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thinkingoutlouddblog · 3 years

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butterfly effect: one

His mouth is slightly ajar, surely shocked to be seeing the girl of his past so far from where he had left her. I myself try to compute what I am seeing, but my brain is running so fast from the adrenaline, the gravity of what is occurring hardly registers.

It’s Harry, and he’s here and the two of you need to get out of there right now.

Word Count: 6k+

Includes: mob!h, mentions of blood, scary dudes late at night, and the set up for my favourite story I’ve ever written!

A/N: guys I am so excited about this story! I swear writing this is the only thing holding me together (so don’t let it flop lmao). It is 2AM pray for me.

My inbox is open for anyone who wants to chat about this series! I love to gab, and constructive criticism is very much appreciated. I want this to be as good as possible!!

butterfly effect masterlist // my masterlist

now

It is not until it is already too late that I realise I should have just ordered an uber.

Alex was very insistent that I order one home from my late shift at the pub. He had even offered to split the cost, knowing without needing to ask this was the cause of my hesitation. It wasn’t that I couldn’t afford it. Strictly speaking, I could. I was just keenly aware of the amount of material I could buy with the amount a late night uber in London would cost me. I would never take him up on his offer. He needed the money just as much as I did.

“It’s okay, I’m good for it,” I gave him a little smile. He was sitting in front of his mirror in his room, midway through getting ready for work. I had simply come to say goodbye before I left for my shift when he had grabbed me by the hand and demanded I ordered an uber home.

“Babe, you have to promise me.”

“I promise!” I stared exaggeratedly into his eyes as I spoke, emphasising my honesty.

In that moment, I made peace with the money I would be losing from my fabric budget. I calculated this budget, of course, by subtracting living expenses from my weekly income. My best friend wanted to make sure I got home safe, wanted the peace of mind while he was working that I would be fine. Who was I to say no to that?

“Make sure you text me when you get into the uber and once you make it up to the apartment.” My chest flooded with warmth at the love and care in his voice. It was moments like these I really sat back and thanked my lucky stars that Alex was in my life.

So, of course I was just going to bite the bullet and order the uber. Of course.

Except, well.

I couldn’t help but think how quickly I got from our place to work. We had picked the apartment just one short month ago, heavily considering the advantage of its walking distance to my work. The King’s Arms was just one block up and down the road. It was barely a fifteen-minute walk. Shorter than that if I took the shortcut down the alleyway back to our block, saving me from walking further down the road and looping back around. It would probably take me longer to get home via uber, once you account for the time spent waiting for it to arrive.

A ten-minute walk home wouldn’t kill me, surely.

The contemplation was pushed from my mind for the duration of my busy Saturday night shift. It was my least favourite shift of the week, as I spent each week chasing after middle aged men getting rowdy in the excitement of watching whatever sport was on TV. The King’s Arm was small, but it was a local favourite known for its homey pub meals, reasonably priced pints and good atmosphere. Much to my contempt they didn’t keep a large staff pool, preferring a smaller, well-trained, reliable bunch. Which was great in theory until it left me to run around like my hair is on fire on a night as busy as tonight.

I was capable of serving everyone well and in a timely manner, but it wasn’t exactly a stroll in the park. More like a seven-hour long sprint, with a half hour break in the middle.

As the final game for the night ended, the crowd slowly but surely thinned until just a couple of small groups remained.

“Hey y/n, are you okay to lock up by yourself if I head home in five?” my manager, Rachel asked me half an hour before close. “I have some time I need to take back,” she added in explanation.

“Of course, you go get out of here.” I knew she wasn’t lying when she said she had some time to take back, putting in all sorts of extra hours to keep the place in tip top shape. I liked Nicola, and I had certainly been working there long enough to handle a couple of customers and lock up by myself. Even if I didn’t like Rachel and thought she was slacking off, I couldn’t exactly argue. She was both my boss and the owner’s daughter, probably not far off becoming the owner herself.

“Are you sure?” She asked, eyeing the few men still seated, probably triple checking she didn’t think they were any kind of threat.

“Yes,” I laughed, “now scram, before I change my mind.”

“Alright if you insist,” she said, already making her way towards her bag.

“Ring me if you need anything! Good night!” She called over her shoulder as she exited through the kitchen door. The cook had gone home ten minutes earlier, the pub serving only drinks the hour before close at midnight.

“Night!” I called back.

I made quick work of what little cleaning there was left to do, and gently reminded the remaining patrons we closed in half an hour. To my surprise they were agreeable and friendly, one of them instantly assuring me, “Don’t worry love we’ll be out of your hair soon, won’t make you stay back late.”

Usually the kind of people that were in the pub this late had no care for closing time, believing that pertained simply to whenever they decided they wanted to leave.

True to his word, everyone was out with ten minutes to spare and I was able to clean their dishes and tables with the remaining time they had granted me. I locked the door to The King’s Arms at 12 o’clock on the dot and riding the high of such an easy close, took not a moment in deciding I was in fact going to walk home.

To Alex: Just ordered an uber!

I felt guilty lying, but I would rather lie than have Alex worrying over nothing. I would be home in a flash, keys secured firmly in between my knuckles the whole way. I felt far safer on the move than waiting out the front of work for an uber anyway.

I kept a fast pace, left only to debate whether I took my shortcut or stuck to the street. I checked over my shoulder, and seeing absolutely no one around, made a quick right turn into the alleyway between two buildings.

I grabbed my phone from my back pocket as I heard the ding of a text notification. I glance down at my screen, reading as I walk.

From Alex: Amazing! I should be home in a couple hours, text me when you get home safe. Love you x

I don’t register the hushed growling tones as I continue making my way down the alley, still looking down at my phone as I type a simple ‘love you’ in reply. It isn’t uncommon to hear the conversations of tenants on the lower levels of these apartment buildings as you walk down the street. Walls are thin and many windows generally left open. It is easy to consign this particular conversation among the other non-threatening city sounds until I eventually look back up from my phone.

I am immediately faced with a most unfavourable scene, under the single light that illuminates this alley, are the two men who I now recognise to be the source of the argument I had barely registered. The first man is tall, dressed in all black, thick muscles protruding through his t-shirt. He towered over the second man who contrasted him starkly in his bright red adidas tracksuit. The tall man’s presence would be dominating the space, even if he didn’t have his dark forearm pressed firmly against the smaller man’s throat.

I clamp a hand over my mouth, stopping myself from yelping stupidly and drawing attention to myself. They haven’t noticed my presence. A witness to whatever it was that was occurring here.

“See all I’m hearing is excuses, bruv,” the tall man’s accent is distinctly that of someone from South London. His tone is aggressive, but even. He knows he has the upper hand and it is clearly not his first rodeo threatening people. This is exactly the kind of person I could’ve avoided encountering by simply ordering an uber.

I snap out of my shocked daze and start to turn to make a swift and stealthy departure. I’m no fool. I know there is a definitive gang presence around here. I also know, if you leave them alone, they too shall (hopefully)leave you. All hopes of making such an exit are of course foiled as soon as my foot connects with an empty beer bottle on my first step.

The two men’s heads snap towards me instantly. I expect the shorter man to ask for help, to say something, but his mouth remains clamped shut. Gang business. He is in a bigger mess than someone like me can ever save him from. The taller man’s eyes narrow. After the briefest moments of standing there frozen, caught, I spin on my heel and run as fast as my feet can carry me.

I run back to the route I should have taken, cursing myself all the way for being naïve enough to believe that nothing bad could happen to me on something as simple as a walk home from work. That women who were raped, kidnapped and murdered from off the street were somehow removed from me. That was something only on the news in my world. Not something that was possibly about to occur.

My heart hammers in my chest as I make the split-second decision, I am safer running all the way home than running as far as I can from the scene of the crime. I’m going to run all the way up the stairs to my fifth-floor apartment, and I am going to lock the door behind me. I turn the corner back up to my block, not slowing down for a second.

I am so quick in fact, that as I come flying around the next corner towards my apartment, I nearly barrel straight into someone. He was clearly walking with some pace too, because he narrowly prevents us crashing into each other head on, but he is a second too slow in his reaction time because I trip straight over his feet. I hardly even see him, even as I am falling straight over him. All I see is brown hair and a dark suit before I’m staring straight at the pavement flying towards my face. I barely manage to throw my forearms out to break my fall as I hit the pavement at speed.

“Jesus,” the man mutters, but the only thing I can hear is my heavy breathing and my own blood pounding in my ears.

I’m on the ground now, I register for a second before my flight response kicks back in.

I don’t even feel the sting of the scrapes with the adrenaline coursing through me, already attempting to scramble up and get as far away as possible from this stranger. “I’m so sorry!” I manage to call as I pick myself and my keys up, gearing up to get moving once more.

“Honey?”

No. It absolutely could not possibly be. There was only one person on this planet who had ever called me by that name.

I stop dead in my tracks. That voice. It’s deeper than I remember but undoubtedly familiar. Familiar seems too simple a word. That voice had echoed around the halls of my brain for years. Even now, six years later, it was not gone but buried, waiting for a simple trigger to spark my memory and bring that beautiful sound back to the forefront my mind. Some days I swear I remembered it like I had just heard it moments ago.

Except now, I really had heard him.

Slowly, I turned to face him.

It’s Harry, and he’s here and the two of you need to get out of there right now.

Before he can verbalise any of the questions on the tip of his tongue, I grab his hand in my own, and yank him forward as I continue running home.

