you sneakin’ on your breaks—dirty little bird, you are, by the way. But I like that about you. All of it. Everything you think you have to keep under wraps.”

“Kyle…”

“I like the way you say my name, too. And how soft your skin looks, and those thighs—fuck me. Is your perfume cherries, by the way?”

“Peaches,” you mumble. He nods.

“That too. I mean, every little thing, darling. I swear, I want it. Don’t care that we’re complete opposites, that you’re scared of what I do, what I’m built for. I need you to know that I want you because of that, not in spite of. I don’t need you all the time, I promise. But I don’t think I could handle it if I didn’t have you at all.”

You want him. He can see it. You’re melting into a goddamn puddle before him, wandering nearer and nearer like you can’t help it. 

What else can he say? What the hell else does he have to do to prove that he wants you so bad it’s driving him up the walls? Gaz is wrenched so tight in his seat that he could snap and hurdle the counter, drag you out of here and show you everything he’s willing to give. 

He needs a promise before he leaves. Something. 

“God, Kyle, I didn’t…” your breath stutters, but you won’t pull your gaze from his. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know you were so serious about this.”

You didn’t know? You couldn’t fucking tell? After a month of him puttering around here, begging for your attention, doing anything he could to get you to look at him—

“I thought you were just…”

Fuck. 

Gaz shakes his head.

Fuck. 

Messing with you? Teasing you? That’s all you thought it was?

He tips his head back, locking onto the ceiling. 

What could he have said during the past five weeks that would make you think that?

He runs through every conversation, every interaction, every whipped, needy look he couldn’t hold back because he couldn’t stop them around you.

And then he thinks about Jeanne. How you’ve been pushing her on him. And how he’s a perfect fucking gentleman and entertained her interest with polite conversation. 

Then there’s you, his shy little rabbit watching from the other end of the bar, so damn skittish that he can only draw you back in after she’s long left him alone. Not even surveying or passively watching, but crafting wildly inaccurate conclusions in your little overthinking head.

No. 

No, no, no, because, fickle as you are, you’re a giver. 

And Gaz’s been stealing that role from you this whole time. 

He hasn’t let you show your worth. He doesn’t need to see it, no, but you think you have to prove it. You like your trials by fire. You don’t like winning by default. 

You don’t think you could be wanted for wanting’s sake. 

In all fairness, Gaz didn’t think he functioned like that either—unconditional terms and all that. So he thought he’d had to give back. Give back so much that it frightened you, and you couldn’t hold up what you thought was your end. 

A bloody fool. That’s what he is. 

His little American rabbit plays by different rules. In the UK, women in bars are so straightforward, so honest. 

What a fuckin’ sod he is. 

His flight leaves in nine hours, and he hasn’t packed, hasn’t slept. 

Too busy thinking about you. How much of a wrench you’ve been in his plans.

He didn’t think wanting you would be like asking the world to spin the other way. 

And, hell, what’s he supposed to do when he does leave, gone off on the mission Price’s hinted to him, the one that’s halfway across the globe, and you’re back here, trying and probably succeeding at forgetting he exists. 

Fuck.

You not knowing he exists. 

Him having never met you.

The ideas make him sick. 

But Gaz…

Gaz is a planner. Above all else. 

And if you want an opportunity to show what you can give him, he’ll give you just that. While he’s on a mission, mind on worse, far more horrible things, he’ll give you that chance you’ve been itching so hard for. 

“Your phone.”

You’ve been watching him go through phases, even refilled his glass while he was out. Scotch on the rocks, this time. Like you thought he had to start taking it easy from here on out, like you think he deserves it.  

“What?”

“Let me give you my number.”

“Kyle… that’s not a good idea.”

“Don’t care, love.”

To your credit, you have a healthy amount of wariness. In several jerky movements, you pull your phone from your pocket, open it to a new contact, and pass it to him, eyeing up every little thing he types. 

Kyle (Hot Guy from the Bar) Garrick. 

His phone number. 

Then he texts himself quickly, saves your number too, and holds your phone out. 

When you grab at it, he holds tight, tugging for your attention. 

Like he hasn’t, in a most wonderfully heady way, already got it. 

“No funny business with this, love.” His features turn grim. “No giving it to your friend so she can woo me—”

“Woo you?”

He gives you a stern look. “A phone call. A text. A fuckin’ pocket dial, I don’t care. But I want it from you, or no one, yeah?”

Only after you nod, slow and unsure, does he push himself out of the barstool for the last time, nodding to you. Eyes soft as he whispers, “Have a good night, darling.”

Your eyes don’t leave him as he walks away, phone still gripped tightly in your hand.

~~~~~~

Part 2

#kyle gaz garrick x reader #call of duty x reader #cod x reader #kyle garrick x reader #gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick #kyle garrick #gaz cod #cod gaz

[declinlalune]

St(ranger) Danger || Andy & Zane

TIMING: Current PARTIES: @rn-zane @declinlalune SUMMARY: Andy gets stopped by another ranger. Zane intervenes. CONTENT WARNING: Parental & sibling death mentions, a creepy guy who is harassing Andy.

Andy knew that going to a hunter infested shop would one day have consequences. She noticed the man’s recognition almost immediately, and though she thought that maybe it’d been because they’d seen each other around town, she was proven wrong. As she was checking out, the man approached her, explaining that she looked just like a woman he knew sixteen years ago– same red hair, same freckles. She politely skirted around the conversation, explaining that she’d been new to Wicked’s Rest and that she couldn’t possibly be the person he remembered– or the daughter of her. 

Then he mentioned Tennessee. Andy felt her skin alight as she pushed her way through the shop and out onto the street. Why she continued to park away from Hollow Point Armory, she wasn’t sure. Maybe it was to keep her license plate off their radar. She could hear his footsteps, but she didn’t want to focus on them. She wanted to focus on getting the hell out of there. Really sad, what happened to them. Rumor had it the kids died, too, but you seem to be just fine. Andy felt sick. This was the first time somebody from their past had come back to haunt them, not including Kaden. Though, was he really haunting them if he were a ghost with them, too? 

“I’m not who you think I am, sorry.” Andy took her keys out of her bag and held them tightly, ready to throw herself in her jeep, need be. You sure about that? Where’s the other one? Andy winced. So they knew about Alex. Had there really been rumors circulating in the community? People had been suspicious that Alex lacked the ability of a ranger, even then– she’d heard the conversations, but there’d never been any proof. “Positive, dude.” She continued walking, and she could finally see her jeep in full view. Would it be smart to pull away with it? With her luck, this guy knew how to run plates and would figure out where they lived. So she veered in another direction before she felt him grab her arm, twisting her around. 

“What do you want? I said I’m not the person you’re thinking of.” Andy watched the man, her expression darkening as she noticed the sick, twisted smile that formed over his features. You’re lying to me, and you know we don’t lie to our own. Andy scoffed. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about dude, you’re creeping me out, leave me alone.” She tried her best to keep steady, to not just rip her arm out of his grip for the sake of not showing off her innate strength he knew she had. Another voice joined their collective, and Andy looked over to see a man she did not recognize heading their way. He seemed concerned, which hopefully meant he was not on this man’s side. 

—

It wasn’t too crowded out now, most people either home or heading there for dinner. It was nicer to walk the streets at this time, without the loud chatter and traffic, not to mention the fact that his nose seemed even more intent on picking up every faint whiff of blood it could after the… encounter at Dance Macabre. Zane was fine, and full, so work shouldn’t be a problem but it was still good that he decided to walk, burning off some of that nervous energy he’d rarely experienced heading into work before. 

The music in his ears didn’t prevent him from taking notice of the couple walking briskly across the street, the tension in their exchange drawing his attention. Maybe not a couple, Zane thought as he drew closer, noticing that the man seemed much older than the young woman trying to ignore him. His daughter? He didn’t hope so as he caught the glint in the man’s eyes, knowing that there existed parents who would regard their children with that look but praying the situation was something else. Picking up the pace slightly, headphones pulled out as he walked, Zane came close enough to start to pick up on the words being exchanged. 

She didn’t know the man, it sounded like, and that was enough incentive for Zane to veer straight towards the two of them. As soon as the arm was grabbed, he knew he’d made the right decision. “Hey!”

Closing the distance between them, eyes focused on the man who looked even angrier up close, Zane gave a curt nod towards the offending hand that still held the young woman tightly. With a huff, the man loosened his grip, still standing uncomfortably close to the woman. “Everything okay here?” It sounded very cliched and Zane was reminded of the last time he stepped into a precarious situation like this, the fact that he’d maybe broken someone’s arm. Didn’t matter, he would just stand by and use the few inches he had on this guy to hopefully scare him off. A glance over at the young woman showed the worry in her eyes and his own softened for a moment before turning back, narrowed, to the man. 

—

Andy didn’t normally feel grateful towards other people for intervening; it usually meant trouble, but in this case? Sure, she’d take the distraction. The man opposite her loosened his grip and she lightly yanked her arm away, still cautious to show any true strength. 

At the stranger’s question, Andy cut her gaze to him. He was much taller than herself, but if he had no actual strength to him, something told her that the hunter across from her– who she could only assume to be a ranger, would level him easily. She swallowed thickly before nodding, rubbing her arm to rid herself of the drowning feeling that’d begun to lay flatly overtop of her. As long as she didn’t mention Alex, and as long as she didn’t give in to the pressure of admitting that she was who he thought she was, things would be fine. And now she had somebody she could rely on. Hopefully. 

“This guy thinks I’m somebody and I’m not.” Andy realized it was a weak argument, that people probably said that all the time when they were exactly who the aggressor thought they were, but she didn’t have time to pull some story out of her ass. “I’m from Fresno, not what– where did you say? Kentucky?” As a means to play stupid, she desperately laid in on the fact that she hadn’t even remembered where he suggested she was from. 

The incredulous expression that rose over the ranger’s features reminded her of her father and she felt something stir in the pit of her stomach– guilt, maybe. Now, you know, and I know, that that’s bullshit. But if you don’t wanna connect to your people, then so be it. Was that really it? Andy waited for him to say something more, but instead he turned, and started off in the way they’d both come from. She let out a breath, but it caught in her throat as he turned back around, that same sly, smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. Gotta watch out for each other here, you know it ain’t safe, and I know your skin is just crawlin, with all those monsters roaming about. 

She fought to keep a neutral expression and waited until he finally turned back around to let out the breath that felt lodged in her throat. Andy had almost forgotten had company. When she finally looked over at him, she gave him a meek smile. “No idea what the hell that guy was talking about. Uh, thank you, for you know, not letting him grab me or whatever.” 

—

Zane watched the exchange warily, careful not to butt in more than he had to but the look in this man’s eyes was unnerving. Even though he’d let go, the vampire didn’t feel comfortable walking away yet. Preferably, he wanted the guy far, far away before he’d feel right about leaving the young woman. He knew it was intrusive, stepping in to help, but he’d seen enough in the ER to know how situations like this could go. Didn’t matter whether it was a young woman or not, that tension was unmistakable and if injuries could be avoided, his interrupting self was going to make an attempt. 

Finally, after what felt like ages, the man relented. Zane’s breath of relief had barely escaped his lips when the last shot was fired, thrown over the guy’s shoulder and sending a shiver down the vampire’s spine. Was she… one of them? Was the man? No, if they could somehow know whether or not somebody was undead, the way slayers seemed to, they would have reacted differently to a vampire joining their conversation. Wouldn’t they? 

The tension in Zane’s body had to be obvious, feet pushing into the ground, ready to make a run for it. Seeing the meek smile on the woman’s face as he thanked him was reassuring but maybe she was just a good actress? Waiting for him to let his guard down so she could strike? He spared a glance over at the retreating man, wondering if he too would simply walk into hiding and appear at the first chance. 

“I… yeah. Weird.” Zane’s voice was halting, eyes still looking for a sign that the woman was about to attack. There were people about so maybe not but after the few encounters he’d had, trust wasn’t exactly rich. “Almost like he was hinting at you being a monster hunter.”

–

It’d been silly to hear of a supernatural hub and not think that there might be hunters who would recognize her. Maybe she should dye her hair, or chop it off. Use makeup to cover her freckles; really go into hiding like she and Alex did when they first got back from Lyon. There’d maybe been people looking for them then, but they’d gotten good at evading. The last four years in Wicked’s Rest had provided a comfort that Andy hadn’t felt since the night she watched her parents get mauled, and maybe that had been where her naivety began– to believe that she, or Alex would ever be free from the past that was written into them before they had even been born. Alex had a shot away from it all, especially considering she never carried the gene in the first place, but her? She was stuck. 

She knew that if she ever expressed those feelings, Alex wouldn’t understand, because at the end of the day, Andy knew her sister still thought of herself as a monster, even though Andy did everything in her power to dissuade her from that way of thinking. 

Andy did her best to pull herself from the what if’s as they saturated her thoughts. Instead, she focused on the man as he spoke, taking note of the suspicious gleam in his eyes. So did he believe her to be one? Was he one, too? Had she walked herself into another trap? Forcing neutrality in both expression and in tone, she shook her head. “He got confused, mixed me up with some other ginger. Do you know how many of us there are?” The one he was thinking of is dead, anyway. “Besides, I don’t believe in monsters.” 

Whether that was loaded to enforce the idea that the supernatural didn’t exist– a hunter’s pastime in protecting innocent civilians, or the fact that she didn’t believe things were inherently monstrous, she didn’t bother to clarify. Andy felt the firm groove of her keys in her palm and the way the metal felt hot and sticky against her skin now. She let them go, dropping them into her bag. Why the stranger looked concerned at the idea that Andy could be a hunter bit at the back of her mind. He was no shifter, so maybe something else? It didn’t matter, and it wasn’t Andy’s problem, because he existed within these same confines as her, and he was not a monster, even if she had no clue who he actually was. 

—

She was sticking to her guns, still claiming that the angry and quite frankly, disturbing man that had approached her, had been barking up the wrong tree. It was a possibility, of course, but he’d been so pissed. Zane had never experienced a case of mistaken identity this bad but would he have been as genuinely shocked and put off by it as this stranger was? The vibe she gave off had been closer to fear than confusion. Even if she wasn’t the person the man suspected her to be, did she know who his anger was directed at? A family member or just a completely random redhead? They weren’t that rare but still, they didn’t exactly all bear a striking resemblance to one another. 

“Not believing in monsters is definitely a choice when you live here.” Quite hypocritical of him, since he’d rolled his eyes at the people claiming they’d been attacked by vampires, giant humanoid bears or horned creatures in the ER only a few short months ago. Zane wondered how many of Wicked’s Rest inhabitants got away with never seeing the truth or if all of them knew it and pretended not to for someone else’s benefit. Even so, the stranger seemed to relax a bit and Zane did the same in return. Whatever she was or wasn’t, she didn’t seem intent on hurting him at the moment, which only made her a stranger that had been startled by an uncomfortable encounter. 

“Are you alright? He seemed really pissed off,” Zane asked, genuine concern in his voice no matter the circumstances. At the question, he looked around once again to make sure the man was definitely gone, eyes stopping on a passerby exiting a store. A store that looked to be selling weapons. His gaze lingered for a moment too long on the sign, discomfort creeping up his spine, before he turned back to the stranger. “I’m heading this way if you want to walk away from here with some company.” Pointing down the road, he pondered why exactly he’d offered. Force of habit or morbid curiosity? Either way, it was out there. 

—

“What does that mean?” Andy asked, deciding to feign innocence. She could pull off the poor, misunderstanding girl. She’d done it plenty of times. It was how she and Alex had survived on the road for so long– use the doe eyes her mother had given her, and hope for the best. Andy repositioned the strap of her bag over her shoulder, smoothing down the fabric with her fingers. She wanted to go home now, but with the stranger radiating suspicion, she wasn’t sure how soon that would be. Did he intend to get the answer out, too? Was he on that man’s side? Good cop vs bad cop? 

After a moment, he asked if she was alright and her brows pulled together. Andy looked in the direction that the man had left in. She couldn’t hear asphalt beneath boots, or even his labored breathing that’d been present when he’d been in their faces. Maybe he really was gone, and maybe the person standing next to her now truly was just a concerned citizen. “I’m fine. First case of mistaken identity, especially with somebody who was so sure. Guy was super creepy, but I’m glad you stepped in. I think my mace might be almost out.” Maybe not the smartest thing to tell a stranger, despite the fact that it had been a lie. 

At his offer, she thought for a moment before nodding slowly. “Yeah, sure. I parked my jeep up that way.. didn’t want to get into it and have him know my car or something.” She started off slowly next to him, the only sound for a brief few seconds being that of their footfalls, before she piped up. “I appreciate you hanging back, by the way.” She hadn’t forgotten the way he looked at her by the assumption of her being a hunter, but she chose to dislodge it for now. 

—

The lack of knowledge (or elaborate ruse, Zane really couldn’t tell) continued and he decided to drop the subject, shaking his head with a muttered ‘nevermind’. At least the two of them seemed to have one thing in common, wanting to be absolutely certain that the strange man was gone. It did definitely seem that way, easing up some of the vampire’s tension. Not all, but some. A start, given that odds still pointed towards this person being exactly who she said she was. Not that she’d said much, just that she wasn’t the supposed monster hunter that guy had been searching for. Even if she was, who was Zane to judge her solely on that? Being a vampire clearly seemed to come with its own baggage and rumors, it had to be the same for the other side… right?

“Hey, good on you for carrying mace, at least. I don’t mind stopping to check on people but it’s becoming much more of a regular thing than I’d like to admit. Kinda thought there’d be less of this nonsense in a town of this size but guess that was wishful thinking.” Something about the stranger gave Zane the distinct impression that she hadn’t really needed his help but that was never a bet to take spur of the moment. She seemed thankful so he’d take it that his presence hadn’t been a complete mess. 

They started walking, the strange and quite heavy air of suspicion both ways still hanging between them. “It’s nothing, really. Just glad he backed off.” Silence fell again, the air growing heavier with every step - doubtless that Zane was the only one who felt it, but it grew until he couldn’t take it anymore. “I’ve met some, y’know. Hunters, I mean. Just in case you do know what he was talking about. If you don’t, then I probably sound crazy. Or maybe you do and don’t want to talk about it, which is also totally valid.” 

—-

As the stranger spoke, Andy grimaced. She didn’t like the sound of that. Random people being accosted on the street… what if something like that were to happen to Alex? What if she had been with Alex during the argument? What would she have done? How would she have gotten her sister away? Anxiety found its roots once more, despite the man no longer being within their vicinity. “That sounds.. shady. Shitty, too.” She would need to tell both Alex and Kaden to keep their eye out for anything strange. Kaden could hold his own, and Alex could too, maybe– but hopefully she wouldn’t have to worry about it. 

Andy didn’t falter, expression remaining neutral as the man explained that he had met hunters. “I already told you, and him, what was up.” Her jeep was in view now. She didn’t see a reason to explain herself to him. He was a stranger. One that, if she stepped one foot out of line, could cost her everything she had built. Then she and Alex would have to leave again. She didn’t want to give up what they created in the last four years, especially because Kaden had only just arrived. 

What if this guy was some bounty hunter? She didn’t think that her aunt cared enough to send somebody after either her or Alex, not when she had her own shit to worry about– after all, neither herself or her sister were that important, but the fear that they would find out what had happened with Alex lived in the darkest depths of Andy’s mind and she was terrified that something would happen. She just needed to relax. This man was clearly not somebody sent after her, and he seemed genuinely concerned. 

“I don’t believe in monsters, like I said. You can take that however you want.” Andy was tired and really, she just wanted to go home. “I exist, you exist– that’s it, that’s the bottom line. There are creeps and weirdos, and that guy was one of them. That’s what I think. Okay?” 

—

All odds were pointing towards this girl either carrying a real dislike for hunters or having literally no clue what Zane was going on about. Either way, the likelihood of her being a threat to him specifically was close to nothing. No matter the reason, she was shaky and uncomfortable and getting barraged with weirdness from the vampire probably wasn’t helping. “Got it, sorry. Just… nevermind, totally dropping it now.” Her focus seemed to be drawn towards a car just a short distance away and Zane slowed his walk. 

“In the spirit of not being a creep, I think I’ll let you manage the rest of the way on your own.” Just in case she worried about him looking at her plates or anything like that. The circumstances were strange, for sure, but Zane couldn’t let his newfound paranoia of vampire hunters turn him into someone who made other people uncomfortable. “Really hope that guy doesn’t bother you again.” Coming to a stop, he offered his hand. “I’m Zane, by the way. If you ever need help from a total stranger again, I spend most of my time at the ER. Obviously hope you won’t need it but…” 

—

The stranger apologized and Andy felt guilt burrow in the pit of her stomach. He had helped her. Why couldn’t she just accept it for the value it was? Why couldn’t she just relax! “No, sorry. I’m just…” She looked back over to where the man had gone, still nervous that he would turn back around and accost them both. “It’s been a long day already and that added so much more shit to it.” 

Andy stopped just short of her jeep and let out a laugh– though it was strained, it was light. “Yeah, me either.” She hitched her tote higher up on her shoulder as it began to slide down with the weight of its contents. Zane offered his hand and Andy didn’t allow her hesitation to show as she took it. She smiled at him. “Andy. And uh– hope that’s because you work there and not because you’re in a constant state of broken toes or something.” The joke fell flat and she cleared her throat. This was a normal person. A normal person named Zane who had his own questions– the kinds that Andy couldn’t answer, but he was normal. “Sorry to have bothered you with all of that… but um, appreciate your help all the same. Have a nice night, Zane.”

She jiggled her keys, creating a chime effect, before getting into her jeep. 

#para: st(ranger) danger #para: zane #sibling death tw #parental death tw #wickedswriting

[wafflebloggies]

13. rising every time

back - next After everything Mark had been through, it came as no surprise to Antonio, that he could be so easily unstrung by the simple sound of a voice. He’d seen it happen before, in a different context, in what was quickly beginning to feel like another lifetime.

A Muse was not a mimic in the usual sense. They didn’t need to use any primitive mechanism of muscle and sinew to parrot other living things. A Muse could reach through the subtle meshes of their connection with their host, latch right into their memories and use the voices that lived there. They could make their human hear words that belonged to the past just as clearly as if they were being spoken in the present, just as they could use the finer strings of their human’s imagination to form a unique voice for themselves. Even if they knew it wasn’t real, most humans were not proof against the voice of a loved one, a formative moment or a painful memory, even when they knew it was just a crude tactic to make them respond.

The Muse which had grown here was gone. This place was an outgrown shell, of no further use to anybody. The thing that remained was like Antonio, just a useful tool wearing a human’s face. Knowing this didn’t make it any easier to hear the footsteps, padding closer, crinkling over the tinfoil-coated floor outside. As they advanced Antonio felt another interesting new sensation he could have done without ever experiencing; the stomach-hollowing fear of being caught.

Maybe Mark felt the same. He was shaking his head a little, a tiny unconscious no-no-no-no of denial or outright terror or both, and he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from the door. His face was full of a terrible longing, mouth twisted, all certainty crumbled. He looked frighteningly young.

“Mark,” hissed Antonio, under his breath and as emphatically as he dared, “listen to me. There was a real Antonio, a real person like you. Was, you get it? I’m-not-him, and that-” he pointed an urgent finger towards the door, “that’s not-”

The door opened.

Carl Mayhew, or the thing that looked like him, was a terminally ordinary-looking man in the difficult-to-pin-down zone between forty-odd and fifty-something. He had a snubby nose and narrow black-rimmed glasses and a bit of a squint, he was dressed in tidy black, and his hair was a short, neat stubble that was a little tufty around his ears and hardly there at all everywhere else, especially on top. He wasn’t particularly tall or imposing, and overall he looked like the sort of man who would let you run over his foot in the supermarket and then apologize to you for it.

A convincing picture, but just like with the new Mark, the wrong notes threw off the whole orchestra. It was there in his air of inhuman confidence, an inherent cell-deep assurance that didn’t gel with the rest of him. It was as bold as a poison frog’s bright glossy stripes, and it shone clearest of all out of the smile he directed at Mark as he stood in the doorway. Antonio knew too well that Mark was familiar with that sort of smile, all teeth, radiating forgiveness. Mark had seen enough of smiles like that over the last ten months to recognize them on sight, even when they weren’t attached to the face that usually wore them.

“Hello, son,” said the new Carl.

Mark seemed to have turned into a statue that could only breathe. The new Carl’s eyes moved past him and landed on Antonio, and a mildly confused look ghosted over his face. He looked like he’d dumped out a whole black-and-white jigsaw puzzle and found a single coloured piece lying in the middle of the heap, a piece that was definitely not part of the picture on the box. Antonio found himself thinking of the new Mark, standing before him with Mark’s old glasses in his hand, looking down at them with an expression that was not exactly annoyed or upset yet but creeping towards both, because they weren’t quite right.

Antonio, who hadn’t been quite right for some time now, felt almost as if he was starting to get the hang of it. He couldn’t guess how much the new Carl knew, but in this improbable, inconvenient, impossible scenario where a host who was supposed to have been digested, dealt with and packaged and shipped off and done, had somehow managed to escape and find their way to the home of their primary vector, he knew that his presence made very little sense. He was supposed to be the reinforcement, a guard dog and a warden, a pleasant human face to put to the ugly realities of coercion and imprisonment, and his only purpose was to keep Mark in line.

Any moment now, the new Carl was going to ask him a question, and he wasn’t going to have any way to answer it at all. The only way he could see clear to avoiding it, through the splitting threads of logic making their way through his fracturing head, was to ask it himself.

“What are you doing here?”

The new Carl blinked at him. So did Mark, jolted out of his paralysis by the light, perfectly unbothered, genuinely perplexed sound of Antonio’s voice. Antonio was quite interested by it as well. Saying one thing when you thought and felt something completely different was slippery and worrying, like being in a mine cart with all the brakes off, on an unknown course with no choice but to rocket headlong wherever the tracks were headed, but it was also weirdly freeing. Probably, this was why humans did it so much. In a way, he realised, it was only like reading a script, like having the pages of a Critics video under his hands and knowing them by heart, and saying the words not because he cared if any of them were true but because they needed to be said. Under it all, there was a very good reason for keeping the new Carl confused for as long as possible, true in Antonio’s head in the way that everything had been since the night he’d found the glasses. It would help Mark.

It certainly wasn’t helping the new Carl. He was still smiling, but now there was a tense edge to it, as if he was a live news anchor who was watching their autocue glitch and bluescreen behind the merciless eye of the camera.

“Well, this is where I’m supposed to be.” He spoke to Mark, as if Mark was the one who had asked. “Hey, Mark-o,” he added, and now Mark looked back at him with actual hatred, lips pulling back from his teeth like he was seeing something rotten that poked at his gag reflex. With the first spell broken, hearing a familiar nickname coming from the creature that had taken his dad’s face was a hard thing, an unfair thing for him to have to handle. Antonio felt for him, but on the whole, Mark angry was better than Mark paralysed with fear, Mark moonlighting as an inanimate piece of furniture.

“Talking about being where you’re supposed to be, you’ve had us pretty worried. For a while there, we didn’t even know where you’d got to!” The new Carl chuckled at the absurdity of the idea. “And now we’re just kind of curious to know what you’ve been doing all this time.” He glanced at Antonio again, but found nothing useful there, only a pleasant empty smile just as iron-clad and impenetrable as his own.

“...What you’ve been up to.”

“I’m not telling you a damn thing,” said Mark. He looked back at Antonio, too, and there was the same old fear and mistrust in that look but something else as well, that strange new something brought with them out of the Egress, weak and tenuous and questioning. His eyes flicked to the right, to the far wall, the window.

“Oh, Mark,” said the new Carl, gently. “You will.”

He moved, purposeful and alarmingly fast, and Mark jerked back and dodged like an eel but still only just managed to avoid the quick strong fingers that grabbed for his arm. He backed off a step, then scrambled past Antonio for the window. He yanked at the sash, but it didn’t move. The lock was a small blank keyhole, and there was no key.

The new Carl advanced, eyes locked on Mark’s back as he struggled with the window, but as he reached out again Antonio stepped into his way. The new Carl looked at him, immediately focused, with a new and pitying attention in his curious grin. Behind Antonio, Mark stopped struggling with the locked window and flattened himself against it, watching the two of them.

“So it is true,” said the new Carl, quietly. “I’m so sorry, kiddo. Does it hurt?”

Up until now, Antonio hadn’t allowed himself to think properly about how much might be known about what he’d done. He’d simply blocked off that path in his head, because it felt like a dangerous pit yawning there, a ruinous blind alley with no way back out. Now, he had no choice, and with the same razor-keen sense he himself had for weaknesses the new Carl seemed to pick right up on his reluctance to think, his fear. The small sharp eyes behind the glasses fixed keenly on him as if the thing wearing Carl Mayhew’s face was trying to grasp him, know every wrong thing about him, inside and out.

I didn’t mean to. The words were soundless, huge only in Antonio’s mind, squeezed out of the terrified part of him that could only think of the Very, Very Bad Thing, his betrayal of everything he’d been a part of for as long as he’d been a him. Maybe his lips moved, though his face felt numb and immobile as freezing clay. Maybe, they didn’t need to. The new Carl nodded, and his quick restless voice ran on, soothing, like a clear river.

“I know, I know,” he said. “It’s hard. When you’ve been part of something so wonderful, it’s hard to let it end.”

“I- I don’t-”

The new Carl dismissed his stumbling denial with an easy hand. There was a wedding ring on it, Antonio noticed, a simple plain band. “Don’t you think she understands? She feels every ending, every one of her children coming back to her. I was there for mine, and it was, oh, it was something special... and yours will be, too, you just have to let it happen. And she can fix you, kiddo, you know she can. Now, come on, it’s time.”

He smiled.

“It’s time to come home.”

Looking into the new Carl’s lined, friendly face, Antonio felt like he was staring into a black pit with only himself at the bottom of it, the terrible abnormality that had hold of him written plainly there for all to see. In his mind’s eye he saw the alien thing, the strange bug inside of him that had caused so much pain and trouble finally pinned down, laid bare for examination by those who knew far better than he could how to destroy it, excise it, how to take it away. A wave of longing hit him, for everything to be fixed, put back to how it was, to be set right-

Mark’s phone started to ring.

The tone was bright and ridiculously loud in the small room, and the shock of it went through Antonio like a plunge into icy water. The new Carl was distracted, too, looking down at the small thing vibrating and dancing across the tinfoil-covered floor where it had been dropped, and by the time he looked back up his pitying, forgiving expression just had time to start to change before the printer hit it, snapping his head back like a bowling ball in a shower of shattering white plastic and an unpleasantly meaty crunch.

Antonio didn’t wait for a reaction, but as the new Carl recoiled he hit him again, as hard as he could, this time as if the disintegrating printer was a blunt and awkward sideways club. The new Carl went over backwards, bouncing the back of his head hard off of the doorframe with a wet crack like gristle sticking between the blades a blender. A little sticky black stuff sprayed out across the wall, peppering the second noticeboard and making the anxious young man in the yellow shirt look as if he’d suddenly grown an irregular crop of freckles. The heavy sound of a collapsing body was somewhat muted by the shivering tinfoil, blow after blow lost under the jangling music of Mark’s phone as it shimmied its way across the floor.

Antonio dropped the remains of the printer, a pile of metal guts held together by twisted plastic. He stared down at the crumpled body of the new Carl, the remains of the stolen face pressed to the tinfoil floor, the shards of plastic and spreading dark goop around the mess of the back of his head in a ghastly nimbus.

Behind him, Mark stooped and picked up his phone, severing the call with a beep. He looked down at the new Carl, too, and Antonio saw that his jaw was set and his face was empty of any colour, not dead-stagnant but bloodless, white with fury. He bent again and wrenched viciously at the sprawled left hand, then straightened, backing up in disgust.

“How do we kill it?”

“What?”

Mark looked at him, full in the face. His eyes were hot and burning. This was not the Mark who could be talked to, calmed, reasoned with. This was not even the Mark responsible for the long dark line across Antonio’s face, or that small dent in the stair banisters three steps from the bottom. A terrible and inevitable reaction was in his face, the set lines of his mouth, his hard voice, the result of some horrendous internal pressure. It made sense, in a way Antonio didn’t really understand with words but felt, quite clearly. Take plain carbon, sullen and inert, crush it hard enough, for long enough- and it will become a white-hot coal.

“How,” said Mark, with emphasis on every slow, deliberate syllable, “do we, kill it?”

*

Between them, they dragged the new Carl to the window. The sash was still locked, but Antonio set his hands under it and heaved, and it jerked up in two crooked starts with an abrupt crunch of pained timber each time, scattering long white bits of splintered frame across the desk and the papers and the body and the acres of crumpled foil. He pushed it up as high as it would go, slamming it into the top of the frame hard enough to rattle the glass and wedge it firmly in place.