Realistically, I know that we now outnumber whoever it was that may be coming after me and I know even six years since I’ve last seen him, I am always safe with Harry. He proved that in many ways, and more than once, while I knew him. I was not, however, willing to risk the tall man pulling a knife on Harry. I didn’t even want to put him in a situation where it was a battle of fists. Though I did know from experience he could more than hold his own.

“What’s going on?” he yells as we run down the street, rapidly approaching the exit of the alleyway I had fled.

I gradually reduce our pace until we are speed-walking past the alleyway. Tempted as I am to see if they are still there, I keep my eyes trained forward, praying they aren’t there watching us as we pass by.

As soon as we have cleared it, I’m straight back to my running pace, forcing Harry to accelerate speed once more.

“I’ll explain inside,” I call over my shoulder in answer to his earlier question.

Now that I felt a degree safer with Harry’s presence, I had the capacity to feel thankful I had opted for a boiler suit and converse for tonight to accommodate for the Saturday night rush. This run would have been hell if I had worn a skirt and a heeled boot instead.

“Inside where?” He’s laughing as he speaks and as the fear loosens its grip on me, the déjà vu begins to battle for dominance. That laugh had brightened my every day for long enough to leave a mark on my soul. Fleeting as it was, that single sound reignited the shine it had once left.

His question was answered when we came to a screeching halt in front of my apartment. It took me two tries to input my security code correctly, my brain and hands both moving quickly, but not quite matching up. Eventually, the door clicked, and I was able to swing it open, tugging Harry in after me.

I didn’t stop dragging him along behind me until we had taken all five flights of stairs up to my apartment two at a time.

“y/n…” he attempted to grab my attention when we first entered the building, but I was not to be deterred until we had reached the absolute safety of my apartment. I shushed him, not wanting to receive a noise complaint from my new neighbours. I supposed having such a thought was a good sign, my consciousness beginning to register it was not in any imminent danger.

I huffed and puffed as we landed at the doorstep of apartment 5B, the place I loved to call home. Harry, I noticed, was barely short of breath. He had always been a runner when we were in high school. I wondered if he kept up the habit even now.

My hands shook as I located the correct key on my chain, body still shaking from the excitement of the events of the past five minutes. I struggled to align the key with the lock with my left hand, unthinking of the fact my right was still firmly in Harry’s hold.

“Let me,” he murmured, already moving his right hand to take the key. I said nothing, simply surrendering it over to him.

His hands were steady as anything as he turned the key, granting us entrance into my home. I released a breath I didn’t realise I had been holding. I finally stopped just past the door, my back to Harry as he shut it behind him. I took a few deep breaths, trying so desperately to ground myself.

Was any of this even real? The sketchy characters I could believe in a heartbeat, Harry Styles’ presence, however, was harder to grasp.

But there his hand was, in my own, even if I couldn’t see him.

Harry stood back and let me take this moment to myself, keenly aware of how much I needed it. He knew I needed to take pause and re-centre myself otherwise I would only shut down. He was also aware of my injured state though, even if I wasn’t.

“y/n, you’re bleeding.”

“Oh,” my head snapped back to look at my arm. In the rush to get home, the blood from the scrapes on my arm had run down my arm and dripped into our connected hands. I quickly released my grasp on him. “Jesus, I’m sorry.”

“A little bit of blood never hurt anyone,” he quickly dismissed. “Unless you’re the one that’s bleeding, in which case you better get cleaned up as soon as possible.

“Luckily you have me here to play nurse. Just lead the way to the nearest bathroom,” he gave me a little cheeky grin, clearly trying to lift your spirits. The subtle playfulness is not as natural as it once was, but it is certainly reminiscent of our old dynamic. The surrealism of this whole thing goes straight to my head, clouding my ability to form full, coherent thoughts.

Somehow, I manage to come out with, “I think you mean our only bathroom,” in response.

He grunts a laugh, but he hasn’t missed the use of the word our.

I walk like a zombie, leading him through the hallway past the living room and the kitchen to the bathroom. I hold my forearms up in an attempt to redirect the flow of the blood and prevent it from dripping from my fingertips onto the floor. As I slowly came out of survival mode, my awareness of the stinging of my forearms became increasingly prominent. I was sure my hip and knees were going to be bruised pretty badly too. I really hadn’t managed to slow down at all before all my momentum came crashing into the cement.

“Do you have a first aid kit?” He asks upon our arrival to the bathroom.

“Under the sink.”

My eyes trail over the mess Alex and I had left in our rush to get ready.

I tend to procrastinate getting ready for as long as possible, busying myself with just about anything else. Generally, it will be tidying up the mess I’ve made during the day, only for me to create a whole new one in my hurry to get ready for my shift on time. Alex on the other hand, always leaves plenty of time to perfect his look before leaving for the night. Despite having the time to do so, he never cleans as he goes. Leaving his many products and deliberated outfits spread far and wide. Luckily most of his mess was confined to his bedroom, the only trace of him in the bathroom skincare and hair products (though there wasn’t a limited amount of those, either).

“I’m sorry for the mess,” I speak quietly watching Harry get his bearings, standing helplessly as I bled, hands still raised.

“Nonsense,” he doesn’t look at me as he speaks, jumping into action.

Harry turns the faucet on in the sink before opening the cupboard door and grabbing the first aid kid out. It was actually sort of a miracle Alex and I had one. It had been on a list of “Things You Need for a New Apartment” I had googled, scared we were missing important things. At the time, I had deliberated longer than necessary over whether to get one. I couldn’t remember the last time I had required anything more than a band aid for any given ailment. The deciding factor had been the memory of Alex getting into a couple of scrapes while out over the years. It had never been anything major, the worst injury he ever sustained being a bruised jaw, but it was better to be safe than sorry, I decided.

Turns out, that decision was for the best.

He gently touches his fingertips to my right arm, which had copped the brunt of it. With the softest touch, he delicately guided my arm under the stream of water. As I stepped forward to lean over the sink and wash away the dirt of the footpath, he stepped backwards, giving me my space.

I winced at the initial contact of the water as it ran red. I risked a glance at my reflection. Sweaty brow, the light lazy work makeup I had applied half off my face. I quickly diverted my gaze back to my injured arm. This was not exactly how I pictured our reunion. I had hardly ever even pictured it, I was so sure that I would never see Harry again.

I wondered if this silence was as heavy as I thought it was. Everything about him felt so familiar, yet so different. Up until this moment it felt like being in the presence of a friend, but now I realised, he was closer to a stranger.

I knew the person he once was, a sweet but fucked up kid who had been forced to become a man too early. Someone who had his walls a mile high around almost everyone. Almost. The boy who painted his nails on lunch breaks and was friends with everyone but somehow also no one. Until he was friends with me. Then he was the boy who always sat to my left from the first bell of the school day to the last. Back then, I knew him from the inside out, just as he knew me.

He was my greatest joy of those years. Then he was my greatest heartbreak. Now, he was just some guy I used to know who I had plucked straight up off the street, looking very out of place in what was clearly a designer suit in my tiny apartment.

He looked through the first aid kit as I ensured the entirety of the scrape was rinsed. It extended most of the way from my elbow to my wrist, but more pressingly in my mind, it now stung like a bitch. Once the water rain clear as it ran off my arm, I moved onto the much smaller and shallower scrape on my left elbow, working quickly to get it clean.

Most of the bleeding had stopped, only a few spots on my right arm still dotting with blood. I leaned over the sink to prevent the water from dripping onto the floor.

I cleared my throat, nervous to break the silence.

“Can you please grab me that towel?” I nodded my head towards the black hand towel hung behind Harry.

His eyes snapped upwards from the first aid kit he had been busying himself with. I was sure he had been surveying it more thoroughly than strictly necessary, trying to detract from the awkward energy which had crept up on us. We made brief eye contact through the mirror. My breath caught in my throat. The moment was over as soon as it began as he turned wordlessly to grab the towel.

He holds it in his hand, hesitating before handing it over, “Did you want me to…?” he trails off, growing awkward in his offer. He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. She barely knows you, back off, he tells himself.

“No that’s okay,” I speak gently, and he quickly passes the towel to me. I get to work patting my arms down delicately.

“Thank you though,” I add, hating the unsure look on his face. I meet his eye, giving him a smile I hope is reassuring.

“Okay, let’s get you sitting down so I can fix you up,” he returns your smile with a slight upturn of the right side of his mouth.

I relocate to the little dining table Alex and I had bought at Ikea just a week prior. Harry isn’t far behind, washing his hands before joining me to tend to my wounds. He lays out everything he is going to need from the first aid kit before holding his hand out. Like an idiot, I stare at his hand without moving for a beat too long before jerkily offering my right arm up.

He laughs silently as he turns my arm over, analysing it carefully.

“So, do you often go for runs at midnight?” He asks as he unscrews the lid on the Vaseline.

“Yeah all the time. I just don’t normally take people from the street with me.”

“Is that all I am? A person on the street?” He tries to keep his tone light, but I can tell he was hurt by my choice of words.

I expect to feel guilty, but a burst of anger I thought I had long gotten over flares in my chest. It isn’t as red hot and overwhelming as it had been years before – I’d definitely had my fair share of time to cool off – but I’m still surprised by the sting of it.

He was the one that made himself a stranger to me, and now he’s upset when I’m stating the fact that he made a reality.

Despite myself, I tried not to come across too harshly in my response. I was never one for confrontation.

“I mean, I haven’t heard from you in six years.”

He is very careful not to lift his eyes from my injuries as he carefully applies the petroleum jelly. I stare down at him, desperate to catch his eye.

There’s a pause as I wait for him to offer some kind of explanation. Some perfectly good reason why my best friend and first love left town without telling me why, or where he was going, and then never contacted me again.