It wasn’t heavy work, not for Antonio at least, but it was awkward. They pulled and pushed and fought the limp, leaking body over the sill and to the edge of the fire escape. It was five or six floors, a long blank fall into a run-down court full of rubbish between the trunks of lopped-down dead trees and a door blocked with a blank wedge of dry gray wood. Trickling a trail of sticky black goop from his broken face, the body of the new Carl was just about starting to twitch under their hands as they pulled him awkwardly up over the railing, a thin stained backbone of metal that muddled Antonio’s head even worse than it already was and made him think of a green algous light, pattering rain that was not rain and the endless whum-whum-whum of a giant, invisible fan.

The new Carl stirred. The one intact eye behind the shattered glasses stuttered open, wide, perhaps surprised to find itself looking up at the triangle of sky. He started to strain against the curve of his own deadweight body over the railing and the pull of gravity to right himself, like a turtle on its back, and the dilated shark-black pupil moved wonderingly sideways and fixed them both.

“I’m not mad,” he told them- kindly, with all of the compassion in the world. The mess of far too many teeth, real and human, the twists and rags of skin, was still trying to smile.  “I’m just dis-”

Mark let go. Antonio, following like a program set to do nothing but repeat what it saw, lifted his hands numbly away, and the weight of the new Carl did the rest. His shoulders slid over, the rest of him followed, and sent him plunging head-first into the void.

#alex bale #muse arg #don't feed the muse #dftm #mark mayhew #antonio geist #the cynical critic #my writing

[scribbleshanks]

vessel duo au, white palace edition

Guys hear me out.

Vessel duo AU but it takes place at the White Palace.

Hollow has to hide Ghost like the kid hiding an alien in that movie from the 80′s.

Ghost is not pleased with this. 

Food and weapons go missing. The Pale King has no idea why and his future vision is doing shit.

Ghost and Hollow scurry around under a random box trying to get past the retainers’ radar.

One day Ogrim mistake Ghost for the Pure Vessel and gently guides them back to the training grounds. Ghost gets a nail so they don’t complain.

The Pale King: have their horns always looked like that? 

Cut to Hollow having a heart attack.

#hollow knight #rambles #vessel duo au #i'm quite tired and would not like to draw #but this. this will live in my head #one of the retainers go insane trying to prove that yes there are two vessels in the palace and yes one of them is the thief #they're real they're real they're real please believe me they're somewhere in the palace #but every time they have proof ghost and hollow get away with just enough to make their claim baseless #and the pale king is this close to firing the retainer

[kissme-hs]

𝒮𝒶𝓋𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓎 {𝒸.𝑒}

This concept has been on my mind from a long long time. I just get so fucking turned on seeing him in that gorgeous beard oh my sweet lord. I was going to post it tomorrow but oh well, also i didn’t proof read so pardon me for the mistakes. Hope you enjoy! Please reblog :))

Pairing: Chris Evans x Fem! Reader

Word count: 3.05k

Warning: 18+ smut, oral sex fem receiving and giving, filthy talk, fingering, unprotected sex etc.

.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.

He looked breathtaking. Absolutely breathtaking. The way he was sprawled on his mother’s couch that was situated in front of the fire place made your mouth water whilehis other family members gathered around sitting comfortably on a spot that makes them warm.

His thick thighs looked so inviting and his arm that rested on the couch top, every flex made his veins move and his hands that ghosted over your neck made you shiver. He run his knuckles on the back of your neck as you turn your head to face him to see him smiling at you.

What a bastard.

And that beard that adorned his cheek, holy Christ only if you could push his head between your legs and let his mouth slurp on your aching throbbing core until your legs are trembling and shaking and you’re begging him to stop.

You found yourself ashamed of getting lost in your deep thoughts of wild fantasy—basically eye fucking the Lisa’s son while his whole family was around present in the room chatting with you two, well mostly him because you were way too tied up in yourself and your pressed together thighs that you were barely fathoming any word that they uttered.

But how could you not?

He looked like an absolute sex god, with his Andy Barber phase fluffy hair and that beard. That navy blue t-shirt that seemed a little tight on him showing you his ever muscle and highlighting his biceps.

And again there you were, thinking about how good it’s feel when his arms are around your waist while he pounds mercilessly into you, his face hidden in the crook of your neck while you clutch onto this biceps wanting to release.

But oh that beard.

Though you wanted to feel it in between your legs, there was no possible way to describe how bad you wanted to feel it against your lips. Your fingers ached to grab onto his cheeks as your tongue plays with his whilst his hand grabs onto your titties as they usually do.

Snapping out of your wild thinking you found your lower lip tucked between your teeth and a noticeable change in the pace of your breathing. You knew you need it, need to feel him.

“Um, excuse me?” You said out of nowhere cutting of Chris’s childhood story that he was busy telling Scott’s boyfriend. Your sudden action made him furrow his eyebrows as you felt his eyes follow you out of the living room disappearing in the corridor. He turned his head back to meet his mother’s worries facial expression.

“Is she okay chris? Go check on her”

He nods obliging his mother and his own worry towards you as to why you had to excuse yourself from the room full of people you adored. Maybe it was a little stomach bug, he thought.

His bare feet pads over the hardwood floor as he stops when comes across the bathroom far away from the people talking in living area, he knocks on the door twice.

“Baby, honey are you okay?”

“Yeah I’m fine” no you’re not. You need him.

“Baby let me in” he nudges the door gently only to be disappointed when he notices it’s locked. Sighing he faces close to the door.

“Cmon sweetie”

The concern that dripped down his voice made you feel guilty as you open the door, but as soon as you come across his beautifully handsome face, the brightest blue eyes, the perfect nose and the plumpest lips you couldn’t help but pull him inside with a strong tug and close the door behind him.

You did take him by surprise, but it wasn’t anything compared to when your fingers started fiddling with the buckle of his belt trying to get it lose open, your lips attaching to the veins on his neck as you press your body firmly against his.

He took the sign. After all he did know you like the back of his hand.

So when you finally succeeded in not only getting his pants down his legs but also managing to get him rock hard with just your feathery kisses on his delicate skin of neck your lips turned up in a little smirk until his fingers lifted your face up by your cheek to meet his eyes.

The dilated pupils burned into yours while he stared at you—now with lust, concern washed away long time back.

“What’s got you so worked up huh?” He spoked pulling your groin close to him, close enough for you to feel his growing bulge.

“I- this” you whispered biting your lips as your eyes shift’s their gaze from his eyes to his beard and then down to the swell in his pants, well aware of how intense effect it had on Chris. ‘Makes me lose my mind and bend you over until I fuck you like a slut’ says Chris. Your hand grabs over his jeans as you rubbed your palm against it making him shut his eyes close, lashed resting beautifully on the apple of his cheek as he leans his head back against the door, giving you a perfect access to his exposed neck.

Thanking the heels that you still had on it made it no difficult for you (which usually is due to the height difference) to bring your lips close to the veins popping on his neck and placing opened mouth kisses. You knew neck kisses drives him nuts, and you were in no shock when you felt his big hands grab your butt and giving it a rough squeeze causing you to moan which you quickly covered by biting down on his shoulder.

 “fuck” that’s all he could manage to utter the minute you got down on your knees within a blink of an eye. With his belt already undone it made it easier for you to just slide his jeans down along with the boxers, too worked up to tease him now.

As soon as the cotton material of his boxers came down his thick thighs, his hard shaft sprung against his lower belly. Red tip, leaking and veins clearly visible due to the hardness watered your mouth.

 “Go on baby, take that fucking cock in your little mouth” he said through gritted teeth trying to be as hushed as possible with his family only mere steps away. Collecting your hair in his hands he forced your face up to look at him and you did, in every filthy way possible. With your eyes staring at him through your lashes, you grabbed his thick shaft and gave it a good few pump which already trembled his whole body before licking it from the bottom all the way to the top, not breaking the eye contact. And once you reached his aching swollen tip, you licked the slit collected the salty juices and tapped his heavy cocked on your stuck out tongue.

 It looked nothing less than a porn scene, with you on your knees sucking his cock in his mother’s bathroom while he’s leaning on the door holding your hair in his hand pushing your head further to feel the tip of his dick in the back of your throat, his face covered in the most satisfied expression. Swear could’ve had a million hits.

 Your wrist moved around his base ever so lightly adding a little pressure even then so squeezing it making his body jump with pleasure. And your other hand rolled his balls in the palm of your hand while you drooled on his cock with his every thrust, gagging.

“That’s it, take my fucking cock like the slut you are” he moaned fucking your mouth as you continued deepthroating not caring about the tears that ran down your face smudging your mascara and his thick dick ruining your lipstick. Pulling him out of your hollowed cheek with a ‘pop’ you lowered your face to take his ball in your mouth.

With his dick held up with your hand you sucked on his balls, licking them with your tongue whilst his eyes stay fixed on you, observing your every move, you lips, the way you hollowed your cheek and suckled on his thick shaft effortlessly made his muscles clench and soon he was cumming down your throat.

Pulling away with strings of your saliva from your lips you wiped the mess with the back of your hand after gulping down every drop of his cum you stood up straight and the second after his lips were hot and heavy on your swollen ones.

Kissing you heard before biting down your lower lip he pulled away.

“Meet me out in 5 minutes, we’re leaving right now!” and with that he fixed his hair and left you alone in the bathroom to collect yourself, fix your look and follow him out where you were met by pair of questioning eyes.

“I’m good guys, just an upset stomach”

“yeah ma I am gonna take her home, she needs to rest. Thanks for the dinner and see you soon” kissing his mother’s head he hugged everyone goodbye as you did too before you guys collected your belongs with your coats and wallet and found your way to his black SUV.

Once seated inside you could feel the sexual tension rising between you two as you buckled yourself in, trying your best way possible to look innocent.

He does the same, buckling himself in and driving off his mother’s driveway onto the main road. Gaze fixed on the road, hand gripping the wheel tightly almost as if he’s trying to control another orgasm.

“you couldn’t wait could you” he asked head straight ahead.

“no”

“why”

“you looked hot”

“what made you so horny”

“your beard”

“what about it?” stopping at the red signal he finally turned his head to have a look at your face. Flushed up and looking ever red with the back lights of the cars in front. You bite your lip once again out of habit this time, something you do when you’re either nervous or just horny, which in this case you were to the extreme.

“i-I just can’t stop thinking about your face between m-“

“here?” he cut you off, when his hands pulled your legs apart in a swift motion and his fingers dipped down inside your panties. He could feel the wetness of your socked panties on the back of his hand as he slowly draws circle on your throbbing clit. Your hand gripping his wrist as you spread your legs further apart allowing him more access.

“Yes, fuck I wanna feel your beard on my skin while you eat me out baby. Wanna feel you so good in me tonight.” You moaned as the car stopped at another red signal, the one just before you exits the main road for you house and this time he couldn’t control his eagerness so leaning over he grabs the back of your neck and hides his face in it, kissing the gentle skin with roughness and impatience.

His teeth dug in your skin, biting and nipping gently causing you to let you head fall on the window as his hand rubs your pussy and lips kisses your neck.

Oh how amazing it felt feeling the scruffiness of his beard on your skin. Just like you wanted.

“shit” Chris muttered under his breath when he heard the car behind honk, probably because he didn’t pay attention when the red turned green and he raced the car down the room stopping straight at your big driveway. And the way from the porch of the house all the way to the bedroom was a complete rush. With clothes discarded on the floor and your mouth attached together not breaking apart to even breath he pushed you up against the wall of your bedroom.

Hands held on your either side his lips left yours leaving you breathless to make their way down from your jawline to the crook of your neck. His facial hair did tickle you ever so then but again the rubbing of it against your supple skin felt amazing and you could feel yourself dripping down a little with the arousal.

His hands that were holding yours now supported your bum as he lifted you up with you wrapping your legs around his waist. Your front rubbing against his belly probably smudging your wetness around his, you enjoyed the feeling of it while lasted before he threw you on the bed and his body hovered you the second within.

“Gonna eat that fucking pussy so good baby” he said as he eyed your body with those lusty eyes but soon he had to break his gaze when he felt you pull him down by his dangling necklace.

“I want you to eat me until I tell you to stop” You whispered against his ear and boy he felt his dick twitch. And your wish was his command, so his lips made their way down your neck to your perched up nipples. Grabbing your right titty in his hand he rolled it against his palm while his lips suckled on your left nipple. His eyes closed breathing heavy as he lets go of it and attacks the other pebble hard nipple.

His warm tongue felt amazing on your sensitive buds while it flicked and rolled your nipple around making your arch your back. Hands grabbing his soft brown hair pushing his head down to where you needed the most making him chuckle as he placed tinny kisses down the way to your pussy.

“eager little slut you are” he whispered and pushed your legs apart, your core glistened with the wetness that caused which made his mouth water to get a taste of that beauty. Throwing your leg over his shoulder he kissed your inner thighs softly and slowly making you roll your hips with growing impatience.

“please” you whined

“please what?”

“please tongue me, eat me out baby” you pushed his face down with any shame one your core.

Smiling to self he took a deep sniff of your aroused sex that drove him insane before laying his tongue flat against your lips, pushing through up and licking the juices up. The saliva that his tongue carried made it easier for him to glide it along your smooth skin stopping when it felt the bundle of nerve.

Knowing you and your body with like the back of his hand never failed him to find your clit. In fact he didn’t need to find it, after being together for all these years it would be shame if he didn’t.

“such a tasty cunt” he moaned against your pussy before sucking up on your clit and pulling on it until you squirmed beneath him. Pushing your hips down by his hand he held your waist as while his tongue flicks over and over against your aching core. His beard rubbing on your skin tickled it again but how could you complaint.

His lips on your cunt felt incredible. And your pussy tasted delicious on his tongue. If he could, he would eat you out every month which he possibly could.

Holding your tit in your hand you kept your eyes shut feeling the plump of his lips around your pussy until his tongue dipped inside your opening hitching your breath.

“shit baby oh my god, just like that. Tongue fuck this pussy of yours”

The words of appreciation boosted his ego like a rocket and his tongue paced up. Dipping in and out and then slurping the juices off your pussy soon to be replaced by long slender finger that stretch you out deliciously.

Feeling your tight silky walls against his fingers as he pumped them in keeping his mouth on your core he felt the growing neediness in himself, as much he wanted to taste your sweet cum on his tongue dripping down his chin and slurp every drop of it, he also wanted to put his hard dick inside you and fuck until you cannot walk.

So detaching himself from your cunt (which was a bit sad for him) he was once again pulled down by you attaching your lips on him, tasting your own sweet self. You knew he wanted to fuck you, you knew his dick was probably aching by now with hardness so you pumped his shaft from in between your bodies before lining himself in front of you.

“nuh huh, slut gets the rough way” and with that he flipped you over on your belly and held your hips up, basically face down ass up and without a further word he pushed himself inside of you.

Grabbing you by your waist he thrusted inside you moving your body to match his rhythm as you did. His every thrust outstretch you so gracefully as he licked his hand and across your thigh placed it on your clit so he could rub the nerve bud.

“You feel so good oh my god” he moaned rocking his hips forward into yours as you kept your face hidden in the pillow, your tits bouncing with ever push he gave you. It wasn’t later than that when you felt the coil in your stomach burning up, he did leave you before without a release so it was no shame that you felt yourself on the edge of within 15 minutes of his dick inside you.

And even Chris was close, the soft cushiony walls and the continuous clenches squeezed and warmed his cock making his toe curls as he lowered himself against your back kissing your shoulder. You knew he was close, the minute he starts softening up from all dom that’s the time he his about to cum.

So taking in the sign you gave him a one hard clench followed up by his rough push that hit your G-spot to the utter level of pleasure that your legs trembled and soon you were coming undone with him. His cum dripped down your thigh as he laid on top on your back not pulling out, enjoying the now innocent moment of intimacy with the person he loves.

“I’m never shaving again”

“Bold of you to assume you were even allowed to”

#AGHHH #SO #GOOD #chris evans #chris evans imagines #chris evans x reader #chris evans x female reader #chris evans x y/n #chris evans x you #chris evans fanfiction #Chris evans smut #chirs evans writings #cevans #marvel #steve rogers imagines #steve rogers

[5uptic]

crewfu fanfic spotlight :)

Smores by Chione_chan (5up & Steve, general rating, gen | 273 words)

Summary: 5up and Steve roast their fans as they roast marshmallows.

arms wrapped tight by spaded_ace (Apollo/Steve, general rating, m/m | 283 words)

Summary: Another short drabble about the cuddling

guitars that gently weep or something like that by 5280ft (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 469 words)

Summary: He wonders what feeling would be like physically. Feeling someone. In specific instances. In circumstances that he can’t generalize, or compartmentalize, or ignore and wait to go away: Apollo wants to feel so badly his hands ache.

5:39 by spaded_ace (Apollo & Steve, general rating, gen | 674 words)

Summary: Musing when you can't sleep, lethargy in the morning

grab hold the darkness we become by headlessline (5up/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 675 words)

Summary: “Are monsters born or created?” Steve, 5up, and vampires.

defining moments by meowcode (5up/Sleepy, Janet/Kimi, teen rating, multi | 704 words, chaptered words)

Summary: working title: heather attempts to write regularly for once in his miserable fucking life

Tantalus by farmersagainstweed (Apollo/Steve, explicit, m/m | 755 words)

Summary: This was, arguably, worse than before. Before tonight he had thought Steve was straight, unobtainable. He hadn't even let him want. But now? Like Tantalus doomed to an eternity with food just out of reach, he could now see all he could ever want. It was so painfully close, he could just feel it on the tips of his fingers. Pinning Apollo gets a night he could only dream of, but it won't last forever.

Cold sheets and menthol by some_spooky_shit_right_there (Apollo/Steve, explicit, m/m | 851 words)

Summary: The sensation is like a brain freeze. It's one which Steve savors. Sometime after the events of things like me and things like you shouldn't mix Steve and Apollo enjoy some alone time.

There's nothing simple when it comes to you and I by BloodSplatter (Apollo/Steve, unrated, m/m | 876 words)

Summary: Steve thinks of how he and Apollo can have something between them, but it doesn't go further than that.

Would like you, to be someone else. by Nifki (Apollo/Steve, general rating, multi | 929 words, chaptered WIP)

Summary: Apollo goes to a Summer camp and dislikes Steve while the readers decide what they'll do.

Love Will Tear Us Apart by AllianettemiE5 (Apollo/Steve, unrated, m/m | 1k words)

Summary: He always has been told not to fall in love with anyone who won’t love you back. That statement also included not giving his heart to his best friend.

Breakeven by Chione_chan (5up/Fundy, teen rating, m/m | 1k words)

Summary: “I think it’s better that we, ya know, move on, see other people…” Fundy says. "I gave you everything and you’re just leaving," 5up wants to say. He also feels the profanities buzzing at the tip of his tongue. It was only recently that he’s felt comfortable cussing freely, less concerned about how others perceived him. He wants to hurl obscenities at Fundy but he knows that he’s better than that. Fundy never did deal well with people yelling at him. It made him easy to manipulate, but not in the way 5up would like. Besides, it’d only make him miserable later knowing that he let his mask slip so far.

what if earth just got tired of spinning? by Anonymous (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 1k words)

Summary: apollo and steve in love at the end of the world

taught you the ropes; taught you to love by homeward_bound (5up/David/Hafu, teen rating, multi | 1k words)

Summary: [5:05am: hafu wakes up and opens twitter, and after.]

oil and water by Qupid (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 1k words)

Summary: Apollo is a puppet on strings, pulled along by a heart that no longer beats.

Apollo's Letter by AllianettemiE5 (Apollo/Steve, mature, m/m | 1k words)

Summary: A letter you found in the hollow of the wall in the cell of Larkhill.

Élet by Nnoitra (5up/Steve, general rating, m/m | 1k words)

Summary: Steve knows his Soulmate is aware of who he is, the neat first words scrawl is proof enough to him. But who?

Inside Your Head by BoxesWrites (Apollo/Steve, mature, m/m | 1k words, chaptered WIP)

Summary: When Apollo meets Steve in Vegas, something changes. Maybe a lot changes. But the weirdest thing seems to be that Apollo can hear Steve speaking when his mouth isn't moving.

sunrise symphony by sweetlikesugr (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 1.2k words)

Summary: As the first rays of the morning sunshine spill into Steve's bedroom, a memory of a melody fills Apollo's mind.

here's the earliest star by headlessline (5up/David/Hafu, teen rating, multi | 1.2k words)

Summary: And, really… 5up can’t help the way he flops into David’s embrace the second they are close enough to touch. He can’t help the way he buries his face in David’s soft flannel, and he definitely can’t help the deep breath he takes in of floral, woody jasmine. “Hi,” 5up whispers.

Home with you my love~ by RK16 (5up/Steve, general rating, m/m | 1.2k words)

Summary: 5up stresses and Steve calms his worries

we belong in the quietest quiet by headlessline (5up/Steve, general rating, m/m | 1.3k words)

Summary: Steve looks at 5up’s back, his burgundy sweater and whorls of dark hair, and imagines standing up and slow-dancing with him to the hum of Chanel. He wants to slow-dance--to step on toes and awkwardly hover his hand above 5up’s flank--and he wants to touch noses in a platonic kiss, and he wants to lay his head on 5up’s chest, and he wants to stay here forever and make loaf after loaf of cinnamon banana bread, and he wants.

we will grow old as friends (time and hearts will wear us thin by Qupid (Apollo/Steve, general rating, m/m | 1.3k words)

Summary: It’s stupid, Apollo knows it’s stupid as he stares across the hotel room, a whole universe between his and Steve’s beds, and watches the rise and fall of Steve’s chest. Steve is fast asleep, softly snoring in the middle of his bed. His limbs are a mess, thrown everywhere, and his mouth is wide open, drooling all over his pillow.

easy to seduce by Anonymous (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 1.3k words)

Summary: Where Steve tries to understand his feelings and the universe doesn't let him take a break.

i could do about anything by neptoons (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 1.4k words, chaptered WIP)

Summary: a fic about jealousy, uncertainty, and a little courage — where apollo falls for his best friend, and keeps on falling.

Highschool by Paige_crewfu (unrated, gen | 1.6k words, chaptered WIP)

Summary: A collection of Crewfu Oneshots in a highschool AU

The Ghosts of What We Could’ve Had by Anonymous (Apollo/Steve, mature, m/m | 1.7k words)

Summary: It’d been months. Months since Apollo had gotten up the courage to send that first DM. Months since he woke up to a text from his best friend every morning, though it was more recent that he’d started sending them first. Months since he’d given Steve a compliment for the first time, months since he made Steve have a laugh attack for the first time, months since he began to have a reason to live again.

housewarming by 5280ft (5up/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 1.8k words)

Summary: The thought makes his chest warm, the urge to touch hold feel rearing up, and Steve isn’t one to deny his instincts. He’s a wild animal of a man, he is. He ignores 5up repeatedly asking to be handed cheese in favor of suddenly grabbing him from behind, snaking his arms tightly around his waist and burying his head in 5up’s mess of curls. 5up startles, settles, and then laughs. “What are you doing?”

you would do that for me? by neptoons (Apollo/Steve, general rating, m/m | 1.8k words)

Summary: apollo expresses his love for steve in silly little ways.

gingerbread houses and candy hearts by Anonymous (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 2k words)

Summary: “No Steve, we don’t fucking put that in first, why the fuck would you do that-” “Shut up! I know how to fucking bake. Just let me do this, and you can do everything else!” “You said that last time, you moron. You’re decorating, I’m making the gingerbread house, you dumbass!” “But Apollo-” “This is why you can’t work with other people. Let me do something, for fuck’s sake.” “But it would taste better if you did it like I did-” “Nope. Not talking to you. Either you can sit and watch me make the house, or you can actually help out without trying to change everything.” Steve slumped, clearly done with arguing. “Whatever. It’s not my fault if it tastes like shit.”

Knight in Pink Armor by Chione_chan (5up/Fundy, teen rating, m/m | 2k words)

Summary: Fundy gets stood up. Luckily, there’s a cute leafling to rescue his evening. Kinda.

cafés and clichés by waywiser (5up/Fundy, teen rating, m/m | 2k words, chaptered WIP)

Summary: Fundy scoffs. Surely, this guy with the stupid fuzzy sweater and piercing eyes has come in here specifically to irritate him. He hasn’t even ordered coffee for heaven’s sake. Tea! He wants fucking tea, even though it’s almost one o’clock in the morning.

whole world in his hands by Anonymous (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 2.1k words)

Summary: “Hey Apollo, I think the worst thing about America is that they allow racists to live. How about you?” Apollo grinded his teeth together, glaring at Steve. “And how, Steve, does this relate to America’s shit economical status? The thing we’re supposed to make a presentation on?” Steve gave Apollo an awfully pretty grin, leaning onto the desk. “Dunno. I’m sure you can work something out. I just think the fact that racists exist is worse than America’s economic status.”

little mysteries by neptoons (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 2.1k words)

Summary: apollo has a secret, and steve won’t rest until he finds out what it is.

Free Bird by AllianettemiE5 (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 2.1k words, chaptered WIP)

Summary: Apollo found himself in need of a new place to live. The opportunity to leave Texas was in front of him, and he chose to follow it. Or, how Apollo discovered his feelings, defined himself, and freed his life from people it was pressured by.

what you fantasize about by homeward_bound (Apollo/Steve, explicit, m/m | 2.1k words)

Summary: [steve has a wet dream about apollo, gets the ride of his life, is sort of jebaited, and realizes he has a humiliation kink, in that order.]

Wolfboy by Anonymous (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 2.2k words, chaptered WIP)

Summary: Apollo upgrades to an e-boy by acquiring wolf ears.

picturing me and you (together) by liquorleftovers (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 2.7k words, chaptered WIP)

Summary: Steve wakes up incredibly hungover after Hafu's birthday party and finds a picture on his phone of him and Dumbdog kissing. He is left very confused, about a lot of things.

Heat waves by BloodSplatter (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 3.1k words)

Summary: Apollo doesn’t feel well. So he decided to take a week or few off streaming and focus on himself. Week turns into a month, and he doesn't even notice how time flies. Getting out of the burnout is the hardest part, but he's sure that it's possible. Especially when he finds out that his friends were worried about him.

At the end of the world with you by RK16 (5up/Steve, teen rating, gen | 3.2k words)

Summary: 5up finds himself in the middle of a apocalypse then proceeds to find and promptly lose his family.

Inner Workings of Life by amethystvxidwalker (5up/Poki, Apollo/Steve, teen rating, multi | 3.4k words, chaptered WIP)

Summary: Tales and drabbles of friends and more <3

trusting fears by 5fu (Hafu & 5up, general rating, gen | 3.6k words, chaptered WIP)

Summary: If you asked Hafu, soulmates were worthless. It was something she learned early on, as soon as she had gotten the words on her left arm. Words that have haunted her for years. But that didn't matter. She had no need for any of those silly notions of being "complete." What she needed was to get on with her job aboard the Morn as Second in Command. She was set to, along with her Captain and the rest of the crew, welcome the people of the Fable. They claim to have important information urgently needing to be shared but something's off about them. Hafu just couldn't put her finger on it. Especially their Second, an arrogant pink man. Something feels... wrong.

like a wolf howling at the moon by Anonymous (Apollo/Steve, explicit, m/m | 3.6k words, chaptered)

Summary: steve comes to the conclusion that apollo is in love with him. and so, steve decides to do what he does best: completely fuck with apollo's peace of mind. but apollo knows how to play games, and most importantly, he knows how to win them.

Sometimes it is like that by Anonymous (Apollo/Steve, explicit, m/m | 3.7k works, chaptered WIP)

Summary: Just another party at Hafu's and just another night together in their hotel room. But today Dumbdog was especially flirty while drunk. But why should Steve complain.

the lull of your lips by sweetlikesugr (Apollo/Steve, explicit, m/m | 3.7k words)

Summary: “Welcome to Sugar Pine Hotline, where you can find everything your body craves, and then some more. All you’ve got to do is not be afraid to ask, lover boy.” “Uh, is the guy with the extremely soothing voice working tonight?” “I’m sorry sir, you’re going to have to be a bit more specific.” “Ehm, I believe he said he goes by a Rat Boy sometimes? Is that helpful?” “Redirecting you now…”

we lay here for years or for hours (so long we become the flowers) by Qupid (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 3.7k words)

Summary: Steve's words fall from his lips in the form of petals, waiting for him to whisper I love you to the person that holds his heart. Apollo is trapped in a magic slumber and Steve's words would only fall on deaf ears.

Blood and Dogwood Flowers by DeadlyHuggles (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 3.8k words)

Summary: Steve laughed softly at Dumbdog's antics, but the laughter swiftly turned into something much worse. That ever present scratch in his throat grew as he began to cough. He couldn’t stop coughing. His throat hurt so badly, like thorns were digging into them. He felt like something sharp was trying to climb up his throat. He hacked and hacked until at last he hacked up the thing in his mouth into his hands. And then everything stopped. The scratch in his throat was still there, but it was much less severe, merely a tickle than an actual scratch now, and delicately in his palms sat a four petaled, light pink flower with a light green center. Steve felt a bolt of horror go through him as he stared down at the innocent little flower. Hanahaki was a decently rare disease, but often cases of hanahaki were broadcasted and romanticized. There were very few people alive who didn’t know what coughing up flowers meant.

I'll surround you (make you feel sure) by LovelyDayForIt (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 4.4k words)

Summary: The events preceding, during, and subsequent to the Vegas meetup. Follow Steve and Dumbdog through a tale of adoration, panic. Secrets only lead to more secrets, and they can eat up a person inside and out.