When he doesn’t fill the silence, I sigh as quietly as I can manage. You don’t really know him, I remind myself. I practically kidnapped him, I can’t just go asking him to rehash history. It was so clear that he was what he had wanted me to be. History.

“I just mean, I don’t really know you anymore. I’m sorry I grabbed you like that, I just,” I hissed at the sting of his first aid, “I was walking home from work and I saw these really sketchy looking guys.”

“Sketchy looking?” He finally looked up at me, raising an eyebrow questioningly.

“Well I guess they didn’t really look sketchy in their appearance particularly, it was more the fact that one of them was practically choking the other. They were arguing over something. I think it was something to do with some of the gangs around here,” I attempted a nonchalant tone, not wanting to worry him. The less phased I seemed, the better. I had caused him enough trouble. The only thing that was probably stopping him from running for the hills and never looking back (again) was guilt.

I go on to explain how I’d kicked that stupid beer bottle and taken off running, “which is when I ran into you. I’m really sorry about that, by the way. I’m so glad I didn’t take you down with me I think I would’ve died of a mix of guilt and embarrassment right then and there.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Ho-“he cut himself before his mouth could form that name he had so affectionately given you. “I’m the one who feels guilty, if not for my big, slow feet you wouldn’t have bit the dust.” I laugh at his turn of phrase.

His face suddenly grows serious. “Your head is okay, right?”

Instinctively, my left hand shoots up to the back of my head, ghosting over the slight bump hidden under my hair. The scar tissue was ever so minimally raised, only perceptible to a knowing touch. I retract my hand bashfully, slightly embarrassed by my knee jerk reaction.

“It’s fine,” I match his serious tone, before lightening it up, “as you can see, I managed to break most of my fall,” I gesture to my right arm he has paused work on.

He holds my gaze for a moment longer, discerning whether he thinks I am downplaying anything. He picks up the dressing, moving onto the next phase of his treatment plan.

“And they don’t feel broken? You can move your wrists okay without too much pain?”

My heart swells at his concern. I stamp out the small joy as soon as it flared up. It’s guilt that’s fuelling him. Nothing else.

I shake my head no. He looks up once more, having missed the gesture in his concentration. “Sorry! No. All bumps and bruises. I’m fine honestly, I probably majorly overexaggerated the whole thing and freaked out for nothing. I’m really sorry about all this, its so late at night.”

“Don’t apologise,” he says firmly. “It’s not your fault and you did exactly the right thing by making a break fo’ it. You never know what could’ve happened. Ya’ know. Out late. By yourself. In the dark.”

My face burned red with shame, but also defiance. I knew what I did was stupid and extremely risky, but I also didn’t think I needed a lecture about it in this moment. The fear still coursing through me and my scraped-up arms were surely lesson enough.

“I could say the same thing to you,” I countered.

We both knew my argument didn’t hold up very well. He was a man out alone at night. There was obviously a risk there, but it wasn’t the same.

We also both knew, I wasn’t really trying to start a debate. Just signalling to him I didn’t want to get into it and wanted to move on.

“I was walking to the tube from a mate’s place,” he explained simply, letting me off the hook.

He had begun to tape the dressing down to my skin, securing it safely. He worked expertly. Even if I didn’t already know, I would have said this was one of many times he had done some at home first aid.

“In a designer suit?” I questioned. There were two things I was asking, but also not saying. Was this the kind of ‘mate’ you wine and dine before going home with them? And what happened to that poor kid from Holmes Chapel I once knew?

“I came straight from work.”

Jesus he wasn’t giving me a lot to work with in the way of details.

“Oh,” I say lamely, not wanting to pry. As much as I could tell myself (and him) that I didn’t really know him anymore and he was basically a stranger, it still hurt to be treated like one. We used to be so open with one another. The one thing I ever kept from him was how I truly felt about him.

“I work in finance,” he offers up after a beat of silence. “It uh- I’m pretty lucky to have the job I do,” he alludes to his financial standing, obviously wanting to acknowledge the contrast comparative to how I knew him. A boy not even of eighteen, fending for himself while trying to complete his high school education.

My face practically split in two with the size of the smile on my face at his words. “I’m so happy for you, Harry,” I say, hoping he can see how genuinely I mean it.

“Thank you.”

“Are you happy, H?” The question slips out before I can stop it. Internally, I kick myself. Externally, I try to keep my face neutral, yet interested. That’s a perfectly normal question to ask. Totally.

“Um,” he switches to my left elbow, making quicker work of the smaller wound. “I think so. In my experience you never realise how happy you are until you aren’t. But still, I think I am.”

“Good,” I say firmly. “I’m glad.”

“What about you?” He turns the questioning back on you. “What’s your story?”

“Oh, you know. The sad story of the girl chasing a dream,” I nodded my head towards the sewing machine stationed at the other end of the table.

“Don’t say that!” His tone jests, but he is serious as he speaks. “I think it would be far sadder if I discovered that your talent was going to waste. I’m really glad to hear that actually,” he half says the last sentence to himself, concentrating on fixing his dressing properly on the more difficult angle of my elbow.

“There you go,” he gleams as he admires his handy work. “Good as new.”

“Thank you so much, Harry. I’m so sorry for all this-“

“Not your fault,” he quickly dismisses.

“Even so, I’m sorry for all the trouble. I’ll pay for an uber home for you or something,” I try to come up with something to offer him that can even begin to repay him for his help.

“Are you going to be okay by yourself?” His brow creases in concern.

“Oh, Alex should be-“ I smack a hand over my mouth, realising I never texted him to let him know I had gotten home okay.

“Oh fuck,” I remove my hand from my mouth. I gingerly fish my phone out of my back pocket, muscles beginning to protest, the impact of that fall settling in.

Four missed calls and a flurry of text messages. My phone had automatically turned onto ‘Do Not Disturb’ mode as scheduled at 12:30. I hadn’t been notified of any of it and he had definitely assumed the worst.

“Is everything okay?”

“I forgot to text him and let him know I made it home okay,” I don’t look up as I speak, opening our text chat.

From Alex: I’m coming home

Received ten minutes ago.

“Your boyfriend?” He questioned, keeping his face impassive. That had my head shooting up.

“Uh-“ I began, but cut myself off as the unmistakeable sound of heeled feet running up the stairs to our apartment ran out loud and clear.

Shit.

Before I could even think what to say next, Alex’s key was in the lock. The door swung open, smacking the wall with the force of it.

Both Harry and Alex’s brows hit their bloody hairline I swear. Or more accurately, Lexie’s.

There my best friend and roommate stood, in full drag, light catching the sequins of the pink mini-dress I had sewn myself. If I weren’t standing there with the guiltiest expression of my life, I would be thinking about how stunning she looked.

Harry looked between the two of you, as Lexie did the same. Both trying to catch their brains up to what they were seeing. I myself was at a loss for words. I probably should have started with, “Lex, I am so sorry,” but Harry broke the silence first.

“Wow, you look amazing,” he breathed, transfixed by the look Lexie had created. Drag was an art form, and she was quite the artist. He was not the first to become enchanted upon first look, and he certainly would not be the last.

Lexie narrowed her eyes at Harry, jaw falling slightly open at the audacity of the acknowledgement in this moment. She had little patience for besotted strangers in moments like this. Her narrowed eyes moved to mine, face filling with rage.

“Lex-“ I begin, but am cut off for what seems to be the millionth time tonight with the simple raise of her hand. The close of my mouth is instant. I was not about to make this any worse.

“Bitch, if you do not have a very good explanation for this,” she breathes deeply, trying to gain her composure, “I am going to fucking kill you.”

********

As soon as he is out of your apartment and onto the street, his phone is in his hand. Fingers not able to press to type the message fast enough for his liking.

From Harry: We need to talk. I saw her.

As soon as the message was delivered, he was returning the calls he had silenced in y/n’s presence. The moment she had turned her back and left him to wash his hands, he had turned his phone to airplane mode.

“Jesus Christ bruv, I thought you were dead,” Michael joked as soon as he picked up.

The two of them had parted ways for what should’ve been five or ten minutes. Harry hadn’t seen it happen, just heard the clatter of the beer bottle as it skated along the ground and the screeching halt in the argument. He had been waiting patiently for Michael to finish working in the shadowy doorway to the side. He hadn’t seen a thing, and he was sure from his concealed position, whoever had seen Mike hadn’t seen him. So, he obligingly offered to take a walk, ensure she hadn’t gone calling the police.

He had just been bored. Ready to go home and have a drink with Michael so he could have a bitch and a moan about work. It always left him feeling better when he returned on Monday. He was killing time, that was all. He hadn’t expected to stumble over the girl who had changed everything.

Harry didn’t take time to explain his extended absence, moving straight along to what he had called for. Just like Mike, he preferred to skip the pleasantries.

“I need you to subtly divert as much traffic from this block as possible,” he didn’t ask. He never asked. It was always an instruction with him. In this business, asking nicely didn’t exactly lend itself to going far.

“What’s this about?” Harry gritted his teeth. He did not enjoy having his authority questioned. The only reason Michael would get away with it was because of their pre-existing friendship. Even then. Harry was not exactly in a forgiving mood. Made all the worse when Mike added, “This isn’t about that girl from the alley is it?”

Michael had his answer when Harry said only, “Get it done or I’ll have your fookin’ head.”

chat with me about butterfly effect!

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simpingforsoftboys · 3 years

Text

Curiosity Killed the Cat

ft. Kuroken

G/N Reader

Read this first

Mini Series Here

Thanks so much for the request anon! I actually went back and forth with this- but I’m finally satisfied with how this turned out! Hope you enjoy!