My Kinda Love by rosesinwinter (5up/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 5.8k words, chaptered WIP)

Summary: 5up as the shy bartender with a pretty voice. Steve as the sarcastic and oblivious runner-from-his-past. Hafu as the meddling best friend. The rest is history.

out of nothing, into more (see the day) by 5280ft (5up/Apollo/Steve, teen rating, multi | 5.8k words, chaptered WIP)

Summary: dive out of nothing and into more but i can’t quite tell what i’m hoping for somehow, maybe now, i’ll find the words to say: never thought i’d see the day see the day, the altogether

soften the light that hurts my eyes by homeward_bound (5up/David/Hafu, mature, multi | 8.8k words)

Summary: [hafu has a rough day, 5up has a rough night, david holds them together, and the morning sun casts a gentle warmth over all of them.]

cupid's compendium of extraordinary words by Qupid (5up/Ellum, 5up/Sleepy, 5up/Steve, Apollo/Gumi, Apollo/Steve, Br00d/DK, Koji/Steve, teen rating, multi | 9k words, chaptered WIP)

Summary: a series of brief accounts of the word of the day in the only way I know how to express it

lexicon of a simple worm by thebetterwormy (5up/Apollo, 5up/Ellum, 5up/Fundy, Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 10.3k words, chaptered WIP)

Summary: a series of little fics based on the word of the day :)

I haven't told you anything yet by some_spooky_shit_right_there (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 11.6k words, chaptered)

Summary: Apollo has always been a great pilot. He never felt more at home than when within the cockpit of his Jaeger. But now, he's been stationed at the Houston base, tiny and empty. His Jaeger comes with him but he doesn't have a copilot anymore. If he's being honest with himself, he isn't really a pilot anymore either.

anthology by sweetlikesugr (5up/Ellum, 5up/Sleepy, 5up/Steve, Apollo/Steve, Koji/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 12k words, chaptered WIP)

Summary: anthology [ an-thol-uh-jee ] noun, plural an·thol·o·gies. a collection of selected writings by one author.~ or lav attempts to write a short ficlet based around the word of the day, hopefully every day.

Under the Rose by Hinician (5up/Fundy, unrated, m/m | 14.4k words, chaptered WIP)

Summary: 5up, a plant-hybrid witch, encounters an injured Dreamon Hunter lying in his woods. After rehabilitating the Hunter and convincing him that he’s not a Dreamon, 5up thought he’d never see the fox man again. This is in fact not the case.

we should just kiss like real people do by Qupid (Apollo/Steve, mature, m/m | 14.6k words, chaptered)

Summary: Apollo spends his nights walking other people's dreams, but then he moves to LA to live with his good old pal Steve. Suddenly, he is walking Steve's dreams every night, a tourist of his subconscious, and Apollo can't decide if it's the best or the worst thing to ever happen.

The Kind That's Never Done by some_spooky_shit_right_there (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 15k words, chaptered)

Summary: Apollo is fucked. In general, Apollo doesn't really believe in love the way most people talk about it. To Apollo, love isn't some big thing, there's no grand romance that the universe has destined, that's just not how it works. What love is, is having someone that you're happy to be around. When the good parts about someone outweigh the bad parts, when you're content to be around them, that's what love is. And Apollo has lost count of all the good things about Steven Suptic.

loving you is so easy (and I never want to stop) by thebetterwormy (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 17.3k words, chaptered)

Summary: “I didn’t know we had a third roommate,” Steve says, turning the stuffed animal to face him. “Does this mean we can split rent three ways?” (Apollo brings his childhood stuffed dog to his new apartment with Steve. It causes a few... changes.)

Things Like Me And Things Like You Shouldn't Mix by some_spooky_shit_right_there (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, multi | 62.3k words, chaptered)

Summary: Steve startles, just slightly, when he sees the man in his kitchen. And, it's not like Steve checked out the place before signing the lease, because it was cheap and he needed somewhere to stay, so he didn't know if he would have any roommates, but if it's just one, he can deal with it. The guy's about Steve's age, and just as tall, too. Maybe even a touch taller then Steve, but who's keeping track. He looks perfectly normal, which is honestly the most startling thing. His skin is unblemished, and his clothes, while definitely a bit old fashioned, are spotless. His slightly reddish hair is a touch unkempt, but overall he looks like a perfectly normal dude. He doesn't look up when Steve walks in, and he suspects that the guy hasn't even registered that he's there. He's just sitting in one of these creaky old wooden chairs that came with the place. He's looking across the built in table, (and Steve takes a moment to admire it, because he's always found built-ins to add so much character to a house) and he stares blankly at a spot on the opposite wall. Steve decides he should probably just get this out of the way, and moves to address the ghost that's sitting in his new kitchen.

Also!!

spaded_ace’s sex and vienna collection.

5280ft’s modern metamorphoses: a greek collection and world's worst roommates and co. collection.

Nnoitra’s What happened In Vegas collection.

FAQ:

Wait what is this: pretty straight to the point! i’ll regularly share crewfu-related fanfictions to this blog :)

How regularly is “regularly”?: great question! LOL. it depends on the flow of fanfics that get uploaded, which i do not have any control over, but i’m looking forward to do this twice a month. after all, it’s only me doing this and i often run on a tight schedule.

What’s the format like?:

[title of fic with link] by [author of the fic with link] ([main pairing(s)], [fic rating: eg, general rating], [relationship: eg, m/m] | [word count in k], [added prompt to specify if it’s complete or not])

Summary: [summary provided by the author. if it doesn’t have a summary, a “No summary” prompt will be put instead]

(What does WIP mean again?): Work In Progress :)

Why are you doing this?: from the beginning, my blog has hosted conversations about RPF (real people fiction) and crewfu pairings. this has evolved into people sending me updates about certain fics in the crewfu tags every now and then, but i wanna take the next step and just do these things myself. after all, i’m already lurking in the tags often to see the fics that get posted. as someone who is both a writer and a reader, i wanna appreciate fanfic writers and help out other people that want to read fanfic and consume more fandom content!

Will it be AO3 only?: well, ao3 has a very helpful tag system that makes finding fics incredibly easy, as well as allowing people with no accounts to like and comment on fics, so that’s the site i will personally look in for fanworks. but if there are any fics you’ve written or liked in any other platforms, such as wattpad, you can always contact me through my inbox (send an ask or a dm!), and i’ll make sure to include for the next fanfic spotlight :)

Does it mean you won’t reply to fic asks anymore?: yeah, i guess. since i’ll be doing the searching myself it seems counterproductive. but if i ever skip a fic or again, it’s in another platform, or you’ve posted/read the fic a while ago and you want to get more traction on it, hit me up and i’ll take it into consideration!

Will you read every single one of the fics on your list?: oh no. again, i run on a tight schedule, and also i have my own taste when it comes to fics. i won’t be reviewing fics or any of the sort, and my intention extends to simply sharing these fics to this page so people will have easier access to them :) that’s where ao3 tagging becomes SUPER useful!!!

So what’s the criteria for the way you’ll sort out the fics in your list?: word count, going from lowest to highest. in case of fics in other platforms, i guess i’ll put them at the top of the list. i’ll also be looking for fairly recent fics, so let me know if you want any old-ish fic to be included.

I see you talking mostly about 5up/Steve and Steve/Apollo. Can I still send/see other crewfu fics?: why yes absolutely! my goal is to push every fic which heavily features regular crewfu characters - 5uptic and supdog just happen to be very popular pairings. so, to give you a list: core 4 (5up, hafu, dk, steve), apollo, aipha, annie, janet, kimi, ellum, koji… you know the drill. it doesn’t have to be centered on a relationship, or about 5up in specific, etc. my only requirement is that any of the previously mentioned members are a central part of the fic or are HEAVILY featured in it (sorry, minecraft fics with 50+ tags who only mention 5up as an afterthought won’t make the cut :/).

Isn’t shipping Bad™?: well, it’s a little more nuanced than that. i will go out of my way to discourage and shame people who often violate CCs’ boundaries by acting like so and so has a crush on this person, or that this and that are Actually Into Each Other or secretly dating. any sort of tinhat bullshit is a big nono (think larries). but i run on the assumption that people who write rpf understand that what they’re doing is simply write a completely fictional story using real life personalities, and understand the boundaries necessary to do it - aka they’re not tinhats, they understand they can’t assume everything about CCs’ thoughts and personalities, they understand that what they’re writing is strictly fiction, they keep these works only in fandom circles, etc. (but again, it’s only one me doing this, so please be kind if i don’t happen to know that this person is Actually a tinhat or whatever).

show fic: NO. (seriously. i don’t feel comfortable putting my ao3 account out there. please respect my privacy on these trying times <3)

I REALLY don’t care about your rpf/fic talk: fair! i’ll be tagging every single one of these posts as “fanfic spotlight”, so just mute the tag using tumblr settings so you’ll never have to look at these! likewise, you can follow the tag if you want to keep up with it, or search it on my blog to look at the other entries you might have missed.

Hey, my fic is here and I don’t feel comfortable with it being shared over here: no problem! let me know as soon as you can and i’ll take it down <3

#long post #crewfu #i'm never letting myself go that long without making one of these again. UGHH #love to see the word of the day fics <3 and more f/m pairing hellllll yea #fanfic spotlight #good night everyone. kisses to all the lovely writers <3

[ddarker-dreams]

Puppet Strings. Yan Ghost Josuke x Reader [COMM]

Warnings: Josuke’s temper flaring, typical yandere elements, brief alcohol mention. Word count: 3.1k

i.

You didn’t think much of it when you saw your window wide open. 

No, it wasn’t that particular moment that sent alarm bells ringing. It’s remarkable what the human mind is capable of scrounging up to justify an otherwise horrifying situation. Moving from one place to another is an exhausting effort -- you reasoned to yourself -- maybe you reopened it and forgot. That sounds perfectly plausible. Sleep came easily to you that night and all was forgotten the next morning. There were some other minor occurrences, cabinets being open, the television flickering. Nothing incriminating, nothing to worry about. 

For a time, this logic worked in your best interest. The last straw was when your personal belongings started going missing. Lip glosses, shirts, and even some sketchbooks. Contacting the police served to be no help. When they asked who could hold a vendetta against you, you had no solid leads. You’d only been in Morioh a little over a month. Earning an adversary in that short a time felt unlikely, if not impossible. Classmates were interviewed, their alibis clearing them of possible suspects, the investigation stagnant. Your neighbors hadn’t seen questionable figures lurking around your home. Days went by, and a few patrols later, the police claimed there wasn’t much else they could do. There were no signs of breaking and entering, no fingerprints, no leads. 

No peace of mind.

You’ve explored every logical avenue. Not knowing what to do next is the worst part, it’s what serves to frustrate you the most. Sighing, you dry your hands off, mulling over what to do next. Now that you’ve finished washing the dishes, there are no other chores to procrastinate with. Guess I better get started on that project, you think. God, but it’s so hard to focus anymore. 

Without noticing it, you felt drawn to the living room. Anyone would understand, that from the stress you’ve suffered, it’s fine to take a break. A distraction from reality sounds great right about now. Your PlayStation 2, which has been collecting dust, can finally get used. The multiplayer games are bugged -- a Player 2 shows up even when you play it with yourself -- so you haven’t used it in some time. Scanning over the various game choices, you never get a chance to pick one out. 

“Huh, so they released a sequel to that?” An unknown voice, masculine and lighthearted, chimes in behind you. Your immediate reaction is to whip your head back, searching for the source. Heart pounding, you realize this is exactly what you feared. That whoever was stalking you would eventually come to settle things for seeking help from law enforcement. You don’t see him, even though the voice had been close enough to assume he’s behind you. There’s no way you imagined it. Where is he? 

That’s when you see him. 

Whether or not it was intentional, he stands blocking your path to the kitchen, where your phone is. A young man of imposing size, easily dwarfing you. His style throws you off, it’s like he was ripped from another time. That hair… a pompadour? Narrowing your eyes, you stand from your kneeling position, preparing to hold your ground. He might be blocking your ability to call the police, but there’s still the option of running out the front door to alert your neighbors. It’ll be fine, you tell yourself, not entirely convinced. Just don’t panic. 

“Who are you?” Is the first question that slips past your lips. There’s unfiltered hostility in the words, despite your hesitation to aggravate him. Your eyebrows furrow when he puts his hands up in defense. It gives an impression of mockery in an otherwise grave scenario.

“Woah, calm down there,” he lets out a nervous chuckle that further irks you. “You can call me Higashikata Josuke.”

This person -- Josuke -- is acting too casual about this. There’s no doubt in your mind that he’s the source of your torment these past few weeks. How else could he be standing in your home, acting in such a deplorable manner? For your own best interest, you bite your tongue, that’s dying to hurl numerous insults his way. In contrast to his polite speech, he’s dressed like a stereotypical delinquent. Who knows what Josuke would do should you provoke him. You’ve heard rumors of rambunctious youths in the area and don’t want to test the validity of those claims. 

“Alright, Higashikata-san, I’m going to ask you to leave. This is my house. If you just… leave me alone, I won’t contact the police. Alright?” You feel like your proposal is a considerate one, even if you don’t intend to follow through. Once you get to safety, like hell you’re going to let this punk get away with it, he just doesn’t need to know that yet. Josuke shifts weight from one leg to another, contemplating your words.

“I can’t do that. Besides, the same way you feel this is your house, I equally feel like it’s mine.” Josuke replies, scratching his cheek. His tone almost sounds… apologetic. As if it isn’t completely within his control to leave. You gulp when you realize your approach might not work. Maybe he’s not mentally sound? That’s the most plausible solution. Taking a deep breath, you shift to a less combative posture, still hoping to talk him down.

“Is there someone I could call? A guardian, a friend? Let’s figure this out.” You will yourself to keep each word steady to lure him in. The innocent inquiry doesn’t have the intended effect, Josuke frowning as soon as the word guardian left your lips. Shit. Was that a sensitive topic? The scowl is gone in a split second like it never existed. He takes a step closer to you and you take a step back.

“There’s not much to figure out. I’ll be honest then since I’m sure you’re freaking out right now. Which makes sense. I’d be freaking out too…” he trails off, going deep into thought. Finally, Josuke manages to choose the proper words. “How do I go about this? Alright, I’ll just come out and say it.” 

“Well, to put it in simple terms, I’m dead.” 

You blink. Tilting your head, you conclude that this Higashikata Josuke is not mentally well. Getting in contact with a professional is your new top priority. Josuke picks up on your hesitant body language and rushes to give credence to his claim.

“I know, crazy, isn’t it? I’m sorry about your stuff, by the way. Felt like the best way to understand my new housemate without sending you running right away. I’ll return it now,” Josuke’s demeanor doesn’t give you the impression of a liar. Still, a spirit? You don’t know what to think anymore. He sighs at the sour expression on your face. “How to prove this to you… ah, I know. Hey, check this out.” 

Josuke points to the controller sitting on your couch. Not a second later, it starts levitating in the air, your jaw-dropping at the unfeasible spectacle. Josuke lets out an airy chuckle at your bewilderment. “Sorry, that was pretty lame. I didn’t know what else to do.” 

“There’s… really a spirit, in my house.” You struggle to say it aloud. The people living in Morioh could be superstitious, a view you attributed to living out in the country. This paranoia, or sometimes reverence, never fell in line with your beliefs. There was no solid proof that the supernatural existed. It made for riveting local stories, for youths to gossip and movies to adapt, but the line was drawn there. A timeline plays in your head of the past few weeks. It would explain how no one in this active community spotted an intruder, or how the police never found physical evidence. 

“Our house, actually.” He corrects with a beaming smile.

ii. 

Maybe it’s not so bad. 

Josuke, with whom you have an unusual relationship, makes for decent company in your otherwise uneventful life. You still can’t help but feel on guard around him for his earlier behavior. As he explained it, borrowing your belongings was just a way to get to know you. He apologized wholeheartedly for the stress he put on your life. It felt genuine, but an apology doesn’t make everything go away at once. Little by little, Josuke’s grown on you, worming his way into your heart. Memories and feelings fade, your first few weeks after the move are no different. 

“Have you seen my red scarf anywhere?” You call out, peeking underneath your pillow. Josuke appears from thin air -- an element that took some getting used to -- helping to look around your room. One of your conditions for remaining here was that he’d show up in your room only when invited, a condition Josuke was more than happy to agree to. You guess everyone is lonely in their own way.

“It’s not over here,” Josuke yells from beneath your desk. “What do you need it for, anyway? Can’t you just turn the heater on?” 

“Well, I could, but that wouldn’t do me much good. Some friends invited me to karaoke tonight, and the weather report said it’ll drop to four degrees celsius.” Feeling defeated, you plop onto your bed, staring at the ceiling. Josuke leans over, popping into your line of sight. He’s lacking the trademark smile you’ve grown used to seeing. For such a minor change, it packs a punch. Josuke sulks like a kicked puppy.

“Karaoke, huh?” He mutters, more to himself than you. “My old classmates used to do stuff like that. Sounds fun.” 

You sit up and cross your legs. Josuke’s tone is a longing one, wishing to fulfill a dream that can never be, visage painfully bleak. Guilt bubbles up in your stomach for the insensitive comment, not realizing he has a lot on his mind too. Josuke’s bubbly personality stood on a thin sheet of ice, ready to plunge into the depths at any moment. You wrack your mind to try and appease him. 

“It really isn’t anything that exciting. I was going to say no, but they insisted. Just imagine it as a bunch of tone-deaf people drunkards belting, that’s all it is.” You console. Josuke doesn’t light up at your joke, his eyes hollow. From what you know about spirits, if they linger in this realm instead of moving onto the next, that means an obligation is holding them here. You’ve never asked Josuke why he hasn’t passed on. That leaves room for speculation, numerous hours spent ruminating over theories. Maybe he’ll tell you one day, or maybe he won’t. Either way, it’s still tragic he never got to live his life.

“Mm… guess so, yeah.” He isn’t paying attention to your words. Guilt as sharp as knives slices through you at Josuke’s gloomy mood. For a split second, you consider canceling with your friends, to stay home and cheer him up. He always loves playing games with you or just speaking over trivial matters for hours. You push the idea away. Fraternizing with a spirit on the daily isn’t enough to supply your social needs, only friends of flesh and blood can fill that role. 

“Hey, I’m sorry for mentioning it. If you want to talk about--” 

“No,” he cuts you off, shaking his head. “Go ahead. Go live life.” 

You don’t offer a rebuttal. Josuke probably needs time to think, you decide. We can talk about it later.

iii. 

“What’s up?” 

You lean against the wall, payphone pressed against one ear and your hand covering the other. Music blares in the background, terrible acoustics of the crowded bar making it difficult to hear the other line. One of the workers grabbed you, saying you had a call, your guesses of who it could be next to nonexistent. You scrunch your nose up when you hear Josuke’s distinct voice on the other side.

“It’s late,” you hear him say. His voice is muffled, but the exasperated tone is hard to miss. “Shouldn’t you be back by now?” 

Sighing, you struggle to rationalize why Josuke’s pestering you like this. You never gave a time when you’d be home, not thinking it was necessary. “I was going to leave soon. I don’t have class in the next few days, so it’s fine.” 

“It’s dangerous to be out on your own--” 

“Josuke,” you deadpan, rubbing your temples. “I appreciate the concern, really, I do. But I used to live in Tokyo, remember? If I could survive the city at night, I can survive here.” 

“That’s not the point here,” Josuke counters, voice dropping dangerously low. Your patience is wearing thin at his attempts to police your autonomy. It’s not his place to enforce a curfew on you. “You don’t know what kinds of danger lurks in Morioh.” 

Josuke’s statement is full of bone-chilling conviction. Almost like he was speaking from firsthand experience. You take a deep breath, remembering that you’re speaking to someone who likely died in a traumatizing manner here. Maybe extending a little grace wouldn’t hurt. It’s a shame to cut the night short, but it’s not that big a deal.  

“Okay, I get it. It’s about a fifteen-minute walk back home. I’ll see you soon, alright?” 

Softening your voice seems to have the effect you intended. Josuke takes a second to consider, the two of you waiting in tense silence. This is the first time you’ve gone out with friends, maybe he just wasn’t sure what to make of it. You hold no intention of bending to his every whim, but this one time, you’ll offer him peace of mind. There’ll be major boundaries set up in the future. 

He sighs begrudgingly. “... Right.” 

iv. 

This is getting ridiculous. 

Josuke’s behaving no better than an entitled child, your paper-thin patience starting to give way. The circumstances you’ve been placed into were unusual enough, to begin with, but they never felt malicious, not until Josuke’s personality seemed to switch in the blink of an eye. What you can only describe as sabotage has become a regular occurrence. It perfectly parallels the problems you had upon first moving into this house, only now you know the one responsible. He’ll act none the wiser, claiming innocence in what has to be his doing.

Cut phone lines, missing shoes, personal journals disappearing into thin air, nothing has been spared. Maybe you were foolish for trusting a spirit. You’d like to have thought you were on solid terms with Josuke, your mortal mind doing its best to wrap around the otherworldly events. You’re at your wit’s end, now fully prepared to confront him on this unacceptable display. It’s a shame it came to this, you think. Confrontation is the worst.

“Josuke.” 

“[First].” 

The two of you sit in the living room, on opposite sides of the couch. Ever since the karaoke disaster a few weeks ago, Josuke’s attitude has taken an undesirable turn, as evidenced by how he’s acting now. Never did you imagine he could be so petty. You straighten out your posture, squaring your shoulders, and placing your hands on your lap. He stares at you with faint interest, cerulean eyes shining at your attention. 

“I’ve tried my best to be understanding,” you wince at how dramatic your words are. It almost sounds like you’re breaking up with a partner. “If I did something that upset you, please just be honest about it.” 

Josuke gives a nonchalant wave. “Nah, it’s not that important anymore. I recently made up my mind, so I don’t feel too concerned about it.” 

There weren’t many expectations in place for this talk, but Josuke dismissing you this fast wasn’t an outcome you envisioned. It feels like a slap to the face after you spent days dreading this talk. What did “recently making up his mind” even mean? Irritation rises in your throat like bile, words snapping out before you can stop them.

“You don’t just get to be that dismissive,” you point out with a scowl. “I know what you’ve been doing. Taking my stuff again, right, Higashikata? I’m fed up with this shit. Maybe I should just move out--” 

Your sentence gets cut off by the coffee table’s glass shattering. The high pitched noise makes you jump, shards flying in multiple directions on the floor. Glancing from the mess back to Josuke, you find the sight of him as a stronger cause for worry. He looks thoroughly unimpressed with your emotional outburst. Thick eyebrows knit together, his face contorting from friendly to enraged. You gulp when a sudden chill in the air sending shivers down your spine. With how friendly your relationship with him had been up to this point, you forgot to watch your tongue, the initial reverence wearing off long ago. 

Josuke stands up, flaunting his towering build. Looking down at you through lidded eyes, he reaches down, and you catch a glimpse of light blue and pink. Huh? What was that? A trick of the lights, maybe? As fast as it was destroyed, you watch in awe as the pieces return to their original place. Broken glass, chips of wood, screws and all, become whole as if it was a movie playing in reverse. Is this something else a spirit can do? 

“Y’know, [First],” Josuke begins with a humorless laugh. “This is great. I wasn’t sure how to do this part. Now I don’t have to worry about that, so let me cut right to the chase.” 

You feel the blood draining from your face, goosebumps dotting your skin. This is wrong. Whatever he’s doing now, you can’t stand another second of it. “Josuke, you’re scaring me.” 

“That’s fine by me.” He smiles. There’s a palpable thickness in the air, tension elevating as each second crawls by. Your mind trips over itself in search of a solution to this, but deep down inside, you’re filled with dread. A dread that this damage is beyond repair and that you’ve made a fatal mistake. Would screaming even help you? Could you outrun a ghost? Your heart pounders against your ribcage and you pray it isn’t Josuke who’s trying to rip it out. 

“You saw that table,” Josuke points to the once destroyed furniture, now neatly put back together. He frowns at your lack of confirmation, pressing further, voice increasing in volume. “Right?” 

You somehow manage to nod. Your throat and tongue are too dry to use and the room feels like it’s spinning. 

“That makes this simple then,” Josuke sits back down to his spot from before and stretches his arms. “There’s a lot I’m capable of. Way more than I’ve shown you. Breaking things apart and fixing them is my specialty, but… that last part can easily be omitted.” 

Josuke turns to face you, eyes peering into the depths of your soul.

“Threaten to leave me again and I won’t even bother to put you back together.” 

#Josuke Higashikata #Josuke Higashitaka #josuke headcanons #josuke imagine #yandere josuke #yandere josuke higashitaka #yandere josuke x reader #JoJo's Bizzare Adventure #jojo's bizarre adventures #jjba x reader #yandere jjba x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere ghost x reader #my stuff #commissions

[pocketfulofrogers]

Love Me Anyways

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: What is there to say? You’re a dark and twisty assassin and Steve Rogers is definitely... not that. When you get an opportunity to run, will you take it?

Notes: Tiny bit of smut and angst with a happy ending. If you feel like you’ve seen/read this before, you may have. I’m reorganizing and this was previously part 1 of Haunted Woman, Broken Lover. When I originally wrote this, it was meant to be a one off, but sad endings don’t always feel right. I then struggled to turn it into a series, so here is HWBL reimagined with a different ending as a one shot. The series will still be a thing, but now I actually feel good about it!

They call you a ghost. It isn’t for the way you seem to slip through walls or the way you look at death as a reflection. It’s the hollowness of your eyes that earns you the nickname. Hazed over orbs coated in grey.

Clint asks you if they’ve always been that color, you tell him you can’t remember anymore.

Fury lets you run your own thing after you agree to attach yourself to the badge. He’d rather not know how exactly you get the job done, so long as you’re on their side.

You’re solo most of the time, it’s better that way.

They learn quickly how deadly you are, leaving your enemies questioning the validity of your existence and holding the same vacant stare as you. It wasn’t just physical injuries you specialized in.

The first time you met Steve Rogers was an accident. You had a rogue Armenian scientist tied up in his basement. He had been about to run when you appeared at his kitchen table, and, for a moment, you thought a heart attack might get him before you could.

You were sat before him, leaned forward with your tools on a bench beside you. A small blade aching to break skin sat hot between your fingers, but so far, your words had been enough. Steve opened the door, barreled down the steps, and stopped in his tracks. You locked eyes with him and, in a flash, you saw something hauntingly familiar within the blue.

That’s when something inside you shifted.

He took one look at the scene before him and shut it down immediately. You slipped away when he called it in and left no trace of your existence except for a long thin line gushing red from the scientist’s throat.

Steve find’s the plans for a chemical attack on his desk that night and where to find each accomplice wrapped in a pretty bow of nylon. Alive, your note assures him.

“She’s like a cat. Brings home dead things to show her affection.” Clint says one day. You promptly shove an elbow in his gut.

He learns how to spot your work past blubbering grown men and catatonic stares. Natasha tells him you hold your liquor well, Clint comments on your gambling abilities. He asks if your eyes are naturally that color, they tell him you don’t like to answer that question.

Later he asks Fury how they found you. He’s not sure how you became what you are today, but he knows this world has not treated you well, yet here you are, working to protect it regardless of what had been done to you. That’s the only reason he didn’t order Clint to take you out.

“So, she’s good?” Steve asks.

Fury pauses for a moment. “For our sake, I hope so.”

The next time you see Steve Rogers, you’re slinking through the Triskelion halls trying to stick your nose somewhere it probably doesn’t belong. He bumps into you, grabs your arm and your side to steady you. You know he can feel the scars beneath the thin material of your shirt and jump from his touch.

He shakes it off. “Tell me,” He starts. “Do you have an actual name or are you really just a ghost.”

You think for a moment. “Y/N.” He raises a brow, both your voice and an answer surprising him. “What, were you expecting a cryptic answer on the relativity of life and death or something?”

He chuckles. “Guess not.”

A moment later, he gets distracted, turns a way for a split second and then you’re gone.

“Yeah, she does that.” An agent passing by comments.

You continue on your path, leave him the gift of a solved problem on his desk sometimes. He sets up cameras and lasers, trying to catch you just once. It takes him a few months to realize the janitor drops the files and notes for him. You and Natasha laugh at his expense.

He starts to leave files in various places he knows only you could find. The worst of the worst. Men and women he thinks you’d be happy to cross off. You can’t tell if he leaves them for you, or because they’re just terrible people. Either way, the change in narrative surprises you, but you never bring it up. You’re the last person that would ever judge someone.

Natasha taunts him over it.

“It’s a modern-day love story with an assassin twist.”

“Why not that one?” “She doesn’t like Oklahoma.” “How do you know that?”

“She sent booze as thanks for your last tip. Are your cheeks seriously red right now, Rogers?”

Eventually, you concede and stop leaving him only the locations of gift-wrapped bodies with detailed lists of committed crimes. Complete with proof, of course, you weren’t lazy. You start to send him alive leads, people that can be questioned. Sometimes they’re unharmed, usually they’re mostly coherent. He’s surprised by the change in narrative, but he never brings it up. Sometimes people change, but that was none of his business.

Natasha is sure to point it out, though, consistently.

“You see him more than anyone else.” “That’s not true!” “…” “He’s here more than you, so it’s only by default.”

“Wait, you left that guy alive?” “Steve needs to question him.” “What about that one guy I needed answers from?” “You didn’t say please.”

“I’ve known you longer.” “He leaves me sex traffickers.”

When a body comes up dead that shouldn’t have, your signatures blatantly displayed, they send him to bring you in. He doesn’t believe for a second you could kill a kid, but he’s the only one who can get close enough. Fury’s only half sure you won’t kill him.