Kenma hated these types of events. Blaring music, flashing lights, horny drunk people, crowded spaces. Yes, parties were the worst- but it wasn’t like he could tell Kuroo “no, I’m not going to attend your best friend’s 27th birthday party just because.” Which is why they’re in Osaka and not Tokyo at the moment. Kuroo had gone off to god knows where- claiming he was going to get some drinks for them- but that was 15 minutes ago and he still hadn’t returned. Shoyo was arriving late, so there was no one the dyed blonde felt comfortable with speaking too. Seeing no other option, he decided to seek Kuroo out on his own.

“Excuse me.” The short male muttered as he nudged people aside to get to the bar. No one seemed to mind, too caught up in their dancing- probably thanks to their alcohol induced haze. His skin crawled in disgust as he passed by some chick who was making out with Miya Atsumu- if Shoyo was right with his suspicions, Sakusa Kiyoomi would not be happy. He pushed that thought aside. Eventually he made it to the bar- successfully locating Kuroo. “I was waiting what’s-” He was shut up by his fiance’s hand over his mouth.

“Shh... look over there, across the counter- is that Y/n?” Kenma followed where Kuroo was pointing, they couldn’t see the persons face, but they had a similar figure and skin tone to your own. Suddenly the person turned- but they realized that it wasn’t you.

It had been two, nearly three years since your emotional breakup, and they still found themselves looking for you in every room they entered. Kenma hadn’t gotten over his love for you- he doubted he ever would, but it was just another thing he had learned to live with. Kuroo slowly began to realize how much of an impact you had on his daily life, things he had previously taken for granted like a homemade meal at the end of a long day, hot bath prepped and ready, folded clothes and cute little notes. Those things were gone now, so he and Kenma had to step up and do it- until eventually they just decided to hire someone to do it for them. It wasn’t the same- sure, the housekeeper did an amazing job, but the difference was palpable. It sounded dumb but they could just feel the lack of love- your absence had created a void in the large penthouse.

It had taken time, but Tetsuro realized that yeah, he did love you- not as much as Kenma- yet, it was a tangible love all the same. Which is why it hurt him that day- not only because you left them, but because you didn’t feel loved by him. He couldn’t find it in himself to be angry at you- that was his own doing. All you had done was leave him with happy memories.

Kenma found himself reverting back to his old habits. Their home was a lot lonelier without you. Kuroo often went on weeks- if not months long- business trips for the volleyball association, leaving Kenma home alone for lengthy periods of time. No longer did he have you to keep him company or monitor his sleeping or eating habits. Even his viewers had noticed his unhealthy lifestyle and urged him to take better care of himself, but it wasn’t the same. So, without anyone there to stop him, he would fall into ruin- because then, when he was exhausted or kept occupied by the newest trending game title- he wouldn’t be thinking about all that he was missing.

Neither of them had spoken- or even checked up on you since that day, those few years ago. You had blocked them on everything, made your accounts private, changed your phone number, and asked your mutual friends to not share anything about you with them. It hurt- because how can you so easily shut out the people you love- but after much thought and consideration, they realize you had to be hurting twice as bad as they did. Unlike them, you had the time to simmer in your pain, hurt, and longing, while they remained oblivious.

Ignorance was bliss.

The two of them left Bokuto’s party early that night, Kuroo said something about an emergency Skype meeting in the morning as an excuse. In actuality they found themselves driving to one of your favorite restaurants- they hadn’t stepped a foot inside the establishment since the last time they ate here with you. But- as it was for many things apparently- tonight seemed to be one all about stepping out of their comfort zones.

“What are you getting?” Kuroo tried to act casual, but Kenma had known him much too long to fall for his act.

“I think I’ll get (f/f).”

Kuroo nodded. “I think I will too.” Neither of them particularly liked (f/f), but it had been your go to order. Maybe by being here and eating the familiar dish, they could pretend that they were simply on a date as a triad- and you were running late- instead of dealing with the reality that they were a couple now and not a throuple.

Their food arrives and they dig in, eating slowly, eyes shutting occasionally, it seems like they’re merely savoring the flavor- when in reality they’re trying to picture you dining with them. No words are exchanged between the two- they’re together yes, but it’s somehow a lonely occasion all the same.

If you were here, the table would be filled with easy conversation- you were always so neutral when you spoke, teasing when you felt particularly daring (they realize now that this was such a rarity because you were hesitant about starting an altercation- which no one should have to be afraid of in any relationship). Kenma would let himself loosen up and exchange snarky words with Kuroo, who quipped back savagely, and you would watch them- laughter spilling from your lips. Too bad they didn’t try harder to include you in the conversation- not that they intentionally alienated you- just that they were enjoying themselves too much to bat an eye in your direction.

Yeah, it was better for you that you weren’t here. That was a fact they still had trouble stomaching.

They hear the restaurant’s door opening in the background, but don’t care enough to look who entered. It doesn’t matter to either of the two that it’s late at night and logically there shouldn’t be anyone else here but them. Their imagined scenario is much more appealing than real life.

“Put me down Tsutomu!” A male scolds from the lobby area, despite their best efforts, they’re unable to block the newcomers voices out.

Another male laughs in response. “Calm down Kenji, I got you!”

“Hahah! Why are you so red Kenji-” Someone else adds, this person’s voice is familiar. Kenma and Tetsuro freeze at the sound. It’s kind of weird how they recognize it- despite having slowly forgotten what it sounded like over the course of passing time. You know how each time you recall a memory it actually ends up altering it a little? That’s how it was with your voice. Eventually their recollection of it was changed to the point that they couldn’t quite remember how exactly your laughter sounded, or even how your pitch changed with various moods.

Their ears were filled with you- wonderful, gorgeous, breathtaking you- the one who cared too much and pushed aside prioritizing yourself until eventually you couldn’t take it anymore. The Y/n that they still, could never seem to love enough- even now. But it was dissimilar all the same, since you sounded so happy, so content- what was weird was that they didn’t even need to see your face to confirm it.

Neither of them dare to look in your direction, afraid that you’d disappear right before their eyes. It isn’t until they see your approaching figure in their peripheral that they glance over.

You’re positively glowing. It feels like you’re an entire galaxy- so far and out of reach- and they’re merely stargazers. They’re stuck on Earth, forever fated to watch and appreciate your splendor from an impossibly wide distance.

The purple-nearly black haired man that accompanies you pulls your chair out, gesturing to your seat with exaggerated motions. You laugh, sitting down in the most graceful manner possible and let him push your seat in. He places a kiss to your temple before going to pull out a chair for the other brown haired male- whose cheeks are still tinted red.

The three of you order appetizers and speak about many things- Kuroo can overhear ‘volleyball’ and ‘hospital’ mentioned somewhere in the mix. The two men- your apparent lovers- don’t even have to make an effort to include you in their conversation, it’s like second nature for them, just as it should have been for him and Kenma. They listen intently as you ramble on about whatever, the shorter brown haired one adding his two cents in occasionally, while the taller male questions or presses you for more details.

“Kuroo I’m not hungry anymore.” Kenma says, and only now does Tetsuro notice how upset his fiance is. Normally the half blonde is composed and neutral, but right now his face is scrunched up like he smelt something sour. The feeling is mutual. He isn’t happy with the situation either.

"Do you want to head back to the hotel?”

“No, let’s stay a little longer.”

So they stay, silently watching as you make lively conversation with your lovers. Observing as you polish off your plates and finish dessert, they’re still seated when the throuple pays the bill and walks out the exit. Eventually the elderly owner comes out and asks them if they want to order anything else- a polite way of letting them know that they’ve overstayed their welcome.

They tell her no, pay their own bill, and head back to their car. They sit there in the parking lot a little longer.

“Hey Kenma.” Kuroo murmurs, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

“Hm?” Kenma hums.

“Do you think we could have made it work?” It’s a question that they’ve never actually voiced out loud- not even once- in the years since the breakup.

“Why do you ask? You already know the answer.” Is what he receives in response. Kenma’s right, he did know.

“I... guess I needed to hear it.” He says lamely.

He turns the key and starts the ignition. They drive back to their hotel in silence.

They made their beds a long time ago. So it’s only right that they lie in it- even if the bedsheets are uncomfy and the blanket threatens to suffocate them.

Kenma regrets wondering about how you were doing now. At least before tonight he was able to take comfort in the fact that you still might be in love with them.

The old idiom was right. Curiosity killed the cat. And he certainly felt like he was dying.

A/N: Believe it or not the inspo behind this was the song Good Stuff by Griff. I really liked the whole idea of Kuroken x reader ending on semi good terms. The difference between how their emotions for the reader portrayed here vs IwaOi is an example of this. Unlike IwaOi, Kuroken is able to identify their emotions when given time and space, they’re not necessarily prideful and can acknowledge that despite being broken up with, they’re still the ones who were left with “the good stuff.”

They miss you sure, but they know it’s unfair to want you to come back to them when they’ll never be able to love you as they should. So they don’t even bother wishing or seeking you out. Of course, they do their best to maintain some semblance of a connection to you (like why they look for you in crowded rooms and eat your favorite food), but they’re fine with remaining curious. Of course no one can remain willfully ignorant forever though.