You battle with the idea of running, knowing they’ll never find you if you don’t want them to. You saw the evidence; you knew you were screwed. Fury told you from the very beginning that if he ever sensed you had turned, he’d take you out. No warning, no questions. Still, you wait patiently in your living room.

The window by the fire escape opens and Steve slides through, tip toes his way in and around the corner only to find you sitting there, an amused smirk tugging your lips.

“What calf exercises do you do? They look fantastic.”

He rolls his eyes and catches site of the artwork around him, the soft whites and greys of your walls and furniture giving spotlight to their colors. He never even considered you could have a home. You follow his gaze and shrug. Assassins can have taste too.

“The diplomat’s son, did you kill him?” He asks. You watch him silently. “Fury thinks you did.”

You walk slowly towards him, watch him curiously and tilt your head. “And if I did?” You prompt.

“I have orders to bring you in.”

You’re a breath away now, gliding your fingers along the Kevlar of his arm and trailing your way to his jaw. You trace his collar with a fingertip, watch as the pulse of his jugular quickens. You look up at him and he swallows thickly.

“And if I don’t want to?” You graze tentative fingers along the edge of his jawline. “Tell me, Captain, would you kill me?”

He hopes the eagerness in your voice is misplaced, the envy misinterpreted. Or perhaps the girl who surrounds herself with death does it with the idea that it may one day take her.

You don’t give him the opportunity to dive into that rabbit hole.

When you place your lips on his, soft and remnant of something sweet, he can only taste the brilliance of life. He wraps himself around you, slips in his tongue when you’re startled by his sudden switch. You thought you’d leave him shaken enough to slip away, disappear with the rising sun.

But now? Now you’re just as hungry for him.

He carries you, lays you across your bed. He runs the pad of his thumb along every scar left behind by a blade, places a kiss on each one from a bullet. You knot you fingers in his hair as he drags his tongue up the inside of your thigh, scream his name when he brings you higher than you’ve ever been before.

When he slides into you and stretches you deliciously so, you allow yourself to feel just this once. He catches the shift in your eyes, convinces himself his mind is playing tricks on him when the grey haze appears to fade.

He moves slow before he finds his pace. You dig fingernails into his back and trail them down hard enough to make him hiss. He nips you from shoulder to jaw, hips rocking into you, and you swear nothing has ever felt this good.

You lay there in silence, sweat coated limbs still entangled. He sighs heavily and you just know he’s about to ruin the moment.

“Stay.” You whisper. He looks down at you wrapped around him. “I’ll go with you in the morning, just stay tonight.”

He tightens his grip on your bicep and nods. “Ok.”

You’re still awake when dawn breaks, you had gotten lost in the simple rhythm of his heartbeat. A dream that one day life could be even just an imitation of normal. The thought makes you sad more than anything else.

You slip from his arms, grab a bag, and pack the essentials. Watching him sleep, he seems so peaceful, so good. You ache to wake him and stick around long enough to fix this mess. He deserves that.

Could you do it? Forget your past and pretend to be anything other than the hollow shell those before carved you into?

Ah, but this was your MO. Slip away in the dark when things took a turn either way. ‘Flight risk’ has always been written on the back of your eyelids. You weren’t quite sure why you felt you owed Steve more, but you did.

He awakes to a bright sun and a cold spot beside him. There’s a torn piece of paper where your head should’ve been. He brushes his thumb over his name and opens it. It states your innocence and exactly who he should be looking for, where to find them. At the bottom is a separate line.

‘Careful, Captain, or I just might be your future.’

Three years later.

You grab the tiny umbrella in your drink to twirl the ice around again. Undoubtedly a nervous habit you picked up in response to the very crowded beach bar you’re currently sitting at.

It was an alert you received in the middle of the night notifying you of your cleared name a year ago. You can’t be sure how whoever it was reached you, but the screenname ‘Tiny Dancer’ gave you a few ideas.

In that moment, reading those last two words you’re free, something changed. Perhaps it was months of being on the run from people who you allowed to know you well enough to track you that left you felling so drained. 

Of course, you thought about the beautiful man you left behind first, knowing that there was no one in this world who would fight harder for your freedom. You wanted to go find him, you really did, but you couldn’t deny the fact that you felt different this time. Like maybe this was your chance to start over. A chance to live a life that had been stolen from you so long ago. 

The bartender, a lovely middle aged man who strictly wore floral button ups, watches you down the rest of your drink and is quick with the refill. You try to thank him, but he waves you off.

“Anything for my favorite customer.” 

You push your bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout. “Are we not friends by now?”

He barks out a laugh and leans forward against the bar in front of you. “Friends get invited to drink with me, which you do almost everyday. Family gets invited to the cookout. Which is Sunday, by the way. Show up early and bring an appetite.” He shoots you a playful wink before pushing off to help another customer. 

You lean your head back slightly to feel the warmth of the sun and tune into the sound of the crashing waves. It’s the lightest you think you may have ever felt with the sand sticking to your bare legs and salt water in your hair.

Nothing could interrupt this perfectly blissful moment. 

Well, almost nothing.

“Sand looks good on you.” A deep voice says beside you and you smile, face still tilted towards the sun.

“Took you longer than I thought.” You turn to Steve still smiling. “How long can you stay?”

He moves his sunglasses from his eyes to the top of his head and looks around for a moment taking in the view. When he turns back to you, the smile that breaks across his face almost stops your heart.

“As long as you’ll let me.”

#Steve Rogers #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers x reader #captain america #captain america x reader #captain america imagine #mcu #marvel #avengers

[nonagesimus]

For birthday prompts the sastiel summer between season 9 and 10?

this loosely takes part in touch verse (though all you really need to know is that they're in an established relationship). If you want something less established then I cannot recommend Kettering (I Was Checking Vitals) by Fabella more. (It hurts, tho. It hurts so good).

(AO3 link)

--

“Sam?”

One breath Sam had just turned to see Cas, one hand outstretched, a concerned look on his face, and the next he was in his arms. He’d been keeping a tight grip on his panic – Cas had been gone, and then Dean had been dead, and then Dean had been gone – but all of a sudden it was overflowing. He was shaking, every muscle held taught, the shoulder of Cas’ coat turning damp where he’d buried his face into it.

“Cas,” he managed, voice ragged, arms squeezing tighter.

One of Cas’ hands was fisted in his shirt at the small of his back, the other pressed hard between his shoulder blades, holding him close. Sam tried to focus on that, on the breath on the side of his neck, on anything but the out of control race of his heart.

“Dean’s gone,” he choked out, and Cas’ arms tightened.

Eventually, eventually he got control of himself. Got the whole story out, heard Castiel’s.

Cas stroked a hand through his hair, pulled back far enough to look him in the eye. “We’ll find him, Sam,” he said, solemn and sure.

Steadied by Cas’ warm hand on his shoulder, Sam set up an alert for traffic incidents involving a black ‘67 Impala and then another for the plate number. Whoever took Dean, if they were smart, would’ve changed out the plates. But there was a chance they weren’t smart.

There was no way to tell what direction they drove when they left the bunker - but they went looking anyway. Sam drove. He wasn’t too sure on the hour count since he’d last slept, but he wouldn’t be able to if he tried anyway. Too keyed up, running his thumbnail back and forth the vinyl of the starting wheel, blinking hard when his visions blurred.

Three gas stations who didn’t think they’d seen an Impala and Sam was gunning for the fourth cardinal direction, but Cas put a hand on his arm and said his name, and-

He was shaking again, he dimly realised. And Cas looked exhausted too - guilt curdled in his stomach for a moment, and he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

(He lay with Cas pressed up against his spine and his heart pounding for hours before he fell asleep).

In the morning there was a traffic report for a car matching the Impala’s description running a red in Dallas. Another in Atlanta. A hit and run in Nashville. They covered the ground - thankful that the worst injury was a broken arm.

No good shots of who had been driving.

No more leads.

They picked up news of what sounded like a poltergeist on their way out of Nashville and Sam - he didn’t want to. He wanted to keep looking for Dean. Even without a direction he just wanted to keep driving, and Cas wasn’t going to judge him from the passenger seat. He took the job, and Cas’ hand covered his on the seat between them.

They stopped for the night in a motel. Cas ran interference while Sam got the bags planted to expel the ghost.

There was a moment of relief they’d done it that way when a heating unit wrenched itself off the wall and launched itself towards Cas’ head in an arc of dust - a flash of light knocked it back the way it came. Sam pushed the last bag into place, ready for silence.

Instead Cas launched into a fit of wracking coughs. Relief turned to worry - Sam went to him laid a hand on his back, felt the fit subside slowly. Cas straightened from where he’d doubled over, wiping at streaming eyes.

“Sorry,” he said. “I inhaled at the worst possible time.”

He’d phrased it like a joke, but Sam’s laugh was hollow. “Are you alright? I’ve never seen you do that before.”

Cas forced a smile, pressed a little closer before stepping away. “I’m fine.”

More police reports. Louisville, Cincinnati, Cleveland, Chicago. Then nothing for a while until a man matching Dean’s description held up a liquor store outside of Vegas. No sign of him by the time they got there - plus the store’s CCTV had been on the fritz. But it had apparently been on the fritz for weeks, so nothing specific to the robbery. They took statements, the found a motel. Sam checked his laptop and found a new parking ticket for a ’67 Chevy Impala in Reno.

“Do you think it’s really him?” Sam said.

Cas said, “I don’t know.”

They drove to the bunker, for another fruitless search into the Mark, knocked out a murderous shapeshifter on the way. Sam kept his hands braced on the steering wheel so they didn’t shake. Cas watched him.

Days turned to weeks, turned to a month, turned into two.

Jody got a tip off about someone that sounded like Dean in Montana, they drove there and found stories about an asshole who’d broken three chairs and won a four-against-one bar fight, but again no proof - a man with a black eye and a split lip cottoned on to them maybe knowing the victor, and while they managed to avoid him getting hurt more, they didn’t manage to avoid Sam getting a bottle to the head.

Cas healed it in the car, grace sealing the cut, clearing up what felt like the beginning of a concussion.

They got a room there, too tired to keep moving, and Sam fell asleep curled into Cas’ chest.

Sam woke up and Cas - Cas was breathing even. Eyes closed, face slack, and Sam was used to Cas’ eyes opening as soon as he sat up. He didn’t need sleep, he stayed in Sam’s bed for the contact, and for Sam’s sake. But this. This was sleep. Real sleep.

Unnerved, Sam gently pulled himself free of Cas’ arms, of the tangle of sheets. Went to the bathroom to get ready for the day.

When he emerged, Cas was blinking awake, eyebrows knitting in confusion. “Sam?” he said, grogginess adding an unfamiliar tone to his voice. His eyes sought out Sam in the doorway to the bathroom.

“You were sleeping,” Sam said. “I didn’t know you needed to.”

“I don’t,” Cas said, pushing himself up to sit against the headboard. “I- I didn’t.”

Sam sat on the bed, facing him. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he said, too quickly.

Sam shut his eyes. He heard Cas sigh.

“It’s nothing you should concern yourself over.” A hand covered his. He opened his eyes to see Cas watching him intently. “Sam, you have enough to worry about.”

Sam reached out to cup Cas’ jaw, leaned in to press their foreheads together. There were arguments he could make, there was logic, there was reasoning, there was a banked but still burning ember of anger, but all that came out of his choked-up throat was a small, petulant, “Are you lying to me?”

“I’m sorry,” Cas said.

It wasn’t an answer. They went back to the hunt.

When Dean had been missing for three months Jody made them drop in for dinner. Alex and Claire, and a couple of bottles of wine with dinner, and it was domestic in a way Sam had never had. He’d pretended to, with Amelia, when Dean and Cas had both been gone. The reminder felt bitter. The house, the conversation, the rapport, it was all warm, and it felt like there was glass around Sam keeping that warmth from reaching him.

He washed the dishes, focussed on the hot water and the suds, got lost in it for a while until Jody came over and started to dry.

“You don’t need to do that,” he said. “I was going to once I finished.”

“Maybe I don’t trust you to know where to put things,” Jody said. He managed a laugh, and they worked in silence for a little while, before she asked softly, “How are you really going?”

“I’m going,” he said. “It’s-“ He looked at his hands in the water. “I don’t know.”

“You’ll find him,” she said, sure and steady. “If he’s out there, you’ll find him.”

If he was out there. Sam nodded, made an attempt at a smile. Scrubbed at a stubborn scrap of food burnt onto the side of a casserole dish.

“That angel of yours is taking care of you?” she asked.

“He’s trying,” Sam said. “I’m not that easy to take care of.”

He got the distinct impression she was seeing through all the bravado when she said, “You let me know if there’s anything I can help with, ok?”

“Of course,” he said, knowing he was never going to take her up on it.

Sam still felt sober, but he’d had enough of the wine that Cas drove. He dozed in the passenger seat. Woke up as the car pulled over. Blinked to see a stretch of road in the headlights - turned to see Cas leaning forward, braced on the steering wheel, digging his hands into his eyes. Turned away to cough into his elbow.

He reached out to brush his fingers against Cas’ arm. “You ok?”

Cas looked at him. Apologetic. Maybe ashamed. “Tired,” he admitted.

Sam nodded, rubbed a hand over his face, sat up further. “I’ll drive the rest of the way.”

Cas clearly wanted to protest, but he didn’t. They got back to the bunker. To their bed, and Sam pulled Cas against him, arms wrapped around him, face pressed firmly into his hair.

“Will you tell me yet?” he whispered, into the back of Cas’ neck.

Cas took his hands, pulled them more firmly together. He didn’t say a word.

Month five.

Cas tried to hide but the cough was getting worse. He was sleeping more often. Leads for Dean would come in a rush, all of sudden, and then all turn out to be useless. They got some hunting done, when they could. A werewolf in Nebraska. A nest of vampires in Texas.

They were in Seattle.

A rumour that could’ve been Dean turned into a rumour about kelpies turned into a very real water hag, and they had the damn birch stakes blessed with salt and the blood of a fresh slain calf - and that had been a bitch and a half to get - but that didn’t make fighting it any easier. They were both exhausted, both running on empty but still running, and Sam-

Sam saw Cas go down and go down hard. Saw him lying still while the hag raised two spindly but heavy fists over it’s head and he- and he.

He gave up all pretence of strategy and just charged - got the stake up underneath the hag’s ribs, even as one of it’s claws stabbed solidly through the underside of his arm. The hag dropped, the stake pulled out of his hand, but the claw in his arm was stuck fast and it wrenched and-

His vision went white for a moment, cleared with him on his knees in the filthy water. Dead hag. Arm useless - caught. Cas still not moving.

The claw came out with a rush of blood, black spots in his vision, he blinked them away, scrambled over to where Cas was lying, his name falling out of Sam’s mouth in a desperate sob. He was breathing, Sam realised, and even as he slid his fingers to check his pulse, his eyes were opening.

“Sam,” he gasped, reaching - his fingers dug into Sam’s useless arm and Sam choked back a pained noise. Still enough for Cas to realise something was wrong - his eyes rolled wildly down to see the blood, see the arm dangling from the shoulder - within seconds he was pushing himself up, reaching out more deliberately, power cracking at his fingertips and-

“No,” Sam shook his head, “Just help me keep pressure, don’t-“

“Sam,” Cas said.

“Cas, every time you use your grace you get worse,” Sam said, and Cas flinched.

But he didn’t heal Sam.

Later, when they’d gotten to the motel, when Sam had gotten Cas to help pop his shoulder back into place, when he’d stitched up the wound from the water hag, that was when he made an ultimatum.

“I’m gonna keep looking for Dean,” he said. “But you shouldn’t.”

“Sam,” Cas protested, but he just shook his head.

“You’re not on your game,” he said. “And, I’m not- I’m not losing you.”

Cas drew him in with one hand tight in his hair, the other splayed on his back. “I’m not losing you either,” he said, fierce and hoarse.

Sam shut his eyes, and listened to the wheeze in Cas’ chest, and held him close.

#supernatural #sastiel #sastiel fic #sam winchester #castiel #samcas #samcas fic #my fic #birthday prompts #touch verse

[wri0thesley]

Favourite - Diavolo x Reader (Kinktober Day #11: Collaring)

NSFW. 18+ ONLY. AFAB reader. Neutral pronouns. VERY MUCH DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. Yandere warning. Non-Con warning. Mentions of past injury, forced oral sex, use of King Crimson for Bad Things, forced orgasm, collaring - captive reader. 2.5k

Diavolo has a surprise for you. If you’re good.

Diavolo’s training was a process you would prefer not to relive. 

When he’d brought you here, you’d fought. You’d bitten and scratched at him tooth and nail, heedless of the fact that he was your employer and emperor and master in all things. You had bitten him hard enough to draw blood, once - though the ache of your jaw whispered that perhaps it had been more than once, in time that does not exist - and he had backhanded you so hard that you had seen stars. 

“I am not averse to hurting you,” he had sneered. “You are useful to me alive. You do not need to be whole.”

You had cursed yourself and the stand power that you’d been gifted; any measure of power, you think, is not worth this. Perhaps in another life the idea of being mistress to the Don of Passione would have been better - romantic, even. You’re sure you would have imagined silk robes and expensive dinners and luxury, your hand around his arm, diamonds around your throat. 

You would not have imagined the squalor of a cheap hotel room with the cameras ripped out of it. You would not have imagined the rough hands, the coos of how useful you will be to him, the way that his painted nails dig into your wrists so hard they leave crescent-moon shaped welts. 

You had thought yourself brave. 

You had been a member of Passione - perhaps not the most senior member, and perhaps you had little room for moving up the food chain, but you had been feared. People knew who you were and what you could do, and men looked respectfully away. You had cloaked yourself in the power of being Passione and forgotten that there was one man who could take it away whenever he wanted. Any position under a man is a precarious one. 

Hell, you had seen Polpo’s test as a good thing. 

If you had known then what you know now . . . 

Your entire life changed in a matter of hours, once your stand had become common knowledge to your capo and then those higher than you. Diavolo tells you that those who knew of you - who care about you - are dead or gone, or paid handsomely to shut their mouths. 

“And doesn’t that make them lucky?” He muses, fingers dragging along your skin, mapping the places your body is curved. His thumb skirts across your cheekbone, and you wince as he finds old bruises and presses down enough to make the flesh sing with pain. “Almost as lucky as you, tesoro.”

Lucky. 

Lucky is his hand knit in your hair, the knee to your mid-section, the knife against your skin and the reminders of what he can do to you. His fingers brushing your eyelids, your mouth. The feel of his boot on your fingers. Legs tied apart with rough rope and a gag wedged in your mouth until it’s stained and wet with your own drool and tears. 

And through it all, his reminder echoes in your mind - he does not need you whole. He simply needs you alive. When he steps on your wrist and you hear the crack. When he carves intricate markings into your other arm with a knife, mirroring his own tattoos.

“I could hurt you so much more,” he breathes against your ear, and you stiffen as the point of the knife travels down your body. “Be good, and I won’t.”

So you’d behaved. You had stopped fighting. You had stopped biting and scratching and sobbing, and been rewarded with Diavolo’s voice, softer this time. His fingers, pinching and plucking and stroking until you felt ecstasy at his hand and cried about it. 

“See?” He murmurs, fingers inside you, his cock hard and straining against your thigh. “If you’re good for me? How I can make you feel?”

You lose your thoughts, your consciousness, part of your mind. You let them go somewhere far away from you and hope it is in a better place than you are. You are rewarded, Diavolo says, and you could laugh in his face and tear him into pieces if you weren’t so afraid of him. 

“I have a surprise for you, tonight,” Diavolo tells you. “If you are good for me.”

Your voice is hollow. 

“You know I live to serve, Imperatore.”

(Is it better than ‘Master’? Better than ‘signore’? Certainly, you know it’s better than; “don’t touch me you sick bastard, what’s wrong with you?”. You’d learnt that with the lash of his belt.) 

“Good,” he murmurs, stepping towards you. The sound of his expensive shoes on the cheap, stained carpet makes you wince as a hundred memories of other times he has approached you surface. How long have you been here? 

You hate the shoes, coincidentally. You stare at them, aware that you have nothing in this room but the torn blanket that has seen better days after months of your captivity. You wonder how much money Diavolo has thrown at the hotel proprietors to make you his prisoner here - whether they care. The state of the mattress tells you that they do not. When he isn’t here . . . when he isn’t here, you know that he must cloak himself in luxury. His shoes tell that story. And you hate him for it, though you bury the hate deep in the back of your mind. 

You hate him, but you dampen it down because it is safer not to. It burns low in the back of your brain like a candle that cannot be snuffed out, and you’re able to ignore it enough that when he comes to stand in front of you and touches the top of your head like you’re a cherished pet instead of a prisoner, you strain upwards for his attention. 

“Get on your knees, il mio prediletto.”

(You’re his favourite. He is always saying it. You hasten to obey.)

You fancy his fingers like claws, as they rake through your hair. His eyes follow the lines of your body with hunger, and you dampen down the urge to twitch your lip in disgust as you see his cock stir in his hideously ugly trousers. He breathes out, soft and low. 

“Do you want it?” He asks you, and revulsion rises in the back of your throat. You do not show it. Your eyes are wide and your mouth is open, ignoring the signs your mind is telling you. 

“Of course, Imperatore. I’m grateful for anything you give me.”

There it is. You shape the word ‘imperatore’ and his eyes ravenously trace the shape of your lips, and the bulge twitches, hardens. The reminder of his place - that he is king and you are servant, slave, subject - gets him going like nothing else. You have learnt such things, in your time here. 

“Good,” he says, arousal thick in his throat. “Unzip me, then.”

You are no longer rope-bound and chained. You have been granted your freedom for the price of your silence and your willingness to submit, though the door does not budge and the window does not break and your screaming goes unheard. You reach forward and undo the zip of his trousers, hands delicate as they reach for his cock. He lets out a fluid hiss of pleasure, the hand in your hair briefly tightening - and, like clockwork, a dull throb of arousal makes itself known low in your stomach. 

You have tried to fight it, but your body learns. It learns that no matter how much you hate him, he can still make you feel good - and certain cadences of his tone, brushes of his skin, ways he tugs on your hair . . . they light a fire within you that can only be quelled by his hand. This is Diavolo’s training, and you are nothing if not proof of how effective it is. 

You pump the shaft once, twice - he is thick and pulsing in your hand, heat radiating off of him in waves. He lets out a shuddering breath through his teeth, looking down at you through half-lidded eyes. 

He does not see you as you are, shivering and pathetic and bruised. He sees you as he wants you, as he’s making you - subservient, but powerful. An asset to him in every way. And you open your mouth and lean in, your tongue tracing the head of his cock, and let him see you exactly like that as you bob your head and swallow him down to the hilt. 

He groans aloud, and once more you feel the hot sparks of need low between your legs and you press your thighs together for friction, whimpering around the hardness in your mouth. His fingers let go of the strands he’s holding onto, stroking you instead in an echo of closeness - the hand on the top of your head, though, just reminds you. Do what you’re doing and do it well, or I will force you to do it. 

You lathe your tongue over the skin, trying to ignore the taste of him. You lap at the underside of his cock, bobbing your head, trying to make sure that he sees you are as eager a participant in your own despoiling as he is. Your tongue strokes the place where his head meets his shaft and he sighs, bucking forward. 

The low moan that comes from his throats has you whimpering around it again, your thighs squeezing against your will. He looks down at you and sees the way you’re reacting - you wonder if your chest is heaving, your face flushed. You have often wondered if perhaps he can scent you in the air - if he is that attuned to tiny noises and the lightest change of your demeanour that you are shamed in that way too. 

You feel the ghost of something behind you and feel fingers on your breasts and you know he has taken out his stand. 

The first time he did this, he told you that you were privileged beyond all reason to see King Crimson - that nobody else but him knows exactly what the Stand is capable of. You are afraid of it, but it has touched you just as much as Diavolo has, and your back arches as it pinches nipples between forefinger and thumb and you feel them harden, little sparks of desire raining from the stimulation into the heated place nestled between your legs. 

“You are so lucky,” he murmurs. You cannot thank your Imperatore with his cock stuffed down your throat, but you hope the ‘enthusiastic’ licking at the vein on his cock does it, the way you let the head bump against the back of your throat. Your gag reflex has long since been pounded into submission. “That I do this for you . . .”

The slam of his lips. Your jaw, aching. The taste of him invading every one of your senses. 

You lose track of time as King Crimson’s fingers slide down your body, over your stomach - as you part your thighs for him and the stand finds your sex slick with arousal and needy to be touched. Diavolo’s laugh at that discovery is breathless. 

“How you’ve changed,” he tells you, the pride dripping from his voice settling around you like a mantle of your own ignominy. “How well you know your place, now.” 

You do. You know your place as you spread your knees further and two of King Crimson’s fingers stroke your folds, teasing at your entrance. As his thumb swipes across your clit. As those same two fingers plunge inside you without warning and your body welcomes them with open arms and a moan that makes Diavolo’s hand on your hair become a vice once more. 

You know he can feel the way you clench and pulse around King Crimson’s fingers, and you know from how he begins to fuck your face with eager strokes that he’s pleased with you. All you can do is kneel there, legs spread wide, as the fingers inside you scissor and fuck and tease and the cock in your mouth fucks that same cavern quick and brutally. 

He’s close. He always is, when he gets like this - pretends at gentility now that your fire has been extinguished and shows himself as animal when his peak creeps up on him. Your tongue teases at his cockhead, once, twice - and then, he’s pulled his cock out of your mouth and he’s pumping it with the hand not in your hair. 

The wetness of the ropes of pearls spilling onto your face are no longer a humiliation as they once were.  Not as the fingers inside you crook just so and the tight ball of tension inside you is allowed to be released and you come on King Crimson’s fingers, the bulbous green protrusions at his knuckle rubbing against your heated sex. 

No, now they are a welcome reminder that you have done what he wants of you. A medal given to a participant of a race. 

Almost. 

“Good,” Diavolo breathes, as he tucks himself away, wiping what little of his come is left on his cock across the unsullied side of your face. “You did well, tesoro. You shall have your reward.”

Your back stiffens. King Crimson fades away, his purpose completed, and you are reminded of how cold the room is on the scars and bruises of your back. You’re unable to tear your eyes away as Diavolo reaches into a pocket and pulls out something small and dark.

He unfurls it in his hand. It’s a band of soft leather, embedded with silver-set green gemstones that wink even in the flickering fluorescent light of the hotel room. A buckle rests at the back in the same silver - and you realise, with a sickening lurch, what it is as he leans forward to fasten it around your neck. 

His hands are quick and deft as the leather is pulled taut against you, not so tight it digs but tight enough that you are able to feel it. The click of the buckle, sliding into place is frighteningly final. 

“Just a reminder of who you belong to,” Diavolo murmurs, pulling back, enjoying his handiwork. “It looks very pretty on you. Like it’s meant to be there. Pet.”

You have been collared. It burns; a reminder of what you have become. No doubt you could remove it - but at what cost? What revenge would Diavolo take out on you if you were to reject him so fiercely, after he thinks you’ve finally ‘learnt your place’?

No. You leave it be. You do not even bring your hands up to touch it.

And though that part of you buried deep in your subconscious is screaming and longing to be let out, you are helpless to do anything but pretend to be thrilled - to breathe deep and whisper, as if you have never received a greater gift in your life;

“Thank you, Imperatore.”

The indulgent smile he gives you tells you that he knows he owns you, in every way that’s important.

#not sfw #writing #kinktober collection #non con for ts #yandere for ts #injury for ts #dead dove do not eat #dark content #diavolo

[scriptaed]

his side, her side | 11:11 P.M.

genre: angst/fluff/implied smut; 

pairing: reader x jungkook;

length: 4.3k;

synopsis: a collective snapshots in time shared between two, whose fates were undeniably intertwined and futures would never come to be.

a/n: alternatively: his side, her side pt. 11;

her side;

“What?!” 

Your fists slam on the counter much more forceful than necessary when you hear the words Jeon Jungkook slip from Yezi’s lips but, luckily for you, the vibrations from the music blasting through the cramped club that had overfilled the capacity hours ago are enough to drown you out. Another large gulp of liquor downed under the influence of yet another wave of unsolicited sorrow, which had ironically arisen by the holy glass itself, submerges you in a somber state you had long sought for amidst what seemed to be a fragile girl wielding an unbreakable shield they called “strength.”

“I said,” your friend repeats as she leans in but nevertheless screams aloud, “isn’t that your coworker a-k-a diehard crush, Jeon Jungkook?!”

“No,” you groan, slapping her arm with a grotesque look on your face as you scream right back at her through your strained throat, “I meant I know what you said and, damn, are you trying to expose me to the entire world!”

Yezi only gives you an unimpressed frown of impertinence, “excuse me, but you’re the one who’s yelling right now!”

Rolling your eyes and succumbing to the scorching heat in your cheeks, your face collapses into the palms of your two hands that immediately begin rubbing circles into your temples. The toxins in your blood have your head throbbing and you almost feel as if your controller has been handed to an unknown being or, rather, substance. 

“Ugh,” you mutter through gritted teeth, “I can’t believe he’s still following me around! Even on my very last day!”

“Following you?” your friend almost chokes on her water as she pokes a finger into your hollow head. “The alcohol must have really eroded whatever little was left in here, huh?” 

“Then,” you sway your head much too quickly, for your entire body nearly tumbles off the stool before you caught yourself with a heavy step to the right, “explain how he always ends up at the same street, the same cafe, the same bar, and, and, and how he’s always at the same place at the same time as me, and how no matter how hard I try to avoid him, he’s always right there? Just waiting for me at the end of whatever independent paths we take?”