#answered.requests #haikyuu poly au #kuroo x reader x kenma #kuroken x reader #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo x reader #kenma kozume x reader #kenma x reader #kenma x y/n #kenma x you #kuroo x you #kuroo x y/n #shirabu x y/n #shirabu x reader #shirabu kenjiro x reader #goshiki x reader #goshiki tsutomu x reader #shiragoshi x reader #shirabu x reader x goshiki

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whump-town · 4 years

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(I have been very fortunate in the men that I have befriended in my life. It’s sad that isn’t the case for everyone)

The first time it occurs to Jennifer Jareau that she shouldn’t be safe where she is, it’s midnight. Her eyes snap open and a panicked exhale leaves her lips. She sits up, pulling the thin, chilled sheets of the hotel comforter around her. For a moment all she can do is glare at her roommate. All she can do is think about how stupid she’s just been.

The first rule in the sisterhood is to never trust a man too much.

Especially one like Aaron Hotchner.

He’s half a foot taller than her and probably about a hundred pounds heavier. He could pin her down, hurt her with no problem at all. Yet, she’d fallen asleep with no less than six feet separating them. She’s seen him mad, he could easily hurt her if he wanted. The ring on his left-hand means nothing… not really. Not to the wrong men but…

Guilt floods her chest.

He’d apologized three times coming up here. Telling her that he understood she’d be much more comfortable having a room to herself, as she typically does, and he was so sorry he couldn’t make that happen tonight. That she’d have to share a room with him, acknowledging how scary it might be for her, as a woman, to sleep beside a male co-worker.

The man in question shifts in his sleep, drawing his long legs closer to his body and pulling the blanket tighter over his shoulders.

But he’s not just some male-coworker. He’s the man she trusts to watch her drink at bars and the man who brings her coffee when he gets his own each morning.

Hotch.

She settles back down in the bed, rolled to face him. His back is facing her, completely oblivious to her racing thoughts. With a sigh, she pulls the blanket back up over her own shoulders. It’s kind of… strange to be able to trust in a man. But she does and that’s strangely nice.

The next time it happens he’s awake. It’s nearly two in the morning and he’s still sitting on his bed, eyebrows crooked and frowning into the paperwork in his lap. The case is solved. They’re going home. To his right, Emily is laying in bed. He can feel her gaze on him.

He doesn’t say anything though and she’s found that to be just another example of the strangeness of this team. There’s no pressure to talk. No pressure to always say what’s on your mind.

Working with Interpol, she’d had more than her fair share of sexual harassment seminars. The men always act like they have no idea why they would be here while their female colleges are forced to lower their gazes. Not here, though. Not with this team.

She’d swapped rooms with Reid this afternoon. Morgan had convinced him to go to a bar and Reid had been kind enough to realize that she might not appreciate him coming back in the middle of the night. And… she’d realized how frequently she and JJ roomed with the boys and not one another. Technically, it should be safer and more comforting but…

Last night she’d come out of the shower without a bra and in shorts that were very revealing. Leaving little to the imagination. Yet, Morgan had looked up from whatever crappy program the hotel’s tv picked up and he hadn’t said a word. He didn’t look her up and down like meat at the deli or make a passing comment about her ass or boobs. He’d just yawned into his fist and asked if she was done with the bathroom because he felt nasty and needed a shower.

This afternoon when Reid had told her his plan-- that he should take her bed with Morgan and she could have his with Hotch-- she didn’t think it would be weird. And it isn’t now. A few years ago, though, on a different team, she would have freaked out a little. Thought of all the things that could wrong. Today, she’d just shrugged and took the deal.

Hotch doesn’t snore, Morgan does. Switching rooms sounds like heaven.

And now she’s falling asleep and he’s still awake. Technically, she’s leaving herself vulnerable to him but Hotch, like Morgan, is harmless. They’re both mushy bastards. He’s not going to bother her other than to, maybe, add a blanket to the one she’s already got wrapped around her shoulders.

She wears clothes that are comfortable, not worried about how much skin she’s showing because they’re not going to treat her differently because of that. For the first time in her life, her male friends aren’t perverts. She’s they’re equal. They’re friends and nothing more. There is no abuse of power or size. Just respect and that’s so strange.

At first, David Rossi throws them all a little off.

He’s a very flirt first and make friends second kind of guy.

When he joins the team, the three of them hoard up in Garcia’s office and discuss their opinions on him. One thing is very, very clear-- none of them want to ever room with him.

How very quickly that changes…

“Rossi?” Garcia’s standing outside his door, her blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders.

He comes to the door in his pajamas. A whole set. Bottoms and a white t-shirt. In the settling this afternoon, he’d ended up alone in his room. She’d called Morgan while Emily vehemently stated she would not be rooming with Reid. Hotch had been in the middle of rolling his eyes at the comment when JJ had taken some pity on the genius and told Hotch she didn’t mind rooming with him.

Which left two rooms for Hotch, Rossi, and Emily.

It was a lucky guess that Hotch and Emily would let Rossi have his own room.

“What is it, sweetheart?”

He was very obviously sleeping before she’d come knocking. She feels a little bad about that. “Morgan’s snoring up a storm,” she explains. “Do you mind if I crash in the other bed in your room?”

Rossi shakes his head and steps to the side, letting her in. “Course not,” he mumbles, shutting the door behind them. “Go for it,” he motions to the bed and rubs at his eyes. He sits heavily on the edge of the bed, yawning. He waits a moment for her to settle down. “Goodnight,” he mumbles, the sound of his sheets moving as he settles down sounding through the dark as he cuts the light off.

It doesn’t occur to her the way that it occurs to JJ or Emily.

One moment she’s drifting to sleep and the next she’s smiling at where she knows Rossi is in the dark. Her little team can be badasses, they really can, but they’re just a bunch of sweethearts.

They never find the words to say exactly what that means to them.

How comforting it actually is to have them close instead of awkward.

That Emily knows Hotch isn’t looking down her blouse when he silently walks up behind her and reads from the file in her hand. She just shifts it in her grasp so that he can see it easier.

Or that JJ isn’t creeped out when Morgan drinks from her mug or offers her his. In fact, she does drink after him. It’s just Morgan. He’s like her brother and, frankly, sometimes drinking/eating after one another is the only way to get things done.

They take it for granted a lot of the time.

That hugging their friends isn’t ever going to result in a slap on the ass or a casual glance at their breasts.

(although, other men have done it and earned prompt glares)

Not even Reid and his strange ability to place himself under-foot. Right next to whoever he’s standing beside.

It feels weird to want to thank them for something so simple. Hell, for something no one should have to feel but…

So they find other ways.

JJ kisses Hotch’s cheek and takes Morgan dancing. Even that doesn’t feel wrong because she knows neither will take it anyway but the way she means it to be taken. Morgan places his hands on her hips and it doesn’t feel dirty. It feels like friends having fun. Dave slow dances with them, and kisses their cheeks. Garcia manages to pull Hotch for a dance.

They have fun and never for a moment to feel anything but perfectly safe with their male friends. And what a unique experience that really is.

#criminal minds #jennifer jareua #emily prentiss #penelope garcia #aaron hotchner #spencer reid #david rossi #derek morgan

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lovelivingmydreams · 4 years

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My king au headcannon Part two

So this is the follow up to this post Which is a headcanon for this au created by @rondoel Enjoy!

Something to think about The king was meditating. He was trying to familiarize himself with the mindscape again, get a better feeling of it and see what his halves had done since the split. He was sorely disappointed. There were pages upon pages of ideas, but he found no evidence of them in the fantasy realm. No traces of the epic quests the ‘light’ half had envisioned, despite how well worked out they appeared. An ‘Ultimate Storytime’ should have left traces in the kingdom. Remus at least lived out his ideas even if they were only ever half formed and lacked substance beyond the initial impulse that brought them about. The results of these outbursts weren’t all that impressive either. He didn’t examine the ideas too closely. Obviously his perfectionistic half had abandoned them for a reason and so they weren’t worth his time. The one named Roman had spent some time in the fantasy realm, but he didn’t considered it his main duty. Instead he’d wasted time on crafting ‘ideas’ and ‘bonding’ with the others. Even the impulsive Remus had prioritized interacting with Deceit over expressing himself. Disgusting. Not that he could truly fault either of his halves. Other than his purpose every trace of him had been purged from their minds during the split. They hadn’t known to distrust the others the way he knew they should’ve. Obviously the others were to blame for all this.

As he thought of them he could feel his minister’s energy surging and subsiding in subtle burst and raging waves. One of Roman’s nickname for him ‘Stormy Knight’ seemed to suit the boy quite well at the moment. The minister was mostly alone, aside from morality. Someone had to babysit him he supposed. Suddenly he became aware of music… something strange yet familiar. “Disney. Medley.” A faint memory offered him. He remembered Disney. It was his aspiration to create worlds and adventures just as amazing for Thomas to escape to when the real world inevitably bored him. Clearly he hadn’t been gone long enough for that to change. Though he didn’t recognize the melody that was currently playing, even though he could tell that it wasn’t something obscure and nearly forgotten to Thomas. The entire imagination responded to the melody as if it was an old friend. Almost as if it was born here even. There were voices singing, a magnificent harmony. Powerful and foreboding. He followed the sound of the voices and soon saw a structure appear. As he approached he found it was a massive statue expertly carved from marble. Center stage stood a figure he recognized as Thomas holding his hands in front of him to form a heart. A brilliant smile on his face. It was heartwarming to see his boy like that. To Thomas’ left stood grown Morality with one arm thrown over his shoulder and another pulling the hooded side, Anxiety, his minister, into the group. The young side allowed it with a small smirk and gentle eyes directed at their protégé. On Thomas’ right stood Logic, a steady hand on the boy’s shoulder as he adjusted his glasses, which did not conceal the fond look on the man’s face. On Logic’s right stood Deceit, his back slightly turned to the rest and adjusting his hat, but also with a soft, caring expression gracing his features. Then right behind Thomas, standing slightly taller than they would have in reality, seemingly standing on a stage behind the group, but close enough to still be part of the ensemble, was him. Or the two sides that had been him for a while. Roman looked regal and was posing as though he had not a care in the world, his eyes proudly overseeing his subjects. Not minding the presence of Remus who was hanging of his ‘brother’s’ shoulders and making a face. It was an idyllic picture that never was and now never could be. There was beauty in it’s tragic impossibility. At the feet of the stone depictions were stone letters. Fam in cursive and then in big bold lines ILY. And leaning against the L was the minister, singing the song that had lured King away from his meditation. The shadows around him were aiding in his musical endeavor drifting around him and the statue. King took in the marvel once more, wondering how the nervous side had managed to create such a blessing with what should’ve been a cruel curse for at least a few more days before King would grant the young one his council and guidance. He hadn’t enjoyed being cruel to him. Not entirely. Sure, he had opposed creativity in the past and deserved to be disciplined. But king also knew how integral he was to the process. Roman’s discoveries regarding that weren’t lost to him. He couldn’t silence Anxiety completely. He would not get Thomas to go on adventures at all if he did so. But he had to teach him his place now, before he got any ideas of fighting him. The minister had been about to try just that and might have been successful too if he’d gone all out at once. But luckily he seemed unaware of his own abilities, or at least unwilling to use them on what he still thought to be the twins he’d known all his life. Alas he’d never get the opportunity again. “It all can be sold!” the shadows chorused around the teen-like side, captivating baby Morality with their movements as the little one clutched to the dark uniform and distracting King from his musings. “As a specimen yes I’m intimidating!” One voice continued, drifting around the side who was swaying to the music playing in his headphones with his eyes closed, holding onto Morality and then the dark clad side sang himself. “You can blame my friends on the ooootheeeer siiiiiiiiiide.” And just like that the shadows dispersed. Mostly anyway. They still swirled around the minister, but they were more of a dark aura than when they originally manifested. Anxiety seemed to be in better spirits than when he came to offer his ridiculous apology to Roman. King barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the memory. What a waste of time. Still it had been sincere, at least it seemed to be. And King wasn’t completely insensitive. He could understand that it would be hard for this young one to let go of his halves when he had never known them as one. Perhaps, King could cut him a little slack. Though he would have to remain vigilant… Hmmm, why did that word feel so odd when thinking about… Right, Virgil. Everyone had names now. Not that he cared much for those. Names were too… Names were for friends, allies. He didn’t need a name, nor did his subjects. Lest any of them forget who was in charge. King wouldn’t. Never again. The infant noticed that they were no longer alone in the room and tugged at Anxiety’s hair to get his attention. In response Thomas’ guardian pulled off his headphones and looked down at the heart. “What’s wrong popstar… or… Well, doesn’t really fit right now I guess,” Anxiety chuckled a little sadly. “Guess I’m more the dad now than you, huh?” he mused. “When this is all over, I promise I’ll never complain about you treating me like your kid again.” There was an uneasiness forming in King’s stomach. Anxiety was close with Morality, both Roman and Remus remembered that. But… how close was Morality with Anxiety? King knew that their ‘moral compass’ could be as two faced as Deceit. No, this could be part of an elaborate plan to gain his trust, he’d fallen for it once before. And of course they’d send Anxiety to do their dirty work now that all of them had already shown him their true colors. Little Morality pointed at King and Anxiety looked up, curious at first and then his eyes widened in fear. He put the child behind him and stood in a strange mixture of a respectful bow and a defensive stance. Arms slightly spread to shield his friend and head raised so he didn’t quite let his eyes leave King’s frame. “I…I’m sorry if I was too loud,” Anxiety offered with trembling voice, assuming he’d angered his king someway. Good. King approached, not sure if he was in the mood to scold or to praise just yet, but stopped about three steps in front of Anxiety as his foot hit something. He looked down and saw that the floor surrounding his minister was covered in sketches. He looked up at Anxiety with a raised brow, curious to hear what had brought on this little storm of creativity. And he found him staring at the sketches around them in horror. Then he seemingly felt the structure behind him, he turned and looked up in horror, trembling even harder. He looked back at King with wide eyes. “I…I didn’t mean to…” he started. “Then I look forward to see what you create for me when you intend to do so young one,” King mutters calmly, as he bids one of the drawings to come to his hand. As far as he can tell it’s two children playing in a forest. “Tell me about this one boy,” he instructs as he shows Anxiety the drawing. The side takes the sketch with a frown and looks at it for a moment before a small smile of recognition appears on his face. “I’d manifested for about two months. Remus felt it was about time I came on an adventure,” he starts explaining, and as he does the drawing rises up and gains colors and details that weren’t there before. Anxiety didn’t seem to notice, too captivated by his own memory as he described how freaked out he was by the forest and all its creepy creatures. Remus never let a single one touch him though. Still, it was stressful for him and he didn’t come along as often as Remus would like. The painting showed two preteens, Remus and Anxiety, the later clutching a comfort item, pillow or blanket, King wasn’t sure, maybe it was a stuffed animal. They were running around and laughing. But in their shadows Anxiety was curled up in a ball and Remus was making a gesture as if he’d just popped out and screamed ‘boo’. A lovely memory with a shadow side. But that was the nicest thing Anxiety could create with the power King had granted. Once the story was done and the painting finished, King snapped his fingers and conjured a dark wooden frame with a vine pattern around it and hung it on a non-existent wall. “I’m sorry, I know you said to get rid of the feelings, but I… I can’t… I always mess up like this please I…” Anxiety flinched when King reached out for him. Curling into himself, expecting another curse or some other punishment perhaps. Which is probably why his posture relaxed and his face was overcome with confused surprise when all he received was a brief pat on his hair. “You may not have gotten rid of those feelings but you did something even better,” King laid a hand on Anxiety’s shoulder and looked down on him. “You made something out of them. I am very pleased with you,” he informed his disciple. Anxiety looked up at him confused. “Really?” he asked, his voice breaking over the single word. Before King could answer, a displeased cooing pulled Anxiety’s attention away. He turned around and picked up the infant who immediately latched onto his neck and stared at King over his shoulder. Clearly the infant retained enough of Morality’s adult thoughts to be wary of him. Good it wouldn’t be a proper curse if the traitor wasn’t aware of the danger King posed to him and his precious family. King grinned menacingly at Morality, hoping it’d confirm the child’s worst fears about his intentions for who he apparently considered a son. What could be worse than agonizing over the fact that your sins would result in an innocent paying for them? For that innocent to be your child of course. “Please Pat, behave alright?” Anxiety muttered as he got up and turned back to the king. “Sorry… Your majesty. He’s a bit clingy,” the young man offered nervously. “Not your fault. I don’t quite understand why Logic and Deceit would leave the care for such a fussy child to their youngest.” Not quite true, King could perfectly see how they thought they had to concentrate on finding a weapon against him that they hadn’t tried already. But still. One would think that the two oldest should be in charge of protecting both their young ones, instead of letting them wander off into the territory of their enemy. If Anxiety had failed to entertain him with his tale, who knows what he would’ve done to amuse himself during this second visit? Maybe he’d put morality in a bit of a dilemma… He might still do so if he ever needed for Anxiety to see that his ‘dad’ didn’t love him as much as he always claimed. “Taking care of him keeps my mind occupied. I don’t want to give Thomas nightmares or anxiety attacks. He doesn’t deserve to suffer for our messes,” Anxiety explained. King might be mistaken, but that almost sounded accusatory. He elected to ignore it. Once his rule was properly reestablished, he could revisit the subject if at all necessary, which he doubted. “Well, creating art seems to do the trick just as well,” he mused as he called forth another picture. Anxiety guessed what he wanted, looked at the picture and started to talk about the movie night and a popcorn fight, then a duel with cardboard swords and laughing about memories of middle school. The colors once again revealed a pleasant day, with a shadow of self-doubt and fear of abandonment. The shadows showed Anxiety pleading on his knees while Roman threatened him with a sword. This time the frame King made was golden and held roses. “C…Can I ask something milord,” Anxiety asked timidly. “Questions are always welcomed in the realm of creativity,” King decreed. Questions created possibilities. “What happened? Before the split I mean? The other’s won’t ever tell me.” That surprised King. And from the way Morality stiffened, he had to assume it was the truth. They’d really not taken the chance to sway Anxiety’s opinion in their favor? For a moment he considers spinning a grand tale of betrayal and heartbreak, but he found the very thought of recalling the details of the events leading up to the split… unpleasant. “I trusted them and they turned against me because they disagreed with my vision for Thomas,” he informed Anxiety calmly, hoping it was enough for now. “I’m sorry. That… That is terrible,” he whispered hugging Morality closer. The young minister couldn’t see it but there were tears in Morality’s eyes. Which pleased King. Let the bespectacled traitor be afraid this may end up being the last hug he’ll ever receive from his precious Anxiety. Was this why they didn’t tell him? Because they knew that there was no spin they could give to their deeds that wouldn’t destroy the trust they’d built with the one among them who already feared being betrayed. “I… It was a long time ago. I think… Logan seemed very ashamed of what happened. Even Janus seems to feel bad. I’m sure… can’t we all…” Anxiety struggled to express his desires, but a new drawing showed what he wanted. King and Logic shaking hands amidst the others, all back to normal and smiling relieved. Faint shadows of Roman and Remus with an arm around one another’s shoulders right behind King. The fact that his minister’s powers had conjured it showed that the desire felt impossible. King dismissed this drawing in favor of another. Anxiety sighed, accepting that the subject was finished, and continued to regale him with stories of the twins. Sometimes it was a sad memory where the shadows revealed his care and worry for them both. Like a fight over a failed audition where shadow Anxiety was trying to patch up shadow Roman. Or a fight about a nightmare where the shadow of Anxiety was embracing Remus. Then memories of the other’s came. A debate about negative thoughts where shadow Logic laid a hand on shadow Anxiety’s shoulder as a gesture of pride. A staring match with Deceit but their shadows were reaching for each other. One memory had no shadows. The ‘lights’ were in Anxiety’s domain and reaching out for him as he sat huddled in on himself on the ground. The image was conflicted enough on it’s own. Then King picked up a drawing of Morality. “That’s the first time you came to talk to me remember Pat?” Virgil coed to the child who’d been rather quiet during the creation of this gallery. Anxiety recalled how he’d been upset about another fight with Roman and he’d come over and sat with him in silence. Then he’d offered him one of his cookies. It had surprised Anxiety, he knew how much Morality loved his cookies. Sharing one was his standard gesture of love and appreciation. But Anxiety felt like he didn’t deserve either at the time. He felt trapped in a role he didn’t want to play. And because of Morality talking to him that day, for the first time, he thought that maybe he didn’t have to be. Anxiety talked more about how the thought was quickly dismissed as unrealistic but King found that it was hard to focus. The colors revealed a painting of a side being offered a hand by Morality. He didn’t even notice the shadows this time. It was like he was trapped in his own memories. Then suddenly, he was back in the present and heard something beside him. A wailing child and someone gasping for air like they’d ran a marathon at full speed. He looked down and found Anxiety curled up in a ball, rocking back and forth with a crying Morality sitting next to him clutching onto his arm. Before he could wonder what had happened he could feel the others approaching at high speed. He stepped back, not wanting to be found too close to the distressed side. He could not allow them to think for even a moment, that he felt a second of worry for the minister. He didn’t, but he didn’t need the implications of such a show of weakness to bring his strength into question. “Patton! Virgil!” Deceit called out, causing Morality to calm down and just let out a few more sniffles. King set up a disinterested mask and turned to the approaching sides. “Oh good, deal with this. They bore me,” he drawled calmly as he stepped aside. He was barely acknowledged which he normally would take offense in, but he’d let it slide until he knew what had happened just now. And if it had anything to do with that terrible feeling that had struck him when he saw Anxiety’s drawing. Logic kneeled next to Anxiety and Deceit spoke with Logic’s voice. “Virgil, can you hear us?” The boy nodded. “May we touch you?” Another nod and Logic placed his hands on the side’s shoulders. “Breath Virgil, in for 4, hold for 7 out for 8, you can do it.” One more nod and the side started to follow the rhythm that was tapped on his shoulders, stuttering trough the 4th count of holding his breath. “That’s alright, try again.” King observed as the two patiently helped Anxiety to breathe normally again. Somewhere along the line the troubled side started to whisper ‘sorry,’ and ‘so stupid’. “You are not stupid, your feelings are valid and we are here to help you with them. We shouldn’t have left you on your own. Especially not with him around,” Deceit growled, now in his own voice, before turning to King. “I don’t care what you do to me, but leave Virgil out of this! He has nothing to do with this.” Before king could retort. Claim the responsibility and remind Deceit that he’ll play with his minister however he likes, the boy spoke up himself. “Not his fault. Just, random attack,” he muttered. Deceit and King looked down and found Anxiety holding onto Logic with Morality trying his best to stand on wobbly legs while holding onto the purple sash adorning the minster uniform. Logic and Morality were staring at him accusatory, but Anxiety was pleading with Deceit. “You don’t have to defend him Virgil. We know what he’s like… And we’ll do a better job at protecting you now. I swear. Let us look out for you for once, please,” Deceit pleaded. So interesting. For all Anxiety’s fears of being abandoned and betrayed, the others seemed to fear for his safety before their own. Had they changed? Or had Anxiety not yet given them sufficient reason to be muzzled? Or was it his drastic decision of muzzling himself that had made them cautious of messing with his part of their duties? “I’m not. Jan look at me. You’d know if I was lying. He was just listening to me. He didn’t do anything bad. I promise.” Deceit frowned confused. “He didn’t do this to harm you? To cause you to create…” Finally Deceit really looked at what King and Anxiety had been working on and the statue Anxiety had done all by himself. “Virgil what…” “I don’t know, I was listening to music and all this just sort of happened. His majesty was helping me finish some drawings,” he explained, confusing King. Was he… what’s the term? Covering for him? Then Anxiety got up, picking up Morality and looking at Logic who followed his movements, hands hovering around him. As if he were afraid that the younger side would fall apart at any moment. “Please, just go back alright, I’ll be fine. Thanks for helping but you should focus on making sure Thomas is alright,” Anxiety explained bravely, not quite looking at the others. Had recalling all his doubts and fears made him suspicious of the others? This could benefit King greatly. “Run along now. And take Morality. I have matters to discuss with my minister. In private,” King informed Logic and Deceit. Anxiety looked from King back to his tutor and confidant and offered him Morality. Logic shook his head with wide eyes. “Logan, it’s alright. You look after Pat for a minute. I’ll be back soon. Just… Please trust me?” Logic hesitated, sighed in defeat and took the child. He moved to leave, but paused. He turned and laid a hand on Anxiety’s shoulder, a moment passed while the two held each other’s gaze. Anxiety nodded and patted Logic’s hand. “I will be safe. When am I ever not?” Something that would have been a chuckle rippled through Logic’s chest as he stepped away and started walking back to the commons, glancing back every ten steps or so. “Virgil… I…” Deceit started, unable to finish the thought. “I know. I’ll be okay.” And with that final assurance and a distrustful look towards King the last of the traitors left. “Why?” King wondered. It seemed obvious to him that whatever Anxiety just went through was actually meant for him. And not only had he taken the hit, he had covered for him as well. “I’m anxiety, taking on the insecurities and fears of the others is part of my job. I don’t take it all, just the really bad bits when I can take it. And… it took me forever to open up to the others about my own attacks. It wasn’t my place to share about yours. It’s nothing personal. Just me being professional I guess,” he shrugged casually. King allowed himself a small smirk and once again reached out to pat Anxiety’s hair. Once more the boy’s first instinct was to flinch, but he still let him do as he pleased. “Well done my boy. You have potential,” he told him before returning his attention to another drawing, leaving the one of Morality frameless. Later he might tell the little one a bit more about the betrayal. But first. He needed to get to know him better. “Now how about this one.”Being petted like a dog was degrading, humiliating. Trying to not just be civil towards him but formal and respectful was torture. But it was better than what he feared would happen every time the King moved his hand towards him. Virgil didn’t like being changed against his will and this king would do as he pleased with him. Which is why he had to keep him happy and away from the others. He ignored the urge to smile every time he received the king’s praise. He is not going to develop Stockholm Syndrome just because off a few half-baked complements. This guy is still a threat to Thomas… Even if the others, maybe made a mistake in the past and have a hard time owning up to that right now. Fact remained that Virgil’s job was to keep everyone safe. That meant making them not want to decapitate the king over an anxiety attack he hadn’t triggered on purpose. Still… What had triggered the attack?