Yezi can only blink her eyes blankly at you. Her look is an ambiguous mix of concern, having witnessed a crazy lady babble on about the epitome of destiny, and a tinge of awe, a temporary moment of envy after being struck with a story seemingly straight out of a fairytale. Without a clear explanation to your nonsensical albeit pristinely truthful question, your friend finds herself in the same position as you had been just half a year ago: at a loss for words. 

Clearing your throat to recover from your outburst, a moment you had internalized and failed to bury like you had so promised to yourself, you lean against the counter once again with a head that hangs low and a pair of eyes that wander across the room. 

Despite your eternally intertwined future with the very man beholding your gaze and every ounce of your current attention, you had somehow managed to abandon the shared memories in the past months… or so you thought; because you here, having the false pretension of leaving what you denied to call anything but fleeting infatuation, yet feeling as though time had never passed at all. 

Butterflies fluttering, heart pulsing, and an incessant sick twisting of insecurities shoved somewhere in the back of your conscience—you’re right there back in the pool where the start to your end was born. 

“Did you tell him?”

“About what?”

“About you leaving the company.”

“Oh, no,” you simply mumble, eyes quickly flickering to the tabletop after spotting the familiar woman beside him. Still, curiosity gets the best of you when you can’t help but peak at the two, the female seemingly much more distressed and the male hanging his head low apologetically, before you, too, hang your head low in shame. “Sorry. You must be sick of hearing about him.”

“No, it’s fine,” Yezi’s voice softens as she places a comforting hand over yours. “You okay? About Jieun, I mean.”

“Yeah,” you shrug, chuckling, “it’s… it’s whatever. I got over it months ago.” 

Your friend nods hesitantly, “...you think they’re fighting? 

“...I don’t know. Not my business either way.”

Your words are like a self-inflicted attack. How shameful is it of you to speak from a feigned moral high ground? His business has never been your business—that is an unequivocal truth. So why is it that you feel the way you do? Prying, hurting, and, dare you admit it, somewhat rejoicing over the downfall of what had ended you and him. 

 And just as you down another glass of liquor, nearly collapsing backwards when you throw your head back, you catch Jieun pointing a finger—a somewhat accusatory albeit much softer than one thrown by a witchy nemesis—at you before she grabs her purse and runs out of the club in tears. Jungkook, on the other hand, remains still in his chair with lowered eyes fixated to the empty stool beside him, as though repaying whatever debt he owed to the ghost of a woman who had long left his side. 

“Oh my God, did you just see—”

“—Lee Yeji!” someone shrills and you have to crane your neck to gander at the stranger who had just appeared out of thin air. The slight breeze of her beeline past you hits you seconds late—a recurring sign to you and your reproaching intake limit. “Is that you?!”

“Linzy!” your friend jumps to her feet and joins in on the stranger’s screams as well as small hops. “Oh my God, how long has it been?!”

“Where have you been all this time?!”

“Here in this boring city, duh,” Yezi bursts into a cackle. “How have you been?! You still hung over your ex?” 

The lack of an introduction would have been painfully awkward for you as you stared at the fond reunion between two friends, but thanks to the alcohol stirring your mind that had floated elsewhere and the blood running through your heated system, it’s almost as if you’re just a member of audience, watching another crappy chick flick. 

“First of all, I’ve moved onto another man. And second of all, rude,” the woman named Linzy throws her head back in a fit of laughter. Honestly, watching the hysteria between the two has you smiling against your rested hand; and if it weren’t for her averted attention to you, you probably wouldn’t have noticed until you quickly hid the ditzy smile on your face. “I’m sorry, is it okay if I borrow Yezi for a second? We haven’t talked in sooo long.”

“Oh no,” you quickly shake your head, gesturing them toward the dance floor, “go right ahead. I think I can do without her constant jabs at my nonexistent love life.” 

“Oh my God,” Linzy gapes, “she does that to you, too?!”

“Hey, you two can be friends but not over a common dislike for me, okay?” Yezi warns with a wary finger before joining the two of you in a heap of laughter. Patting your shoulder and leaning in, your friend squeezes you lightly, “I’ll be right back in ten minutes, alright? Wait for me here. If something comes up and you have to leave, text me.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, will do, mom” you shoo her away, “I’ll have you know I’m a grown ass adult. Now go and scream your head off.”

“What?” she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “You’re a young adult who still can’t handle her alcohol?” 

“I said,” you raise your voice in the midst of cackles, “go and scream your head off!”

Luckily for you, your friend whirls around and skips off to join the black silhouette of a sweaty crowd going at it on the dance floor before she could catch the proof of her aforementioned premonition; because only five minutes after averting your eyes from the empty stool beside you and downing another glass or two in a vain attempt to distract yourself from checking the presence of the boy across from you, a wave overtakes you and your lightheadedness takes a turn for the worse. 

Maybe it’s the alcohol that brings out the irrational side of you or maybe your senses had truly been heightened or maybe you’re just imagining things, but you swear a pair of resilient, watchful eyes reciprocate your occasional peak to the other side—and even though you know it would be another step toward a ticking time bomb, you just wish you’re right. 

You’re hoping for a miracle to happen, for him to come up to you, for you to muster enough courage to strike a conversation, or for fate to brush off your accursed wish to finally untangle your paths from his; but when your eyes peek upward once again, your heart sinks at the empty chair where he had once sat, swirling his glass with those boldly peering eyes of his. Sighing, one swivel in your seat and a slight sway too hard to the left, you nearly hurl yourself into the arms of the girl beside you only to find yourself in someone else’s. 

A pair of sturdy hands twice the size of yours hold you steadily and it only takes you a glance to the hands on your left shoulder along with the familiar heftiness of his built chest against your back for you to know exactly whose hold you had allowed yourself into. 

And for once, you’re thankful to the little antics pulled by fate itself. 

“Hey,” he utters, peering down at you from above.

“Oh,” you manage to say, head leaning against his chest as you crane your neck to stare at the face that hovers above yours. “It’s Jungkook.” 

The little crooked smile on his pressed lips have you flashing the goofiest grin at him—and you know it’s the goofiest of all your grins, but you’re helpless under the sway of his magnetic presence. 

“Still can’t handle liquor, I see.” 

“Shut up,” you laugh much more than elicited, “are you saying you can drink now? After, what, six months?”

The boy shrugs smugly, “maybe. I’m a grown ass adult now.”

“You? An adult?” you can’t help but laugh at the bewildered grin of disbelief plastered across his face. Something about the high of the liquor and the constant stream of background noise that drowns you out has your words slipping from your lips with utter ease. For once, you’re neither bashful nor wary of how you carry yourself in front of him. It’s refreshing albeit all the more worrying when you consider all that you’ve left buried away from him. “So? What’re you doing here, grown ass adult Jeon Jungkook?”

The smile on his face fades as he mutters, “nothing, really.”

“Really?” you quirk a brow. “Where’s your girlfriend, Jieun?” 

“...she’s not my girlfriend,” he responds flatly, “...anymore.” 

“Oh,” you can only utter in shock, speaking exactly what flashes across your mind, “fuck, I’m screwed.”

Jungkook frowns with knitted brows, “what?” 

“I meant,” you quickly assert, realizing your errs, “I meant I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Yeah,” he smirks, scoffing at you impudently. “You shouldn’t have.”

A comfortable silence befalls the two of you in the midst of rowdy hundreds—well, until yet another word slips your mind… in addition to your lips. 

“...heartbreaker.”

“What?” 

“Nothing.”

The widened grin of mischief that stretches from ear to ear has you mirroring that goofy grin of him as you can’t help but become enraptured by the facial profiles of the charming man just several  inches from you. If this were sober you, you would have been much more distant, emotionally and physically; but the sway of the night has you completely under its control. 

Plus, you’ve given away all your last fucks long ago when you decided to aspire for a job in another city nearby. Maybe this is your last chance to finally get rid of what had left your chest heavy so long ago.

“Well, I’m just going to grab my friend before I pass—oh shit,” you curse as you nearly tumble to the floor, hands sprawled out and hair forming curtains around your lowly hanging head just as he catches you and brings you back to your feet. Stumbling over your heels, your hands grasp tightly onto his as you try to shake the locks of hair out of your shrouded vision. “Sorry, I mean, thanks—” you laugh “—for saving me from eating shit.”

“Holy fuck,” the boy remarks, chuckling worriedly, “you’re a mess. Go home.”

“I’ll have you know,” you emphasize, sing-songing at this point, “that I am—” you point a finger against his chest and his eyes flicker in amusement over your jab “—going home, just need to… find my friend.”

“Where’s your friend?”

“There,” you throw a hand off into the space somewhere toward the floor.

“Where the fuck is ‘there?’”

“There!”

Jungkook frowns, “where??”

“I said,” you’re basically whining as you jump up and down while holding him for stability and, luckily, he holds you even tighter, “there!!”

“Holy shit,” he shakes his head, furrowing his brows and laughing in disbelief, “fuck this, I’ll take you home.”

“Shut up, nope,” you adamantly shake your head, trying to toss his hands to the side only to nearly trip over your own feet once again. 

To your rescue, once again, Jungkook throws your right arm over his shoulders with one firm hand and another much gentler, chivalrous hand over to your left waist, careful not to invade your personal space. Laughing at how ironic the night has turned out to be, somehow ending up in the arms and closer than ever to the man you had sworn to have gotten over less than an hour ago, you give into the force of gravity and fate as your head rests helplessly against his chest. 

“Just, just,” you struggle to remember what you wanted to say, “just admit you want to use this as an… an excuse to bring me home.” 

The boy only chuckles under his breath as he leads you out of the doors and a blast of fresh, night air refreshes your complexion, “whatever gets you home safe.”

“Ah,” you sigh, a puff of white escaping into the air just as he waves a hand out to tail a cab, “I hate it when you do that.” 

“Do what?” he arches a brow. 

“That,” you say in a fit of frustration over your lack of constraint but continue nonetheless, knowing well just how long this night will haunt you for the sleepless nights ahead, “when you act all gentlemanlike with me...”

“Is that a bad thing…?”

“Yes!” you exclaim just as a cab halts by the sidewalk. “I hate how you treat me so well!” 

“The fuck,” he utters under his breath, holding you steady in one hand and opening the door to the cab with another, “fine, get in by yourself, then.”

Caught off guard by the loss of his firm hold, you hesitate, suddenly gripping onto his hands tighter than ever as you take a step down the sidewalk, “wait—”

“—that’s what I thought,” he quips before suddenly picking you up into his arms, your legs dangling freely in the air without the burden of your weight, and gently placing you down into the middle backseat. Your head is spinning at this point from the spur of events and from literally being swept off the feet. You would have been foolish to deny the weight in your chest that settles when you realize your whimsical night has come to end when, to your surprise, the boy gets into the seat right beside you. With a loud huff and a slam of the now closed door, Jungkook speaks, “Providence Street, please.”

He still remembers where you live.

Gaping at him in the full darkness of the backseat with the countless golden streetlights that pass by like flickering beacons of warmth, a fleeting albeit numerous opportunity to gaze at the apple of your eye in its full glory, and gulping when you notice him staring right back at you with those twinkling, unreadable eyes of his, you finally acknowledge that you really couldn’t care less if he catches you staring… which he does. 

And it’s that this moment, this unconquerable, fleeting, otherworldly moment of an unbreakable high as your head shuffles to the side along with waves of the bumpy ride and your eyes spot the arrival of that one magical hour, one magical minute, 11:11, that an epiphany dawns upon you. 

Something will inevitably ensue tonight and, whatever it may be, whether you confess or not, you just wish you could finally let bygones be bygones, as the two of you should have been in the first place. 

-

his side;

If there’s one thing this man did not expect from a night that has thus far been nothing but dread, it would be crossing paths with the rare one who could etch stars into his skies out of nothing.

“What?” Jungkook can’t help but crack a crooked grin at the goofiest grin adorning his star’s’ beet red cheeks. 

“You’re doing it again!” she hollers into the front of the cab rather than the subject at hand.

“Doing what?” 

“It. You’re doing…” she pumps a fist at her chest twice, “things again!” 

“You’ve...” Jungkook pauses, looking her up and down with concern overshadowed by bemuse because, well, look at her, he chuckles to himself, so gauche in her own adorable attempts at daintiness, “...lost it.” 

“I honestly think I have,” she laughs with a hand to what he figures must be an overwhelming lightheadedness. 

There must be something about the heat in her cheeks that run down her bare neck and along the dress straps that had slipped from her collarbones, something about the first recognition of a level vulnerability that she had never bared to him before, because even he could peer at her and her unreachable high that is cloud nine, all whilst beside her. Ice-thawing and sun-basking, he could only watch in admiration as a magic stronger than any drink spurs her forward; and he could tell it would take her little to nothing to muster the courage to just jump and fall…

…and when she leans in to whisper, he has an inkling of tonight’s impending stain. 

“Do you wanna hear a secret?”

Quirking a brow at her, he remarks, “only if it actually makes sense.”

“Okay,” she giggles before quickly adding, “you’re really not dating her anymore, right?”

“...no?” Jungkook answers, confused. “Why—”

“—cause I won’t tell you if you are!” she exclaims playfully, throwing her hands out into the air. She continues on her babbling before he could even react. “Oh, and I’m not doing this because I want to take advantage of your breakup. Oops, was that too much too soon? Well, I’m only telling you because I want to get over it. Don’t act on it, okay?”

“The fuck?” he utters with a raised brow, softly chuckling. “Uh, on second thought, I think I’ll pass—”

“—promise me you believe me when I say I don’t feel this way anymore!”

Having never seen a more childlike side to a rather dependable colleague he once knew, Jungkook can’t help but laugh in disbelief, “feel what way?!” 

She smiles heavy-lidded at the sheer confusion plastered across his frown, seemingly coming in and out of consciousness. It’s a smile that could only come from a dreamer doing everything they wished they had done yet could never come to have done; and when he locks gazes with hers, it’s almost as if the two had drifted elsewhere from their bodies and are now merely watching themselves in the scene before the grand confession of a romcom through the fourth wall. 

With a finger wagging at him, beckoning for him to lean forward, which he does reluctantly, he can’t quite believe what slips from her lips. 

“You’re so good looking.”

...and when the two of them had registered her words, neither of them budge. Jungkook remains still, ears next to his lips and showing the most evident falter in his usual apathetic demeanor through the way at which his ears redden with each passing second. Slapping a hand against his chest, she pushes him back into his seat and chimes cheerfully, “like sooooooooo good looking! Don’t tell them I said this, but every girl at work thinks you’re handsome and I hate it cause it’s. so. true.” 

“You’re,” the boy scoffs in disbelief, blinking blankly at you because: one, he had never heard of such rumors and two, he had never seen her speak so brazenly, “you’re going crazy.”

“I am and what?” she challenges, slapping his chest again as he sits there blinking helplessly, “It’s your fault you look like this!”

“What even—”

“—and what about that kiss?!” she throws her hands up again. “Why did you even kiss me if you were going to date someone else later? Huh?!”

He never thought the day would come for her to mention that kiss… especially not tonight.

“And why are you always so nice to me?”

He chuckles at her less than threatening lashing, “am I supposed to be mean to you?”

“Well,” she scoffs in disbelief, “why are you literally everywhere I go then? You stalking me or something?”

“This is fucking hysterical,” Jungkook cracks a lopsided grin of mischief, pulling a phone out of his pocket. Throwing a peace sign at the camera, he pans the camera between him and the star of the night. “It’s January 11, 2020. A sober Jeon Jungkook checking in and, here, we have a messed up Y/N. Say hi—”

“—I am not messed up!” she interjects, pointing an accusing finger at the camera. “The only reason I’m messed up is because of you! And you know what’s even worse?”

“What could possibly be worse than you waking up to watch this horrific video?” 

Flailing her arms, she exclaims in a huff of frustration, “you don’t even know how badly you messed me up, Jungkook!” 

He raises a brow, raising the phone to get a better angle of the two of you. He doesn’t know why but his grip tightens. “Yeah?”

“You know,” she begins, flopping her hands into the air again.

“What now?” he chuckles, completely bemused as he watches your drunken state through his phone screen; and through his peripherals, he could catch the utterly enraptured grin of his in the corner of his screen and he just knew: he would be watching this special little clip over and over. “Just wait ‘til you watch this video—“

but her voice comes in a loud frustrated huff, a final remark cooked up in for relentlessly long years of a sheep, forgiving herself for losing sights of her captor

“—I really liked you, Jeon Jungkook!”

He freezes. 

Silence befalls the cab. 

But, like she always does, she never stops to wait for him. 

“I mean, I really,” she emphasizes adamantly, as if he had failed to hear her when it’s anything but, “reaaaaaaaally liked you!” 

Head rolling back against the headrest as the cab comes to a stop at the red light, she closes her eyes as she persists on her self-heist and blurts out frustratingly, “but you didn’t even know! And if you did, you didn’t even seem to fucking care!” 

The boy wishes he could speak. Hell, he even curses at himself for staying still the way he does now… but, what should he even say? After pining for many months, falling, acknowledging, despairing and getting over the star he had always thought to be out of reach only to discover she had been within a drink, a night, a confession’s reach, how should he feel? 

What good would it do to now recognize a love line that could have been but never came to be for the two? 

Lowering his phone and stopping the recording, a bittersweet upturn of one corner of his lips lingers just as his thumb does over “delete.” 

And after all the fond memories the two had shared within the span of a year, the gatekeeper figures maybe, for the girl’s sake, he would be the sole witness to all evidence of tonight. 

“Hellooo?” she cranes her neck to look at him with heavy-lidded eyes. “Did you hear me? I said I like—I mean, liked—you.”

“I heard you,” he presses a finger against the spot between her brows, scrunching his nose by her breath that reeks of alcohol as his tap has her head tipping onto her left shoulder. The girl only groans in protest because, apparently, she lacks the energy to defy him physically. Gazing at her from afar, a wave of adoration overwhelms him and he can’t help but chuckle under his breath. Discarding himself of his jacket, he drapes it over her bare shoulders. The boy leans in closer with one hand placed to her cheek, gently lulling her back to the right until her head lies comfortably in the crook of his left shoulder; and when he speaks, he speaks lowly but clearly, “I just wish you had told me earlier.”

The rest of the car ride proceeds in silence but never had there been more words than all that had been said tonight.

#bts x reader #bts scenarios #bts angst #bts fluff #bts smut #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff #jungkook smut #bts x y/n #bts x you #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook x y/n #bts imagines #jungkook scenarios #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfic #bts series #bts fic #jungkook fic #scriptaed

[enochianribs]

until it no longer hurts. (cabin/wing fic). read it here, or under the cut.

(accompanying playlist / aesthetic board (thanks @disableddean)

CHAPTER 3. (formatting is lost via tumblr text post fyi)

ch.1 / ch.2

As he lays there, unconscious to the world, and all those things that go bump in the night, his life sorts itself cleanly into two: before and after—   not for the first time.

In fact, there were several times before this. There was before the fire, before the loss of his mother, before John started hunting, before Jess died, before Sammy went to rehab, before Dean picked up that knife. 

Before before before.  

The question has hung in front of him for quite some time now.

What happens after? 

What happens to him, when all is said and done?

The bed is warm and soft and he sinks into it. A hand presses against his chest, pins him down and muscle memory tells him to go for the knife, fingers flexing outward and then curling in, his nails catching on the sheet. 

This is safe. 

Here in this moment, no one can touch him. The tiny flowers on the sheets molt before his eyes, little petals rising out of the fabric and blooming. They're feather light against his bare skin, and the weight of his body is crushing them. He makes a noise of upset, and a hand comes down to press a finger to his mouth, hushing him gently. 

<It's okay.> 

Slowly, he wakes. The warmth from the finger still lingers against his lips, but the bed is hard where his face presses against it, eyelashes fluttering, his eyes open just a crack. The wood of the table greets him, and the sunlight is just now poking through the blinds once again, casting the same lines across the pine knots, along the curves of his outstretched forearm and across where his head faces towards the sun. 

"It's okay." He murmurs, and for an incredibly brief moment he is perplexed by why the words slip from between his lips, until one of his knuckles grazes bare skin. 

His evening comes back. 

Before. 

Before Wings. 

Slowly, Dean sits upright, suddenly entirely aware of the being lying on his table, and his heart beats in his mouth and his fingers catch on something, pulling him even further from the comfort and haze of his dream. He ducks his head in, looking down at where his hand is stuck. His fingers are still woven between Wings', his own a shade lighter.

Dean sits very still.  

He’s afraid to make a sound and wake him up, so he stays there for a moment, assessing the situation he’s willingly walked himself into.

The stranger’s chest rises and lowers every few seconds, almost imperceptibly so.  The gauze is brown from oxidized blood, but it doesn't appear to have been soaked through in the night, proving Dean's improvised medic work satisfactory. The stitches held. 

Huh, Dean thinks. He should be thankful for the live or die experiences thrust upon him by his father's recklessness. 

Half the time, Dean's afraid he took pages out of John's book.

And that would be okay. Well, it wouldn’t—  but he—  he could cope with that. He could work through it. He’s beginning to understand that even as the world ended, it would still spin, and day would come and the night would consume and he’d be okay. 

It’s unspeakably comforting, the feeling of fingers tucked between his own, the way Dean’s calloused palm presses against another, like a bond is forming quietly between a man waking from his dream and another still ensnared. 

“It’s okay.” Dean says one more time, the words an impulse.

Wings stirs, his upper lip twitching a hairsbreadth, and Dean braces for the cry of pain that always comes with waking, even if it’s not aloud. Anticipating the event horizon of his world ending with Wings consciousness, Dean grabs a glass of water, and the bottle of alcohol, and a rag before coming to stand next to his head, his thighs pressed against the edge of the table. 

He stares down at him, and his head feels clearer than it did last night. The stranger’s hair is unruly, unkempt, and Dean can’t tell how long it’s been like that—  how long this winged man has been living in the forest. The locks are nearly as dark as his wings, but the sunlight exposes their truthful deep brown color. It’s tangled here and there, and Dean has to try and restrain himself from carding his fingers through it to work out the knots. A residual caretaking instinct he has had yet no luck fighting.

When they were kids, Sammy always refused to brush his hair, and it was never really a problem when it was just him and Sam. But school begged a shred of presentability from the two, lest child services were called, so he kept up Sam’s appearance for him. Dean kept them fed, schooled, he took care of them both, though Sam always came first. 

Should have always come first. 

Now Dean’s here with someone else’s blood under his fingernails, and there’s a hunter on the loose who probably has it out for them both. And he’s not even a real hunter. He's just some guy with a gun and a penchant for killing things.

    Dean’s officially in over his head. 

Dark smudges look like they’ve been pressed underneath his eyes with two uncaring thumbs, and a distinct line of his cheekbones drags in a swoop across either side of his face. His lips are full but chapped and Dean wonders why he cares, but the urge to dab a spot of lotion against them nearly overpowers him. 

He’s trying hard to ignore the wings. 

There’s finding a human man and then there is finding a man with wings, real wings, with muscle and tendons and quivering feathers, and yep there it is, that edge of panic. 

The word hangs over his head but Dean refuses to use it. His mother’s bedtime stories aren’t real.

Demons are. He knows that now, though they are few and far between. But the a-- no. 

Dean shakes his head.

There's never been any proof. 

He rocks his weight from foot to foot, debating his best course of action. Minutes pass, but the man doesn’t stir again, so finally Dean sucks it up and takes his hand and pats it against his cheek, gently. His skin feels rough against the surprising softness, even the barest hint of stubble is nearly feather soft.  

He comes to sit on the edge of the table.

“Hey.” He murmurs, uselessly.  “Wake up?”

Please wake up.

Wings’ head moves, only slightly, pressing against his hand. Dean freezes like a deer in headlights, caught touching when he should have only been looking. Heat crawls up his cheeks and his stomach flips. 

“Fucking hell, Dean.” He mutters, pulling his hand away and he cocks his head, unsure if he really heard a quiet, sad noise leave the man still lying seemingly unconscious on his table. 

A warm, steady hand snakes out and grabs his wrist. Dean swallows his own quiet noise. It takes everything to look up again, scared of what he’s going to see.

When they lock eyes that fear melts.  

Wings flexing underneath his back, extending as far as they can go until the longest feathers graze the floor and the farthest tip brushes the wall near the dining table, the stranger looks up at him with clear eyes. His lips move rapidly, as he soundlessly repeats something over and over. One side of his face clenches up in pain as he tries to sit up.

Dust particles drift from the rafters like nothing is amiss, little bokehs proving that what Dean sees is real. He still doesn’t believe it.  

“Hey, hey, hey,” he keeps his voice low, holding his breath and extending his hands, palms out, as a friendly act. “I’m not—  I’m not gonna hurt you, just, you gotta let me get—” 

    Before Dean’s fingers even lift the bandaging to inspect the damage, there’s a forearm against his throat, and he’s pinned against the table by strong arms and they form an iron cage to hold him there. Two strong legs straddle him. Whatever he was going to say dies in his throat. 

    “Wings—” 

    The stranger barks something out, the syllables harsh and completely foreign, staring down at Dean with a combustion-prone concoction of fear, confusion and leftover adrenaline mixing behind the blue. 

    “Please I—” 

The arm presses against his windpipe even harder, and Dean meets the icy stare. Wings tilts his head, and his eyes narrow, his lips hanging open slightly, like he wants to say something. 

“I’m trying to help you.” 

    The pressure lessens a fraction, and Dean takes the opportunity to whip his arm up, hand sliding between him and Wings’ own, and he pushes him away and back a short inch, but it’s enough to throw the smaller man. Finally free, his throat drags in a breath but he doesn’t plan on giving wings another opening, so he brings his knee up from under the other man, using it as a brace to prevent him from overpowering him again. 

    He says the first thing that flies through his pea-brain. “Who are you?” Lord help him, he may just be the stupidest man alive. “What do I call you?” Asking him to introduce himself seems like the dumbest possible direction for the scene playing out. 

    With the quilt long gone, the stranger is fully indecent again, and Dean’s trying very hard to ignore it, because it’s the icing on the unreal cake. Fire creeps up his cheeks regardless and Dean squirms. 

A black arm brings itself up and around Wing’s body curling as though it was a protective stance. It reminds him of a knight with a shield. Everything else about his posture screams prey animal, and Dean can tell when the ghost of a fight is reverberating through someone’s muscle memory.

What the fuck did Campbell do to him? 

To top it all off, Dean realizes he did a terrible job of cleaning the blood away from his mouth. The blue takes over his eyes as his pupil’s become pinpricks of something primal and it doubles with the dried blood smeared down the hollow of his throat. 

“Hey,” Dean’s voice is low and shaking and he feels just like he did when he spent all those years helpless, just a child yanked around. “Stay with me. C’mon.” 

The wing lowers, and as it does so it catches the light, and the entire wing is made up of feathers that look just like the ones sitting on his mantle, an oil slick in sunshine. Without thinking, Dean brings his hand to his thigh and squeezes it, thumb digging into the meat of it. The touch is meant to be grounding, though he’s not sure who for.

“You know me.” He hums, in a futile effort to comfort him. 

A flip must switch in the stranger’s mind, because he nods suddenly, pulling his weight off of Dean and settling down on his own legs, his wings larger than life, spread out in the room.

“Dean.” He says, and it sounds reverent, his voice rough, the syllable catching in his throat. He doesn’t seem to notice, but fresh scarlet blooms across the bandage. “Dean.”

Dean stays as still as a statue and he can’t recall ever saying his name, though that’s usually how it goes for most anything. Words pour out of his mouth ceaselessly, and he’s always embarrassing himself, dumping his scattered thoughts on poor unsuspecting souls: hey, did you know that Led Zeppelin were tolkien fans? Simply because he’d seen someone had walked past wearing a Tree of Gondor shirt. 

But Dean doesn’t remember saying his own name. His fathers harsh words rattle around inside his mind: kill first, figure out what it is later.

This thought has to wait, though, because the bullet wound seems to have caught up to him, and Wings slumps forward, his entire body going limp in Dean’s arms, his wings thumping down against the table. Dean drags his hands up his back, until his fingers are buried in the downy feathers that molt into his shoulder blades. Dean can’t be certain, but he feels warmer than last night, like he’d been sleeping next to a fire. 

Fuck, fuck fuck.

Dean has no idea how to treat an infection, not really. He can try and prevent one from happening, sure—  he’s done that what feels like hundreds of times. But if the infection takes hold it’s out of his hands and he’s going to be left with a dead winged man on his table, or a possibly alive winged man forced into the spotlight. 

Dean presses his fist to his mouth, and his body feels like a bow-string pulled too taut, threatening to snap. There’s no one who can help, and there’s no one he trusts.

    Dean sits there for nearly thirty minutes, ignoring where his friend’s blood has stained his shirt. The cabin smells like iron, and like feathers, which he hadn’t realized was a distinct scent until it filled up the room. His phone sits in his hands. 

    The texture of the rug on the floor blurs with the sound of the ragged breathing next to him. 

    His phone rings.

    His fingertips burn where they touched his warm, soon to be cold thigh.

    It rings again.

    “Hey.” Dean expects Sam’s voice on the other end, and blinks, confused when he’s greeted with a familiar short drawl that he can’t immediately place.  

    “Missouri says he’s gonna be fine, kid.”

    The voice belongs to Pamela. 

    “Who?” Dean stands up abruptly. Is she outside?

    “Your birdman.”

    Dean doesn’t acknowledge the remark. “Who?”