#Rondoel #king au #sanders sides #Virgil Sanders #king creativity #Patton Sanders #Logan Sanders #Janus Sanders

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pretty-face-breaker · 3 years

Text

Those Sunday Evenings

c.w. post-whipping, non-sexual nudity, being cuffed to a bed post, military whump, intimidation and abuse of power

Tagging: @straight-to-the-pain

——

It took a slim ray of sun striking between Emir’s eyes to wake him.

As he drew in his first full breath, his eyelashes fluttered, giving the mattress in front of him shape. Only a moment later did he become aware of the raw ache in his bare back and he gasped, breathing in the rough fibres of the blanket all at once. His body shook with a sneeze and as his hands went to shield the blanket, there only came an awful jerk and click.

Emir tugged again as his heart sank. Another click, reassuring that both his wrists were cuffed in place to the bedpost.

A rough voice pierced from behind. “Awake already I see.”

Emir jerked up and tried his best to turn around but could only manage to crane his neck far enough back to see what he assumed to be the General’s coat - a dull blue, almost entirely washed out. Is this what they think dresses the higher ranks well? The sardonic thought passed in a flash and he turned almost immediately, wary that the General may have read the insult in his eyes.

“Not even good morning?” Levkin leaned and set a hand on Emir’s shoulder, laughing deep in his throat when he tensed and shifted against the cuffs on cue. “Do not worry, I am not here to hurt you again. Only to let you out for now.”

The For now brought Emir’s fear rushing back as soon as it settled.

Levkin could have noticed the change in breathing, and if he did it would have only delighted him further. Keeping his promise, he grabbed Emir’s cuffs and unlocked them with two, three frustrated tugs when the gadget didn’t give immediately. Emir thought he heard him mutter “Piece of shit” under his breath as he undid them and threw them aside.

Emir could have laughed and quipped about Soviet equipment if his position wasn’t nearly as precarious.

“... If-... if I may be so bold, General,” Emir started, taking a second to gingerly rub over the red marks settled in his wrists, and cautious with his tone, “how long am I to?-”

A snapping interruption from the man came as if second nature. “Did you have your ears plugged when I told you? I said the barracks, boy.”