    Once again, Dean is privy to a conversation happening away from the phone. It sounds like another woman talking, and she sounds annoyed. 

    “Oh. Missouri. The ol’ wife.”

    “Wife?” He runs a quick calculation in his head and then raises his eyebrows. That tracks. 

    “Dean Winchester, are you listening to me.”

    Uh, no? 

“Yeah, yeah okay. I heard you. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

    Whatever she thinks she knows, she better not.

    Something that sounds, in a honey sweet and dainty voice, like ‘Give it here’ comes from the other end and then she’s speaking to him directly. 

    “Dean Winchester?” She asks.

    “Speaking.”

    “Mmkay, good. You better listen up, sweetheart because he’s gonna be fine, but I’m still sending Pam your way. She was a nurse before she retired early, so whatever is wrong with the wound, she should be able to help.”

    For once, Dean is rendered speechless, and utterly, utterly confused. 

    “You still there?”

    “Yeah.” Dean croaks. “Yeah, I’m still here.” He looks over at where Wings is laying. His skin should look sunkissed, but instead beads of sweat form along his tendons, and they’re pulled tight, his body tense even if he’s out cold. “How do you know about him?”

    “Pamela and I… we share some unique gifts. But that shouldn’t concern you right now. You’ve got a fallen angel dying in your living room. She’ll be there in about fifteen minutes, alright?” She doesn’t wait for his response. “Go dig up some of Rufus’ old stash. The good stuff.”

    “Why?” He feels deeply out of the loop. 

    “To calm your nerves. I can feel them from here. Alright now, I’m gonna hang up. Sit tight until she gets there.” 

▵▿▵

Knuckles rap against the door, and Dean nearly jumps out of his skin. From the time it took him to hang up to Pamela showing up at his door it had started to rain again. This time the storm was black, and he had a feeling there would be no sunset, just the dimming of the sky until the charcoal was pitch. He flips the porchlight on as he opens the door. 

Pamela’s black hair is caught under the strap of an army green duffel bag, and the rain drips down her forehead and off her chin, smearing her smokey eye shadow slightly. Standing next to her is a woman Dean hasn’t met yet. She stands tall, and if there is a height difference between her and Pamela, he can’t tell. Her ringlets are just as soaked as her wife's and her dark eyes catch the yellow of the porch light. Inexplicably, they're warm, and Dean lends himself to trusting them. 

“The psychic forgot her umbrella, huh?” Dean asks, stepping aside to let them in. 

Missouri makes  a face. 

“I was gonna say you’re the prettiest thing in these hills but…” Whatever she was going to say, dies as she takes in the sight strewn across the dining table. 

Pamela sets her duffle bag down in one of the seats pulled away from the table and then her arm goes limp as she stands there. Missouri stops by her side, the fingers of her hand trailing her arm until it rests stationary by Pamela’s, their pinkies intertwining. 

“Seeing and believing are truly two different things.” Missouri sounds almost reverent.

“Yeah.” Dean breathes, and, actually, he gets that. “Earlier, on the phone you called him a…” 

“An angel.”

There are a million questions he could ask but he settles on one. “How do you know?”

Pamela tears her gaze away for just a moment, to look over her shoulder at Dean. “That’s a long story for another night. Right now, we have an angel to save. You look terrible, by the way.”

“Mmhm. Dead on your feet. There’s nothing you can do to help right now. We’ll take care of your angel.”

“Have you eaten anything since you found him?” Pam asks. The duffle bag zipper slices through the ambient silence between words, and she rifles through it for a solid minute before she finally produces a pair of tweezers and what looks to be military grade cotton balls with a pleased grin.

His stomach makes a pathetic noise in response, however instead of making a move to eat something, he's standing there staring validly, wondering why these two women who live in the middle of nowhere are completely calm about Mr. Comatose being heaven sent.

It’s fairly obvious from the way their backs are turned to him now, heads leaning in close until they're almost touching so they can whisper in confidence, that he isn’t going to get any answers tonight. 

The exhaustion hits him like a tidal wave, breezing through his muscles, seeping straight into his bones and burrowing in his marrow. Pamela seems to have some left over hospital grade drugs in her nursing kit, and his new friend is completely subdued under the quiet blanket of sleep. 

“Dean.” He tears his gaze away from the middle distance, where it had gotten comfortable to see Pamela watching him, her eyes narrow with concern. “I don’t want to have to take care of you next. Eat something and get some rest. You’ve done enough. We’ll be out of your hair once we’re done.”

Dean shouldn’t trust them. But he does. He doesn’t have any other choice. Shuffling around, he shows Missouri the outlets, where Rufus’s first aid-kit (nearly an end-of-days cold war quantity) stash is shoved into the top three shelves of one of the three storage closets. Missouri promises to lock up and leave the key under the worn-through doormat, and Dean nods sleepily. 

Missouri pats his cheek, and for the briefest of moments, Dean misses home. He misses Sammy. His life had never been simple or easy or even nice, but at least it had been predictable. 

“He’s gonna be okay, sweetheart. I promise.”

▵▿▵

When he wakes, he’s in his bed and sleep-drunk, and there’s an empty space to his side, a starless void that he’d never been able to fill. In his living room lies the moon, and the stars, and the hopeful sliver of himself wonders if even the sun can be found there as well. The cabin is peaceful, a comforting fog of quiet wrapping him up. Sleep drags him under again, and he goes willingly. 

#uinlh #cabin fic #* #mine

[eleanorbloom]

When You’re Ready Ch. 08

Pairing: Bryce Lahela x f! MC (Eleanor Bloom) x Ethan Ramsey.

Word Count: 4.5k

Warning: Angst, cursing.

Summary: Bryce has decided to let go Eleanor because she’s in love with Ethan Ramsey. But a turn in her relationship with the attending might change Bryce’s plans.

A/N: To the people who still is reading this story, thank you! Things are going to get juicy from now on, so I hope you are all prepared! (And I hope things in the book get really juicy too. I’m still recovering from last week’s chapter omg. My heart will never be the same after what Ethan told to MC :( (And I don’t even want to think about Bryce. My babyyyyyyyyyyyyy is so precious!)

Well, well, well. Hope you enjoy today’s chapter!

Taglist @utterlyinevitable  @shanzay44 @choicesficwriterscreations @laiba-the-person @starrystarrytrouble @lahellacute @lucy-268 @aylamreads @binny1985 @romewritingshop

Let me know if you wanna be added to my taglist!

________

Chapter 8: Me cuesta tanto olvidarte.

Y aunque fui yo quien decidió que ya no más (And even though it was me who decided we were through)

Y no me canse de jurarte que no habrá segunda parte (And I didn't tire of swearing to you that there wouldn't be a second chance)

Me cuesta tanto olvidarte (It's so hard for me to forget you)

 As much as he tried to avoid that moment, there he was, both feet on the grounds of Boston Logan International Airport.  After two months in the Amazon, he was back at the place he wanted so much to escape, only to return with empty hands, with his personal mission failed.  

His heart was feeling like there were never eight weeks since he left Boston, and was aching as much as the night they said goodbye. He had left for nothing. He wanted a reset, but he wasn't sure if that's what he got there.

Even if he tried every day to get her off his head, the most nonsensical things would remind him of her. 

The sparkling eyes of the children seemed attached to the memories of her giving him the shiniest smiles he had ever seen.

The carefree nature of a young woman would remind him of her youthful spirit, a trait he had grown to appreciate since the moment he knew her, but that he had failed to preserve in the last months, due to his erratic attitude towards her.

And if there was nothing that reminded him of her during the day, there would always be a sparkle at the end of the day, just about to sleep, that would explode in his mind like a firework. Whether it be the feeling of her hands touching his face, his hair, his bare chest; or the feeling of her soft lips giving him life after a searing kiss.

Whether it be her amber eyes illuminating the darkness of his mind and waking him up to a trance of vivid memories and feelings of happiness and joy. Vivid memories of something that were long gone and that couldn’t be back; or her laugh invading his ears and making him jolt as if it was the painful hallucination of a schizophrenic mind, and swear she was just laughing by her side when the truth was they were thousands of miles away.

Some nights he would toss and turn in bed, wondering what would she be doing; if he had broken her more than he was aware; if what he had done was right; if all this was really about her or about his fears and the ablaze belief that he would never be worthy of her because he could never give her everything she deserved. Wondering if all this was always about the fact that since he was a child, he never felt worthy of love.

He honestly couldn’t know.

He didn’t know how to face a truth that had been carrying his whole adult life, and he wasn’t sure it was now the time to explore those feelings. It didn’t make sense now. 

Some other nights he would lay remembering her, but the tiredness would be like morphine to his mind, sending him to sleep just as his head would touch the pillow. The memories of her wouldn’t haunt him like a ghost all night, the guilt wouldn’t eat him alive, there would only be a full night’s sleep, with physical recovery but with the same burden on his mind.

After three weeks, however, he had convinced himself that he had done the right thing. That she would eventually move on, that she would let him in the past and all this bad road would be over soon. But the hollowness somewhere inside him reminded him every time, that it wasn’t what he wanted, that he didn’t want it that way.

There was another way, but he was a coward.

Deep inside, he was hoping that the distance between them wouldn't make an effect like he intended to. He wanted it to fail. That her love was stronger than that. That that strongness was the proof he needed to push himself towards her, to fight for her, to hold her and never let her go again.

But then he would remember that all that he had been doing the last months, was for her, and only to protect her. That this self-sabotage would only damage her career. He couldn’t let that happen.

*

Ethan was having dinner at the ranch in the company of the owner, a Colombian elder woman who had spent her entire life receiving tourists that came to the rainforest from all places, and that had taught her the basics in various languages to communicate with them, English above all.

She had observed him for weeks. He noticed he was taciturn, thoughtful, that would never involve in small talk, so she had decided to respect his privacy and his love for silent meals. But he looked too troubled that night to ignore it.

“Are you in love, doctor?”—The woman asked, interrupting the dissection of his own thoughts.

“I beg your pardon?”—He replied, a bit startled for the intromission.

“I have lived long enough to know, by the look in your eyes, that you are in love. And that you would do anything to deny it, but it’s a stupid try, mi niño.”

He remained silent.

“I know you the yankees only care about work and money. You as a doctor are more human than others because you are here,”—She splayed her arms in the air, trying to sum up in a single gesture the greatness of the Amazon— “but for the same reason, you deprive yourself of the more important things in life as family and love.”

“Saving lives is the more important thing to me.”

“I know that. You have no family, no partner because your job goes first. But you are in love and I bet you are keeping the person you love away from you. Maybe that’s the reason why you are here, in the first place.”

“I didn’t know people in the Amazon were diviners.”

“We are not, but I have lived enough to see too many people coming here to forget, and that had failed.”

Ethan stared at her, thoughtful, not even sure if he would address her accusations.

“So, I am right?”

There was no point in denying. He would be gone in three weeks and then he wouldn’t see her again. He wasn’t risking anything.

“Yes, you are.”—He finally admitted.

“And Medicine has not taught you anything, doctor?”

“What do you mean?”

“You see life and death every day. You know the value of life and how easy it goes. Being a doctor is a tough job, but as someone who knows about the meaning of life and death more than any other person, you don’t seem to put into practice everything you have learned: To live and love ”

“It’s not that simple”

“It is simple. You have no idea how simple it is. I only hope you don’t learn it the hard way, when you lose your chance. I have seen it so many times, you wouldn’t believe me.”

The friendly silence joined the tabled again, leaving Ethan more pensive than before.

Maybe the elder woman was right, but Ethan was never a man of sentimentalism, of searching the meaning in things. He only wanted to seek the truth in life, how things were based only on facts. And the truth in this situation was that he had to stay away from Eleanor to protect her reputation and her career. There was no point in trying to find an alternative answer to that. The truth about them was absolute.

Still, he couldn’t stop thinking of her words.

*

Ethan force himself to come back to reality as entered in the baggage reclaim area of the airport. Once it was all collected, he took a cab to his apartment. 

Once he was there, he took a shower, unpacked his luggage, and drop off his clothes from the trip at the laundry service on his way to the hospital.

 The sun was already set when he met Naveen at his office.

“Ethan, my boy, I’m so happy you’re back safe”—He greeted giving him a hug that Ethan replied coyly.

“Good to see you, Naveen. How have you been?”

“Incredibly well, the weather has been so nice. And my position as Chief gives me more time to enjoy the sun, so I’m incredibly well with the amount of vitamin D I have absorbed these past weeks.”

“I can see it. You’re more joyful than usual.”

“Not just because of the sun, but because you’re back. I sincerely missed you, my friend”

Ethan nodded in a way that Naveen interpreted as he felt the same.

“How was Manaus, well, and the rainforest in general?”

Ethan updated him about his trip, describing the streets and highlights of the city in detail, and after that, he followed up with his labor with the WHO, and how things were when he left.

The origin of the epidemic had been found in a river that rises in Colombia and flows to the Amazon River, in the middle of Brazil. The Amazon River was the biggest in South America and its size was the reason it had caused nothing less than an outbreak just in a few weeks.

Just before Ethan left, the development of a vaccine had started, as a variant from the Malaria’s; therefore, in the next three months it was expected to be tested and by the end of the year, it was expected to be produced. He wasn’t sure if the WHO would call him for another Mission, but Naveen would be fully aware of that in case they would.

*

The hospital was quiet when both mentor and protégé left the office. They parted ways in the parking lot. Naveen, to go to his car, and Ethan, to walk down the street towards Donahue’s to say hi to Reggie.

He needed a drink to feel he was really back in Boston. At Edenbrook. But deep down, he wanted to go there because he hoped she would be at the bar. There was no way she wouldn’t be with her friends celebrating their last day as interns and welcoming the first day as second-year residents.

His pace was slower than usual for multiple reasons. First, because he wanted to enjoy the warm night Boston was welcoming him with; second, because he wasn’t going there to kill the tension of a day’s work, just to enjoy the night. And third, because some part of him was afraid of what he would find there. If she was there. If his face would betray him even if he had mastered the stoicism long before he met her.

“Don’t teaser her, Jackie! I still have nightmares about that Ethics Hearing!”—He heard just when he was about to turn to the entry. “If Eleanor had left Edenbrook, I don’t know what we’d done.”

He had no doubt that that sweet and soft voice belonged to Sienna Trihn.

“Stolen her spot in the diagnostics team?”

And that snarky retort was from Jackie Varma.

“Oh. My God”—The tiny resident said once her eyes caught him at the entry.—“He looks so different.”

She didn’t even lower her voice as she acknowledged him. And he didn’t care. As soon as he realized where Sienna and her friends were, his eyes couldn’t help but search for her eyes.

“What are you talkin-“—Eleanor turned and her mumbling stopped right away as their eyes met. Her confused amber eyes went stunned in an instant.

“Rookie”—Was all he could say to not let his feelings betray him. The sole sight of her was painful enough to try something else.

“It's good to have you back, Dr. Ramsey”—She murmured, her voice distant. Like she wasn’t even conscious of her words, like she wasn’t saying them, and an automat had taken hostage of her body.

Even though she knew he would be back tomorrow, it was clear she didn’t expect to see him tonight.

“Yeah… Good to be back”—He tried to remain serene, but for a second his eyes faltered on her with a torn expression.

He hesitated for a moment before keep walking towards the main bar.

 ***

She felt like someone was turning the volume up in her head. The chatting of her friends, the clinking glasses, the laugh of people, the cars passing by, the music on the jukebox inside. All was too fucking loud on her head. 

The bubble that had alienated her from the outside had popped just the moment she met eyes with Ethan. Every sound was irritating to her. Every laugh, every word, every passing car.  Her heart beating fast, her agitated breath. All the noises were multiplying.

Still, she didn’t even know how she found the strength to reply to him. It didn’t sound like her at all. It was like she was observing herself outside his body,  the obvious first-hand and only witness of her own autoscopy.

“Relax”—Bryce said in a jokingly tone when Ethan was out of sight—Ramsey might not be my type, but damn, I felt things too.”

All her friends burst out in laughs, trying to alleviate the tension.

“No one can deny that the man's his appeal, and with that makeover, oof. Total heartbreaker”—Conceded Jackie.

But she was barely conscious of what their friends were saying. Just as he entered the bar, she felt disoriented. Lost. The volume in her head started to turn down, silencing her from the noises around her. Like the earth had stopped rotating and she was caught in the middle of her own thoughts.

She didn’t expect that. She had come to terms with the fact that she would see him tomorrow, at Edenbrook, but she absolutely wasn’t prepared to see him tonight. At the bar. She should have known.

Then, she heard her name somewhere. Somewhere very, very far. And after that, a warm caress in her back shook her out of her stupor.

“Elle, are you okay?”

She looked up. All her friends were trying to catch her attention, and Sienna was staring at her with her brows furrowed in concern.

“Ellie…”

“Yeah, sorry, guys, I think the beer went to my head.”

Eleanor felt a warm caress against her back again.

“Babe, are you okay? D’you need a moment?”—He whispered, leaning carefully towards her.

“No, no, I’ll be fine.”

Bryce didn’t look so convinced.

She looked at him in the eyes, knowing that it would ease her mind. She smiled. It had worked. But she knew she couldn’t spend her life being wrapped to Bryce to feel calm, that she couldn’t run to his arms every time she felt something for Ethan. She had to face the pain, the fear, she needed to confront him to really be over Ethan. She had to do it alone with all the pain it was involved in.

“I’m okay, really”—She reassured, his lips quirking a bit to resemble a smile.

He nodded.

She wanted to be okay, because the last thing she had on her mind, was to make a scene, just as the last time she saw Ethan. No, she had to grow up. The days where she would drown in sadness and ‘what ifs’ were over. She had to handle the situation like the adult she was.

But it wasn’t that easy. Even though she rejoined the conversation with her friends, after an hour she really felt the need to have a moment.

“Sienna, care to join me?”

“Of course, Ellie”—She replied getting up from the bench.

The walked carelessly towards the bar, Eleanor trying to ignore completely the presence of Ethan sitting on his usual spot.

“Are you okay?”—She asked once she closed the door behind her.

“I… I’ve been better.”—She confessed, leaning against the wall.—It’s just… I wasn’t expecting to see him today, tonight, here. I made my mind I would see him tomorrow. But well, that’s how things went.”

“It was so shocking, for all of us. Mostly because of that makeover. I swear I thought I was confusing him with another person”

“Like a extremely hot twin brother of him?”

“Kinda, yeah”

They both laughed.

“That’s torture. How can he appear here like that and expect me to stay away?”

“Eleanor…”

“Sienna, I’m teasing”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“But I am. And I can’t even think about doing something with Bryce here.”

Eleanor shook her head.

“Ah, poor Bryce. He’s all in the comforting mood but I know it hurts him.”

“Maybe, but he’s actually worried about you.”

“Why he has to be so selfless? I don’t deserve it.”—She protested —He has been an angel with me this whole time. And this stupid asshole appears, and I fell to the ground like a whiny stupid.”

“Ellie, he knows what he’s dealing with. And I know he’ll be wise enough to leave when his time is over. I just hope that doesn’t happen, and that he gets his happy ending with you.”

“You don’t think I want the same? I want it. But it doesn’t matter what I want when the person I’m in love with it’s not him.”

There was silence. Sienna looked at Eleanor. She was pissed off, but not defeated like before. That was progress.

“Okay. Let’s focus.—Sienna exclaimed with renewed energy, trying to comfort her friend—"The things are this way: You’re still not over Ethan, but if you want to, you will. And you’ll do it by stop having hopes. You’ll focus on the good. On Bryce. On the beautiful moments you two have had. And as long as Ethan doesn’t say ‘Eleanor, I love you, let’s be together’, your situation with him is the same as it was when he left. It’s done. Terminated. Over. Okay?”

“Okay, yes. Yes. Crystal clear.”

“Pinky promise?”

“Pinky promise”—She replied as her pinky locked Sienna’s.

A few moments later they returned to the table. Jackie had brought a new round of beers. Eleanor took her seat next to Bryce, and without a moment’s hesitation, she brought her lips to his cheek and kissed him softly.

He stared at her a bit confused. That day, at the beach, they agreed to be more discreet with their relationship now that Ramsey was back. Somehow, she wouldn’t feel comfortable that he could know about them when nothing was settled, and she didn’t want to provoke a response in him by jealousy or make him doubt her feelings for him. That way, they would return to their habitual friendly interaction in public spaces, but their relationship remained the same. Therefore, that show of affection in public was against their agreement.

“What was that for?”

“You just deserve a kiss for being so cute with me.”

He smiled.

“In that case, I deserve more than a kiss on my cheek, don’t you think?”

She shook her head and brushed her lips into his.

“Better?”

“Much better”

They continued their chatting through the night until Reggie announced he was about to close. Eleanor and her friends collected their used jars and went to the bar to give them to Reggie. Ethan was still by the bar and apparently, he had no intention to leave soon.

“What? Last call doesn't apply to you?”—She asked, her words coming out of her mouth incautiously. Like nothing had happened. Like the two months they didn’t see each other never existed.

“Reggie and I go way back. We have an arrangement.”

“An arrangement?”—She snorted— “Is that what you call friendship?”

“I don’t have friends, but I wouldn’t mind you joining me if you were so inclined.”

“Say it. You want me to join you?”—She defied.

He stared at her seriously for a few seconds.

“I do.”

Eleanor turned to her friends

“I’ll stay for a while to check in about tomorrow with Dr. Ramsey.”

“Okay”—Sienna replied—"Just don’t stay out too late... Aurora's dropping off the rest of her stuff before work tomorrow.”

Eleanor nodded and her eyes directed to Bryce. He winked at her before turning to the door, but she could have sworn his smile fainted the very moment he turned.

“Well, we've got ourselves a brand new Ethan Ramsey.”—She stated, approaching him at the bar.—"You took the reset thing seriously.”

He gave him a painful look and scratched the back of his neck.

“Why don’t we move outside?”—He suggested, trying to diffuse his tension—"It'll be winter before we know it. Might as well enjoy the weather while we can.”

Ethan took a half-drunk bottle of nice scotch and head out to the empty beer garden, taking a seat beside a small fire pit.

“So… how have you been?”

“As good as it can be, given the circumstances there.”

“Yeah, I figure. I’m sure you went through a lot there.”

Ethan nodded.  Thinking that he indeed went through a lot there, but maybe not the kind she had in mind.

“What about you?”—He inquired after a brief reflection.

“I’m doing great. Excited that intern year has finished. And tomorrow is my first day on the big leagues”

“Yeah. You start with the DT. Time has passed so fast”

“Certainly.”

Then, the silence made its presence. They stayed still to study each other subtly. Ethan couldn't decipher what, but there was something different in her that had nothing to do with the passing of time. It wasn’t the hair, her summerly outfit, or something physical. It was something in the way she was looking at him, in the way she was speaking, and even in her gestures, that made him realize she wasn't the same he had left eight weeks ago. There was something familiar about her manners, but he wasn't sure what it was.

And after an eternity of silence and endless questions inside his head, she finally spoke.

“Why you didn’t reply or call back… or said anything?”

All Ethan could think was if she was interested in asking that, it meant there was something still there. That maybe she still cared for him.

“Eleanor…”

“I had to ask Banerji to know me if you were okay. Don’t you think it isn’t unfair?”

“I know, he told me.”

“It was a fucking message, Ethan. Just ‘I’m okay’, just that, I wasn’t expecting a report. Just a fucking reply.”

“I know. I’m so…”

She raised her hand, stopping him midsentence.

“Please, don’t. If you were truly sorry, you wouldn’t have done it in the first place. It was so simple.”

“I needed to walk away…”

“Yes, I know, but this has nothing to do with that. With your so-called self-control. Cause I don’t know how much self-control you can compromise by sending a couple of words. It’s not like you can lose it being thousands of miles away from me. But, of course, the fault is always mine for expecting some decency from you.”

“You were worried?”

“How can you ask something like that? Of course I was worried! Epidemics are unpredictable and much riskier to doctors.”

She shook her head.

“I really hoped our conversation would’ve made sense to you. But no. Nothing’s changed. You can’t even be a decent friend or colleague.”

He remained silent.

Eleanor took a sip of the scotch, and then breathed heavily with her eyes closed. After a few moments, she opened them with renewed energy.

“Well, no point in dwelling in the past. Let’s talk about tomorrow.”

Her words caught him by surprise. The way she just shook off of his mistake was new. He expected she would give him hell for at least fifteen minutes, but apparently she had more important things to discuss.

“Okay, what do you want to know”—He said, finally.

“What should I know?”

“Well, once the meeting with all the other residents is done, you have to go to the Diagnostics Team office, to join us for the daily meeting. We’ll be discussing a new case too. A few hours ago, the hospital informed me that we are receiving a patient from Manhattan Presbyterian, so that will be your first case as Fellow Member.”

“Excellent. Anything I need to know about the other members?”

“I leave it to you, so you don’t meet them biased from what I tell you”—There was some strange tint in his sight, something mischievous Eleanor couldn’t decipher.

“I think you’re being tricky with the answer.”

Ethan chuckled.

“I’m not. Tomorrow you’ll have your first impressions on the members. It’ll be fine.”

“I suppose”—She sounded tense.

“You’ll do it great, Rookie. You had an excellent performance in your first year, and you made a diagnosis neither your boss nor your boss’s boss couldn’t make, so, that’s quite impressive. You deserve the spot.”

“That’s because I learned from the best.”

And there it was again, the silent longing in their eyes. The intense looks, the pain, the restraint. The alternated gaze between lips and eyes. It seemed like the dynamics from past months were about repeat again. Eleanor succumbing to her feelings, asking for a chance, breaking their boundaries just to have one more kiss, and lose herself in the same old lie with the same old ending. And just like before, Ethan would fall too. As if eight weeks hadn’t passed. As if the time and distance hadn't done their part.

But things had changed. He had no idea how much things had changed.

Because after what it felt an eternity, she just smiled at him shyly and then looked away from him at slow-motion speed. Or that’s how Ethan saw things in his disappointed mind.

Then she took her glass, her hand almost imperceptibly shaky, and drank the remained scotch on it.

Ethan froze for a moment, completely surprised at her reaction, and then turned to the table, sipping his drink too. His mind still was wondering why it was being so easy for her to just look away and don’t dare to kiss him. He was back after two months out and she didn’t even want to kiss him. 

“Good thing you’re back just when summer is beginning, so you don’t end up freezing for changing temperatures.”

Ethan couldn’t repress the astonishment when he noticed Eleanor was using the small-talk card. They had never had small talks before. She always had something to comment, some insight to share, even something to recriminate him with. But now there was nothing of it.

Maybe it was her last resource to avoid something utterly stupid or senseless like kissing him. He couldn’t really blame her.

“Yes, glad I can catch some sun. Vitamin D has worked wonders in Naveen. But he’s too cheerful for my liking.”

“Ethan, Dr. Banerji has always been too cheerful for your liking.”

“Well, yeah, but he is annoyingly cheerful now, and summer is just beginning”

“May the Force be with you”—Eleanor joked,  getting up from the bench.—“Well, I’m going home now. Tomorrow’s my first day and I have to come up as fresh as a daisy.”

Ethan smiled faintly at her.

“Goodnight Rookie, I see you tomorrow”

“Night Ethan, see ya”

#open heart #bryce lahela #ethan ramsey #choices stories you play #bryce lahela x mc #bryce x mc #bryce x casey #ethan x mc #ethan x casey #ethan x f!mc #open heart choices #open heart fanfiction #oh choices #oh fanfic #oh #choices fanfiction #fanfic

[ongaku-ato-kakikomi]

In that case... You decide to ask the PCs out after they've been humiliated by any of the ROs?

(A/N): Aaaaah, first time writing for the playable characters, but I think I did an okay job. Thank you for requesting, I hope you’ll like it!

+ The art isn’t mine. It’s from aripng on Deviantart! Go check their stuff out!

Amira Rashid:

Amira was known to be a bold, charming and fun person, and you’ve always loved to hang out with her at all times. Her competitiveness would often bring out a side of you you never thought you ever had: with her, you feel like you can achieve anything you set your mind too… and you also feel like you’re right where you’re supposed to be.

It didn’t take long for you to fall for her, that’s for sure. She’s just so confident in everything she does, it’s one of the many things you admire about her. And right now, as you’re about to ask her to go to prom with you, you wish you had has much strength and courage as she usually has.

The fact that she looked like all life has been drained from her eyes when you finally found her that day made you rethink even asking her if she was going to the prom at all. She didn’t seem sad, but rather embarrassed, you know that by how her fire hair is sulking along with her shoulders. This happens every time she’s about to win a game against someone and then immensely loses, though half of the time she manages to give out a genuine smile a few minutes later.

“Amira?” Your voice manages to bring her attention to you, though you can feel the anxiety rising inside your chest when she sets her eyes on your form. “Are you… okay?”

“Meh, just got rejected by Damien, no big deal.” While she seems to straighten her back and give out a genuine smile after those words; you, on the other hand, feel like sulking on the floor. “What about you?”

“O-oh, well, I wanted to ask you something, but…” You rapidly shake your head and turn around, your feet dragging you elsewhere. “Nevermind.”

“Hey, wait a second there, sweet cheeks.” You feel the heat creep up on your cheeks at the nickname, shy eyes looking back at a worried frown settled on her face. “You know you can ask me anything. Come on, do tell.”

You shyly play with your hands, not noticing her lips stretching out into a smile. 

“I’m not gonna let you leave before you do, you know?”

“W-well…” You take in a large breath, trying to find that courage she brought out of you so many times before. “I was wondering… if you would like to go to the prom with me?”

Her expression quickly changing to a shock one is enough to make your heart skip a bit in a panic. 

“If you don’t want to, that’s totally fine! I just really like to hang out with you and thought it would be fun to spend that night together, but… but like I said, I’m fine if you don’t want to-”

“Aye, shut up for a minute so I can talk, alright?” 

The heat rises on your face and you hide it with your hands in embarrassment, believing that you’ve ruined all of your chances now; maybe even your friendship. Though your eyes rapidly flutter in surprise when you feel her pat your head.

“That was adorable, (Y/N).” You give her a confused look, not sure how to interpret the smile on her lips. “Sure, I’ll go with you. I thought I’d have to spend that night alone, but having fun with you sounds like a great plan.”

A huge smile breaks out of your lips. “Really?”

She gives out a chuckle. “Yeah, of course.” She gives you a wave just as she walks away. “I’ll pick you up at six, alright?”

As usual, Amira makes you feel like you could take over the world.

Brian Yu:

People you meet at your school either scare the crap out of you or makes you incredibly nervous all the time, mostly because they’re either very threatening or always do dumb shit that almost kills you just because they can. Needless to say, your everyday life is very stressful, and Brian is the only one who manages to bring you some sanity when everything feels like falling apart.

He probably hasn’t noticed; the guy’s almost always sleeping or zooming off when you’re hanging out, but he’s just so chill and so calm, the whole atmosphere around him always makes you feel safe. You could stand under a tree and stares at clouds with him for hours, with no need to talk about anything at all. 

He’s just perfect like that, and you often wonder if he ever sees you the same as you see him.

Until one day, he proves to you that he has, in fact, never seen you that way, and thus by simply asking out Miranda for prom out of nowhere and in front of everyone. Needless to say, she did not replicate his feelings, nor did she reject him in a nice way, and so now you’re forced to pat his back with your own broken heart while he silently engulfs food for his own comfort.

“I’m sorry to ask you this, but…” His black eyes turn to you when you speak up, his mouth full of his favorite food. “Why did you ask Miranda out? You barely talked to her since I’ve known you…”

“Ah…” He blinks a few times while he gulps in the rest of his food, trying to find the right words to answer you. “I don’t know… she’s been talking about finding her prince, I thought I could be hers for one night.”

You stay awfully silent after that revelation, your heart aching while your mind race with things that could maybe cheer the one person making you happy in this world. You give out a small smile a few moments later, deciding to go all in.

“Well… how about you be mine instead?”

You can feel the heat spreading on your neck when he turns a surprised expression towards you. “Huh?”

“I-I mean… if you really wanna be someone’s prince for one night, you could have just asked me.” You look down at your lap in embarrassment, not being able to stop the next set of words from coming out of your mouth. “Because… I kinda already see you as one since you basically save me every day…”

Your breath gets cut in your throat when his fingers brush a strand of hair out of your face, your (e/c) eyes looking up to see him with a contented smile on his lips.

“If the prettiest princess is asking, then who am I to say no?”

You both love and hate how calmly he can say those kinds of things.

Oz:

Oz has always been the shy and mysterious person around, but after spending so much time with them thanks to your group of friends, you’ve managed to discover that they’re an absolute and adorable geek. You love how passionate they are with their hobbies whenever they manage to step out of the insecurity net they’re often trapped into, but you also just love spending time with them whenever you can. They’re very sweet and you just wanna do your best to make them happy, especially since they’re often anxious or depressed. 

You know how horrible it is to feel those things, and so you always know to just be there for them and to remind them that you’re there for them. You’re always gonna be there for them, even if they break your heart in the process.

You always knew they had a crush on none other than Scott, they’ve told you once in a whisper at a night out with everyone. It hurt to know, it still does, but all you want is for them to be happy. 

Today, they were supposed to ask out Scott for the prom and they were nervous about it. You understood why: you’ve tried to tell them about your feelings for a while but always bailed out because of your own anxiety. But for Oz case, they were only two possible outcomes: either Scott accepts to go to prom with them, or he rejects them in a nice way.

Turns out he rejected them in a nice way, and now Oz’s shadows seem to be sulking even more than usual as they stare at empty spaces.

“I’ll never find love.” The words rip your heart’s tissue apart, your fingers slightly crisping the back of their shirt. “I’m just good at being alone.”

“Don’t you dare say that. Don’t even think about it.” You grab their shoulders and make them look at you, your eyes looking for any kind of light in their black orbs. “You will find love, okay? And you’re not alone, I’m right here. I’ll always be here. Even if I die, I’ll come back as a ghost and haunt you.”

They manage to let out a small chuckle, but it sounds hollow and you can see the tears sprinkling in their eyes. “It’s kind of you to say those things… but we both know that no one will ever love me-”

“Someone already does!”Their eyes go wide in shock just as your fingers tighten their grip on their shoulders. “It’s me, I love you. I-I’ve loved you for months and I will always love you. And I don’t care if you don’t love me back, because I want you to be in my life… even if it’s just as friends.”

“You…” Their words barely manage to come out of their lips. “You love me?”

You free their shoulders, the heat creeping up on your cheeks another proof of the embarrassment you’re suddenly feeling after blurting your feelings out of nowhere. “Y-yeah…”

“Well… that’s… a lot to process…” 

You feel a last amount of courage bubbling up inside your chest, the heat rising on your face. “Wanna… go out for lunch and talk about it?”

They blink a few times, then nods. “Yeah… Yeah, I would like that.”

You know they probably just want to talk so they can understand why you love them, especially since they tend to believe that no one loves them, but you’ll take it.

You’ll do anything to prove to them that they deserve love.

Vicky Schmidt:

For as long as you can remember, Vicky has always managed to bring a smile to your face. Her cheerfulness and her will to always do her best to achieve her goals and make others happy are what you admire the most about her… and also why you secretly love her so much.

You noticed how she would always go out of her for others, but almost no one would make sure that she gets some happiness back too… and since you weren’t too courageous enough to talk to her about your feelings yet, you decided to put anonymous letters in her locker. Not necessarily love declarations (though you do have left those), but just little notes to brighten her day or to make her feel better if she ever feels insecure about something. 

Of course, she absolutely loves them. Every day, you could see that her smile was brighter, her eyes shinier and that she would laugh more than usual. It made your heart bursts with pure happiness and love knowing that you were the reason behind all of this, and even though it hurt that she thought Liam was the one behind all of this, you were happy for her.

And so, one day, you decided that you would tell her that you were behind all of this… even if she rejects you after it, at least she would know that you were the one who wanted to make her so happy in the first place.

The only thing is, when you finally manage to find her in a hallway, her usual happy expression has now turned to a devastated one, her hands grasping onto a piece of paper you remember putting in her locker the day before.

“Vicky?” She turns wide shocked eyes towards you, her expression not changing in the slightest. “… are you okay?”

“I-I… I thought…” She opens and closes her mouth a few times before she manages to explain what happened to you. “I thought Liam was the one sending me those letters, but… when I talked to him about it, he just… made fun of me!”

You kinda feel bad that she had to live through such a hard humiliation from the vampire, but you can’t help to let out a smile. “What made you think it was him?”

“I-I don’t know, this letter…” She looks down at the piece of paper, confusion spreading on her features. “It said…”

“To meet them here today, then you saw Liam and thought it was him?”

“Yes! Wait-” She squints her eyes at you. “How do you know that?”

Your smile stretches out, trying your best to ignore the heat on your cheeks. “I wrote the letter. And all the letters before that.”

“Huh?” She blinks rapidly before a wide grin spreads on her cheeks. “For real?”

“Yeah, I was-”

“Let’s go on a date!” It’s your turn to open your eyes wide in surprise when she suddenly attacks you into a tight hug, her words resonating inside your head. “That’s what you were gonna ask me: if we could go on a date?”

“Y-yeah-”

“Good! It’s settled!” 

She gives your cheek a kiss before she runs out of the hallway, her giggle following her around. You just smile like a dumb person, feeling the butterflies spreading inside your chest.

#monster prom #amira rashid #brian yu #oz #vicky schmidt #amira rashid imagine #amira rashid imagines #amira rashid x reader #brian yu imagine #brian yu imagines #brian yu x reader #oz imagine #oz imagines #oz x reader #vicky schmidt imagine #vicky schmidt imagines #vicky schmidt x reader #monster prom imagine #monster prom imagines #monster prom x reader #imagine #imagines #x reader #request #requests #monster prom amira #monster prom brian #monster prom oz #monster prom vicky

[ficauthor]

I don't want this to be water under the bridge.

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27138992

Word count: 2762

Pairing: Richie Tozier/ Eddie Kaspbrak

Warnings: Minor bullying. They don’t use slurs but like you can tell they would if i was willing to write them. Implied Homophobia 

Bowers and his gang really didn't know when to stop. They just loved to kick a guy when he was down. Eddie still grounded by his mother comes across the Bowers gang. --- Tears leaked out of the corners of Richie’s big eyes,” listen, Eds please, I’m sorry. Just please don’t hate me, you can stop being my friend but don’t hate me, please. We can make this water under the bridge… pun not intended.” Eddie stepped closer,” Richie I-“he looked down clenching his fist his nails cutting into his palm,” Please, don’t say that,” He looked up,” I don’t want this to be water under the bridge.“

Whatever it was that Eddie did to piss off Bowers and his gang he didn't know but he sure as hell wasn't sticking around to find out.

He'd been running errands for his mother, the first ones since he broke his arm. But he wasn’t going to lick a gift horse in the mouth. It was just his luck then that as he passed the arcade, Bowers and his crew came stumbling out. They had a new member with them.

Some blond-haired boy with a nervous face, but Eddie hardly had a moment to stumble away before they were leering at him.

“Oh, look it's beaver boys, little boyfriend," Bowers was stomping closer and closer his rancid breath wafting ever closer to Eddie.

Eddie kept his mouth shut though, not out of intelligence but out of fear, there were five of them against him, he knew they were dissing Richie (how couldn’t he, they always called them boyfriends) but he couldn't say anything.

“I wonder if he'll cry when we break his little boyfriend's other arm?" Patrick asked with a sneer.

Without waiting a moment later Eddie ran. He ran as hard and as fast as his body and legs would allow. carrying himself as far as he could before they troupe realized what happened and began their chase. Eddie was smaller and not good at fighting, but he had a head start and was faster, and much less prone to tripping than they were. Something they always teased him for. His co-ordinance was a point of contention with them, enough proof with everything else for them to believe that he was gay. 

He didn’t understand it, it was like his delicate careful motions he did naturally called him out for-

“I’m gonna get you- you little- ah!”

Bowers attempt to say what was no doubt an insult was cut off by him falling and crashing.

Eddie didn't risk looking back, he couldn't, he wouldn't. He was already at the forest's edge. If he could get enough of a lead he could just hide in the clubhouse.

Something hit a tree next to him, it was hard, and it tinged loudly.

“Shit!” he cried out; they were throwing rocks now.

They wanted blood.

His heart was in his throat, he could barely breathe, he needed to puff his inhaler, but he couldn’t, there was no time. This wasn’t the place.

He was near the bridge now, but there was a figure on the bridge. Maybe the could-

Oh, shit he knew that loudly patterned shirt, he knew that hair, he knew those giant oversized shining glasses.

Fuck.

It was Richie.

Shouting was out of the window, it wasn’t an option for him, if he did that Bowsers and his gang would know. They would know Rich was there. And then he’d be in danger too.

The second Eddie was on the bridge his feet shuddering the old wood Richie was looking up fearfully from where he kneeled. He had a knife, but Eddie had more pressing things to worry about.

They had to hide anywhere, any way possible.

Richie’s eyes were the size of saucers when he realized it was Eddie.

“E-eds?”

“Hide,” Eddie whined. “We have to hide. Bowers- “

“I’ll get you, you little bitch!” Belch was bellowing now; Eddie could hear them all crash through the forest. They were close.

“W-what?” Richie was lost.

“We have to hide.”

Richie caught on quickly, as much as the losers teased him for being stupid, he sure knew when to be smart.

Looking around frantically his eyes snagged on the bridge railing,” Under.”

“Where?” Eddie knew his voice was lilting high pitched, he knew his tone was cracked but he couldn’t help it. How could he? Bowers wanted him dead.

Richie climbed over the railing,” Come on we have to hide under the bridge, we have to jump.”

“Are you crazy?” he whisper shouted,” the germs alo-“

“Where are you!” another one of the gang was screaming out. He couldn’t tell who anymore their voices were hoarse with anger and screams.

Richie extended a hand,” come on. Eds trust me.” His red rimmed eyes were soft and gentle. Red rimmed?

“Eds please.” Richie’s voice was gentle, nothing like how they normally bantered or spoke.

Eddie bit his lip, he looked to the tree line and then with his heart thudding and shuddering in his entire being took his best friend’s hand and jumped.

The water was cold, it stuck and clung, and wasn’t that deep. Eddie’s knees and ankles shook with the force of the jump. Every part of his body stung and shook with exhaustion.  But Richie’s hand was warm and steady and tempered down his racing heart.

Time, as it turned out was only just barely on their side, just as they got tucked under the edge of the bridge the sound of the gang’s footsteps echoed above them. Eddie swallowed his spit a hard stone that cut as it traveled down.

He and Richie were trembling, but the rushing water of the river covered their movements.

“Where the fuck is, he?” Bowers demanded; Eddie could almost see the spit flinging from his mouth.

“I-I don’t know,” a new voice was saying. It was probably that nervous blond from before.

Eddie’s stomach churned at his voice and he grit his teeth, he sounded afraid, like he didn’t have a choice, his free hand trembled clenched and pooling nervous heat. Richie’s hand was sweaty and trembling in his hand. But the tremble felt different.

Patrick’s voice cut the conversation next,” What do you feel bad for him?” his voice was taunting, demeaning, scathing,” That little- “A meaty noise cut him off.

It sounded like a punch. The crunch of a broken nose and a tooth clattering on the wood made Eddie’s insides squirm.

“My cousin-” there were desperate clattering feet and Eddie could hear it, Bowers was pushing Patrick, he was wrangling him, had him in a stronghold against a wall. And just through the cracks of the bridge just barely peaking through Eddie could just barely see their feet block the light. “-is not a fucking freak like they are. Don’t you, Dare say he’s anything like that.”

Spit splattered to the bridge.

Eddie’s stomach swooped, he could hear the unsaid words, in between the insults. He knew what they thought of him, of Richie, of all the losers. Richie shook against him. Eddie squeezed his hand still looking up.

“The little bastard probably climbed in a tree,” Victor seethed.

Silence rang for a beat,” Yeah,” Bowers eventually said, Eddie was almost certain he was nodding.

Dust fell from the rafters of the bridge as Patrick was let down.

“Let’s go hunting,” Eddie could practically hear the grin in his words,” teach them what we do to people like them.”

One

   Two

       Three

           Four

                …

                      …

                             …

                                  Five sets of feet left the bridge.

 Muscles tight and breath still held wound and baited they waited. They stayed under that bridge for far longer than they needed to, but they stayed non the less.

Turning to Richie finally about to speak Eddie’s words died in his throat. He had noticed Richie’s red-rimmed eyes earlier but now, he looked sickly. His face was pale.

“Richie?” Eddie barely let his voice be above a whisper, his voice could easily be covered by the rushing water.

Richie’s body was cowered and contorted to be as small as possible. As minuscule as physical.  His face was twisted and there was sticky, just dried tacky tear tracks down his cheeks.

“Rich, they’re gone.”

Richie stayed silent. Not a joke, not a taunt, not a single grin.

It churned Eddie’s stomach, it made him sick.

Richie was never quiet, he breathed loud, even when he was in class his leg bounced, his pen tapped, his fingers rapped against the desk, he was a being of energy. his every pour oozed high octane energy and laughter.

Something about the Bowers gang’s attack had rattled him. This one was different than before.

They had to get out from under the bridge though, they couldn’t stay there, their ankles submerged in the nasty water of the river that ran under the kissing bridge.

“Come on Rich, we have to move,” Eddie pulled him forward gently.

Richie moved like a ghost, barely aware of his actions and drifting where Eddie lead him.

By the time they made it onto the bridge Eddie’s stomach was a pit of barely contained anger and sadness. Whatever those jerks did to his best friend he wanted them to pay. They were going to pay. Somehow in some way.

Light flashed in his eye, the setting sun glinting on a discarded knife on the side of the bridge. Eddie dropped Richie’s hand.

“Oh, your knife,” he said simply as he went to pick it up.

Suddenly Richie was scrambling back to life again.

“No!”

Eddie whipped hie head to him,” wha-“

Richie cleared his throat nervously,” ha, I- uh- I mean.”

Eddie hardly looked at the knife as he scooped it up,” okay that’s it, fucking spill dick wad.”

“Hahaha,” Richie’s laugh was hollow and nervous, nothing like how he normally was,” w-what are you talkin’ ‘bout eds? I just didn’t want a dame like you getting cut by a sharp knife li- “

Contorted in rage and frustration from Bowers, his mother, the clown Eddie snarled at Richie bisecting his face with his casted arm,” no! You aren’t going to do this anymore Richard- “Richie fell more into his shoulders at the call of his full first name. they never called each other their full names, it was always nicknaming and joking insults never a full first name. “I want to know,” he turned looking to where Richie had been kneeling trying to read,” why the fu- “

Richie was tearing Eddies face from the railing,” Please no, just don’t.”

Eddie shook his head from Richie’s grasp,” shut up not until you tell me what is wrong with you.”

Broken, that was the only word that could truly explain Richie’s face. The expression shattered something in Eddie.

“Eds, please.”

“I-I,” Eddie closed his eyes, he was so close to something he knew it,” Listen if you like carved yours and Bev’s names, hell even if its Gretta. I don’t care.”

He was lying, it was the most important thing to him. He was angry and disgusted by the fact that it was, but he needed to know, just to tell his heart once and for all to stop looking into things.

“I just want my best friend back, and since I broke my arm I haven’t seen you, and we don’t keep secrets-“his voice cracked at the lie on his behalf.

“Eddie please,” Richie was begging him now,” I can’t tell you Eddie please tru-“

“Don’t call me that.” Eddie said before he could think. The nickname churned his stomach coming from Richie.

Richie’s nostrils flared,” then what the fuck am I supposed to call you?”

Angry and frustrated Eddie pivoted,” I’m looking at what you carved, Rich, because I’m sick and ti-“

His voice died in his throat when he finally read the new jagged carving. It wasn’t soft or weathered like any of the others. R which was obviously for Richie. A small plus sign, and-

“It was a joke,” Richie’s voice was both miles away and right in his ear.

He kept rambling on and on a mile a minute about. God Eddie had no clue honestly his own mind was so focused on that second letter, on the implications.

E

There were no girls in their year that could possibly fit it.

Emily Prendergast was the closest, but she was much younger than them. She was seven. That meant.

That meant the E was for Eddie.

His heart stopped at the thought, if the E was for Eddie then that meant.

That meant.

Eddie wasn’t alone, Richie was like him. It wasn’t just a rumour. For a brief moment, Eddie was queasy. Wasn’t he sick? His mother always told him he was sick, and she always said gay people were sick for being gay.

But Richie?

He couldn’t be sick.

He was warm, and alive, and whole, and messy. He got covered in dirt and grime, but he was never sick. Never him. Eddie had never, not once ever thought of Richie as sick, he couldn’t.

That meant.

If Richie wasn’t sick for being gay.

Then.

Eddie finally looked at Richie in his fishbowl magnified eyes.

Then he wasn’t sick either.

“-so you see it was an elaborate joke- hehehe.”

Laughter bubbled out of him, it wasn’t at Richie or meant to be malicious but at the situation. The entire time he could’ve- they could’ve-

Tears leaked out of the corners of Richie’s big eyes,” listen, Eds please, I’m sorry. Just please don’t hate me, you can stop being my friend but don’t hate me, please. We can make this water under the bridge… pun not intended.”

Eddie stepped closer,” Richie I-“he looked down clenching his fist his nails cutting into his palm,” Please, don’t say that,” He looked up,” I don’t want this to be water under the bridge.“

Richie’s voice was hoarse when he spoke again,” What?”

“Richie I-“

His voice was dead in his throat he couldn’t get the words out. So, he grabbed Richie’s hand laced his fingers through and dragged him onto the ground pointing to a carving that was on the board just below Richie’s carving and he dragged his left hand still holding Richie’s right to the jagged blocky carving he cut into the bridge a month ago.

The crudely cut R surrounded by a heart was so sloppy not just because of the medium, but because of the use of his non-dominant hand.

“I-is this?” Richie’s voice was gentle, delicate, afraid.

Eddie couldn’t help rolling his eyes though,” Jesus Rich you sound like Big Bill.”

A grin, large and comforting finally broke out on Richie’s face.

They were facing each other now, knee’s touching in their awkward cross-legged seats.

Richie put his free hand on Eddie’s face. His hand was long and slightly bony, his skin soft but just barely calloused at the fingertips. Eddie could feel that he needed to lotion his dry ass hands but the comfortable weight on his cheek outweighed his impulse to tell Richie that.

“Can I- Uhm.” Richie was choking on the words,” kiss you?”

Eddie didn’t answer not in words, he just leaned forward and pressed his lips to Richie’s.

At first, Richie was limp and surprised his chapped skin lifeless and Eddie was disappointed by the descriptions of first kisses and how amazing they were. But then Richie pressed back and while it wasn’t the spectacular fanfare that Ben’s romance novels described it was-

Breathtaking.

When they broke apart after what could have been minutes or hours Eddie felt dizzy and breathless, but not like how he felt when he turned to his inhaler. It was a kind of breathless that felt good.

“I guess I gotta break it off with your mother huh?”

Eddie shoved him gently,” shut up, I guess my torrid affair with your sister is also getting called off?”

Richie threw his head back in laughter his eye’s crinkling,” Torrid affair? What did you spend your lockdown reading the thesaurus?”

Eddie scrunched his nose trying not to smile,” you try being locked up in your room with a broken arm with nothing to do for forever.”

Richie stood up,” well then I suppose I’ll just have to visit you my good sir.” He was just barely slipping into a voice.

“What are you going on about Rich?”

Richie smirked extending a  hand to Eddie,” well,” he looked away and then back again,” hypothetically if you were cool with it, I could visit at night for sleepovers like I used too. Before you were grounded for life.”

“That would be nice,” Eddie took his hand and stood up,” just don’t get caught okay?”

Richie laughed,” trust me Eds my love, no one will be any the wiser,” he threw a wink at Eddie their hands still joined.

Eddie’s face was red, he could feel the heat on his ears and nose, but a quick glance at Richie as they walked swinging their hands together, told him that Richie was blushing too. His face and Neck were all a bright scarlet in the dusky afternoon light. And in Eddie’s mind, he’d never looked more handsome.

#reddie #Richie Tozier #Eddie Kaspbrak #Richie Tozier/ Eddie Kaspbrak #Eddie Kaspbrak/ Richie Tozier #Conner Bowers #Sonia kaspbrak isnt there in person but in spirit #Bowers Gang #they are thirteen in this i may one day continue this universe but who knows #My Writing

[curus-creations]

So the building had used to be used for something else, which like, what else is new, you know? Basically anywhere people live used to be something else – factories, churches and barns hollowed-out and turned into homes; even your average terraced house is nowhere near its original state and purpose as a sardine can for the poor.

Whatever this place used to be, they'd carved it out and turned it into...a newer, different-er sardine can. You could tell this was not the original layout at all – the ceilings didn't match the windows, with a little gap at the top where upstairs' floor was. That flat above us was accessible through a different part of the building entirely. Bumps and voices were like ghosts; I had no idea who was making them because the location of anyone's front door meant nothing to where their living room was.

And there was a window to nowhere in my bedroom.

It was bizarre. A corner of my room formed the walls around someone else's stairwell, and obviously that included the hollow space under the stairs as they descended. It would surely have been easy to cover that up with the very same walls and leave it an unused little portion of the building. Can't be a hundred percent efficient.

Instead, for some reason, they'd fitted a little window there. It was about a foot off the ground, and as big, made of that bubbly sort of glass, which was used nowhere else in the flat. Behind it was just a small alcove, lit only by the fact light was coming in through this very little window. Its floor was directly below the window, and uncarpeted, so not my floor. And I felt safe to assume not the floor of the stairwell itself, either.

It was weird, but it was ultimately ignorable. There's nothing inherently spooky about even the strangest human mistakes; plus, I couldn't see it from my bed, so I could happily forget about it as I slept and once I woke up.

After a couple of weeks, as I settled in, I ended up covering it with my own stuff – not deliberately, just because, you know, this is my space and I need somewhere to put my stuff.

I forgot about it entirely. It wasn't even a silly anecdote to tell my friends.

There's a particular sort of noise somebody knocking on a window makes. I imagine you've heard it. Sort of a hollow dunk dunk.

Somebody knocking on a bubble window behind a wardrobe does not make that noise.

Of course I woke up when I heard the sound. I might be used to the ambient noise of living here, but my brain could automatically tell this was coming from inside the house.

But where from exactly? Was somebody knocking on my walls? I slipped out of bed, grabbed the nearest club-like object (a pointlessly big torch) and considered throwing on a bathrobe before deciding nudity might psyche an intruder out more.

When I reached the doorway and peered into the living room, the sound of knocking came again, clearly from behind me this time.

I turned.

There was obviously no-one in my room. But still, there was that sound...too clear to be my neighbours. And it wasn't pipes (or Pipes) or anything – probably. I wasn't a plumber.

What if somebody had broken in, snuck behind my furniture and was now fucking with me! This was, embarassingly enough, my first conclusion.

Of course, when I shoved the wardrobe to the side, I immediately recognised the window.

There was nothing on the other side of it. It was still an empty, useless alcove.

I searched the rest of my room, found nothing, and the knocking didn't sound again for the rest of the night.

Which I spent sat on a camp chair, watching the window. Wielding my torch like it would do anything against anything.

If I'd seen something back then it would probably have freaked me out less.

As it was, having a sound with no source raises a lot of questions, obviously. I was kind of taking it on faith that this phenomenon was limited to the window – that the source was behind the window. An intangible noise-maker could have been fucking with me, using the obviously weird thing about the building to distract me from the fact it owned every wall and window in the place. It was easier to turn my limited evidence into proof of some creature hiding in the alcove, always hunched out of sight just where the light failed to filter in.

If it did anything in the day, I didn't know about it. I had breakfast and got dressed in peace, left to go to work in peace, came back to nothing.

But I couldn't risk the night. I sat in the chair, a lazy vigil – I was scared, yeah, but I was undisciplined. I fell asleep slouched in that chair night after night. It was ruining my spine, frankly, and I kept waking up with the shitty headaches I get when my neck muscles decide to go on strike. And nothing was happening, no further knocking was waking me up.

The first night in bed was simultaneously nerve-wracking – I could no longer see the window, no longer see what the creature was doing! - but also the most comfortable sleep I'd had in a week, because, you know, it was in an actual bed. I slept the whole night, woke up refreshed, and figured the 'evil' was defeated.

The knocking came back about a week later.

I woke up immediately, again, but this time I went straight to the wardrobe and nearly tipped it over shoving it aside.

I'd taken it by surprise this time. The creature – was real!

Okay let me start – let me explain that from the top.

Inside the alcove – just behind the window – its little fist raised like it was about to knock on the fucking window again – was a...tiny person. A child somebody had stretched. A white body with no face. It's hard to describe succintly, even though it looked so simple.

I screamed and threw myself back. Almost immediately, though, shock turned to anger and I threw myself down, crouching in front of the window, and slapped my hand on the glass. The creature had scuttled away, back into nothing.

"How do you like it?!" I think I yelled. Then realised it was three in the morning; then wondered how much of any of this my neighbours had heard, now or last time.

I didn't get the chair that night.

I stayed on the floor, crouched in the dust, watching. I don't know how long for. I think I nodded off eventually – several times – only for a few minutes, it felt like, each time. That sort of semi-awake lazy morning state, but over hours, until dawn. And on the floor.

The light made me feel safer. After all, the creature had never been out in the day. Eventually I stood, blinking, and blearily called in sick to work before collapsing onto the bed.

This would have been easier if I didn't have to work. That's genuinely what I thought at the time – like I could just keep up a nocturnal vigil and it would all be okay. That was preferable to coming home knowing I'd spend the night awaiting a...visitor.

I didn't have to wait long.

It was only a week this time. A week exactly.

I'd moved a sleeping bag onto the floor next to the window. I'd sort of rationalised to myself that watching it kept it away, so if I could just sleep comfortably next to it, it'd be fine.

Then I woke up to the window being open.

It took me a while. I'd woken up, every day, face-to-face with this bubbly darkness. It was becoming normal, again – ignorable. And then it was just a hole, an open frame to that nonsense alcove, the pane of glass on the floor directly in front of me.

How had it managed to do that without waking me? was my first question.

Then, more pressingly: wait shit where is it now?

If I hadn't thrown myself up and out of my sleeping bag in a panic, I would probably have spent forever watching the alcove numbly, afraid to turn away from it.

I went into the kitchen, grabbed a knife. Grabbed two knives, just in case. Walked back to my bedroom, slowly, keeping an eye out for anything small and crawling.

When I reached my room again, I switched out a knife for the torch, turned it on. Pointed it into the alcove.

Nothing. No creature illuminated there – and no back wall either. How deep did this go? I'd barely been awake two minutes; I couldn't quite convince myself of what I was seeing, that this was...deeper than the stairs could possibly allow.

I reached the arm holding the torch in, bringing light further into the dark.

A hand reached out of that dark, grabbed my wrist, and pulled, hard.

It's after that that I don't...well, I woke up in bed. I could have happily assumed that last part was a dream.

But the window – the hole – they're gone, entirely. It's all wall now. And that's – I mean, did I dream this all so specifically and so regularly? If I broke that wall down – what would I get other than a voided deposit? Kicked out, probably.

I saw them only once. They've covered their tracks so well. Do they need to make me doubt myself, too?

#writing #horror #november horror #the first of many! hopefully! #i don't know what to tag this