Emir gulped, regretting he hadn’t thought over the question before going ahead. It had always been a weakness, his mouth. Unless he wanted a repeat of the previous night where the whip had done away for close to half a merciless hour, skin bruised and hurting in stripes where each one felt like dull fire even now, he felt the ever increasing need to be cautious, cautious, cautious. The General had a temper, and one that he wouldn’t be able to tell from his face.

His face never changed.

“My apologies, sir,” he returned.

Caution. Atac.

He kept his eyes down as he stood and it was then that he fully realized just how bare he was, with his shirt gone and his pants only hanging off his hips. His face ignited with humiliation as he spun away. the resounding chuckles from the General making him want to sink further into the floor more than he had ever wanted to before.

Uncharacteristically, Levkin seemed to pity him for his state and grunted before handing him back a crumpled jacket that hung loosely from his thumb. Emir close to snatched it and slipped it on all at once, fumbling with the buttons and belt rapidly. That was when he noticed that two uniformed men were peaking through the door of the bedroom, one of whom had his arms tucked into the small of his back.

Pinned between all three, Emir’s breathing went shallower.

Levkin looked over to the corner that had caught Emir’s eye. “These two will be escorting you to the barracks. You will be issued your uniforms and then given further instructions.” He paused for a moment, letting Emir compose himself after the embarrassment and absorb the information again. “And once again, soldier…”

Emir glanced up, suddenly unsettled by how his voice sunk.

“You are under the Red Star. Krasnaya Zvezda. Is this understood?” He stepped forward, that same icy look swallowing his face whole so totally that Emir’s answer was spelled out before him. Each letter clear as day in those furrowed brows and icicle eyes tucked beneath them that held him in place. The General’s voice was thick with pride and order. “I want no problems from you, soldier, if you are even dignified of that title.”

Emir tensed at that final hiss. “Yes, sir. Yes-... I- I understand.” He couldn’t tell if Levkin had beckoned in the men standing at the door already but they were entering and heading for him, both a good foot taller than himself-both with batons. His fingers curled into his fists, catching sight of them and a phantom pain shot through his ribs at the crawling memory of the guard with the hunch.

“Don’t think they will ever save you.” That guard had told him and he hadn’t believed it at first.

He was led out of the bedroom, through the home, and outside where snow lightly drifted through the sky, the soundless kind he liked to watch sometimes with a sahlab on the window sill from which he would take little spoonfuls. His sisters in the background would often quarrel over who’s had more seeds. It would always be early evening, similar to this one.

Similar and not at all the same. Those Sunday evenings.

Emir ducked his head to climb into the backseat of the car with one of the men, not caring to make a distinction as they looked close to identical. They didn’t speak for much of the drive and for that, he was deeply grateful. He could watch the snow in silence, ignoring the quiet rumble of the engine.

Somewhere halfway through the trip, he felt that one of the men’s breathing had changed direction and particularly in his own. Though each second that he compelled himself to ignore it, his nerves ground together more and more until he eventually glanced back and met the man.

He was curiously peeking down through the shadow of the black ushanka and his eyes didn’t seem… as hard anymore. Although granted, he hadn’t looked at them even in Levkin’s house. Neither of them.

“A soldier in that house personally invited by Stas, no less?” he asked with a hint of a smirk. His voice was modulated albeit heavy with an accent and in an undertone, as if he didn’t want the driver to hear. “How did that happen, huh soldier?”

Emir looked from his fur hat to the window behind him, the passing trees and how they blurred together so familiarly on the path, just as they had on those Sunday evenings. Almost forgot to answer the question, lost in the trance of the rushing trees.

“Not a soldier,” he responded honestly and upon seeing the curious prick of his eyebrows, probably at his own accent, added in a softer tone. “Just an-... an addition.”

—

#whump #whump writing #whump drabble #military whump #war whump #ussr #cold war #nonsexual nudity #cuffed #restrained #aftermath of torture #abuse of power #captive whumpee #whumper

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florenceandthemachine · 3 years

Text

hear your heartbeat

happy birthday to the incomparable @elisela!!! just for you, please enjoy a good fake-dating au with plenty of idiotic and family members abound.

12.5k - on Ao3

—————

“I’m telling you, Scotty. New York has been good to me. Maybe we should just renounce California and stay here for the summer.”

“Don’t joke about that, dude.”

Stiles laughed as he shouldered his phone, taking in the city air as he strolled along the streets of Manhattan.

Needless to say, Manhattan was far from home—while the city certainly was his vibe, Stiles was no stranger to tamping down the champagne tastes that clashed with his tapwater budget. The little shitbox apartment he got through NYU’s housing program was almost a thirty minute train ride from school, but Stiles figured that when he was more or less trapped on campus for nearly fifty hours a week, he could justify spending his breaks wandering the streets of Manhattan and really taking in the city.

On today’s agenda, Stiles was looking forward to wandering around a farmers market that literally stretched on for city blocks. There were fruits and vegetables literally as far as the eye could see, spices and roots and mysterious tubers of all shapes and size, but Stiles didn’t give a flying fuck about the food—his real interest were the vendors and the shoppers.

He had learned early on that open air markets like this were perfect meeting grounds for mythical beasts of all shapes and sizes, so, what better palace for him to do some… field work, so to speak?

There were nymphs who had full bouquets of beautiful flowers that lived suspiciously long in their vases as long as you complimented the blooms on a regular basis. Dryads who sold the most delicious fruit he had ever tasted, even if they charged six bucks for a pear.

Stiles had learned early on to avoid the fae—basically, any stand that sold crystal or metalcraft. His first time at the market, he had somehow wound up spending nearly four hundred dollars on quartz; the moment the money had left his hand, the stall had all but vanished in front of him.

“The people are good here. They’re fast. Blunt. Sarcastic. My kind of people.”

“Uh huh.”

Scott liked to call their whole situation lucky.

When Stiles applied to NYU’s doctorate program, he expected rounds and rounds of interviews, lists of deadlines he needed to memorize, and some less-than-subtle digs at his proposed field of study (which was fair, honestly—he knew that criminology and mythology rarely mixed).

What he didn’t expect was Scott, though, the bro of all bros. When Stiles told him he was applying to NYU, Scott had cheered him on, helped him prepare, and then immediately applied to different veterinary positions through the state.

(Scott was golden, obviously—he had years of training, letters of recommendation from everyone he had ever met, and him being a werewolf basically made him the animal whisperer.)

At the end of the day, Stiles got to pursue his passion thanks to a hodgepodge of grants at NYU, and Scott was awarded a fellowship in veterinary medicine through the Bronx Zoo. What kind of weird twist of luck would let the best friends wind up together across the country like that?

So, yeah, Scott called it luck.

Stiles called it karmic retribution for their supremely fucked-up years at Beacon Hills High, but even he could admit that ‘luck’ sounded nicer... and if Stiles was being honest, ‘luck’ was definitely the best way to classify his meeting Derek Hale.

Derek Hale was smart, he was sarcastic, and he could go toe-to-toe with Stiles over completely obscure things for literal hours. He was a first-year professor at NYU, who had the tiny office right next to the broom closet Stiles had managed to shove PHD desk into, and he was probably the only other person in the program that took mythology seriously (meaning he was the only person who didn’t make Stiles want to put his head through the wall).

He was also hot as fuck, but that was beside the point. Stiles had a little bit of a massive crush, but that was also beside the point.

They had built up a fast friendship based on a series of arguments about the Necronomicon, of all things, and Stiles loved the thought of being friends with someone who didn’t know him as the weird kid in high school who knew way too much about ritual sacrifice and circumcision.

He had evened out a lot through undergrad. He was still awkward, sure, but he was awkward with a refillable prescription for Adderall and some sort of brain-to-mouth filter.

(Honestly, the fact that Stiles had managed to avoid making a single joke about the werewolf who was stuck teaching Mythology 101 really did speak volumes to his newfound maturity.)

Speaking of Derek, though…

“Stiles! Hey, Stiles!”

Stiles almost jumped a foot in the air as he heard his name called, doing a spectacular near-drop-mid-air-catch of his phone as he regained his footing, turning on the spot to see a taller woman with jet black hair waving him over.

She was… okay, she was gorgeous—dark hair, smooth skin, someone who looked like she just stepped out of one of the windows on Fifth Avenue—but Stiles was decently distracted, because standing beside her was Derek Hale, the object of his extremely private affection for the past few months. Who, for whatever reason, was standing there looking like he wanted the sidewalk to open up and swallow him whole.

“Scotty, I’ll see you tonight, yeah? I gotta go.”

Stiles pocketed his phone as he cautiously made his way over to the pair—trio, he corrected, because there was another woman with them, looking incredibly more invested in the conversation now that another party was joining them.

He hiked his canvas a bit higher up as he smiled, trying to remember where he had seen the two before… students, maybe, but if that were the case, they would know Derek, not Stiles. They weren’t faculty members, he was sure of that. Donors to the program, maybe?

Well, if they were donors, Stiles sincerely hoped that Derek would have tried harder to wear literally any expression other than his current ‘bitter and miserable’.

And if they were donors, why were they so fucking happy to see him?

“I’m Laura. This is Cora.”

The taller of the two women extended her hand confidently as Stiles got within arms reach, and he instinctively reached out to take it, Cora following suit. “Derek has told us all about you. I have to say, I figured there was at least a ten percent chance you were made up, but… here you are!”

“Here I am!” Stiles was officially lost, but he kept his smile up, cheeks pinking up a little bit as he turned back to Derek. “You’ve been talking about me?” he asked, his voice on the line between flattered and teasing, nudging Derek playfully as he tilted his head.

“Stiles, I—“

“Of course he has! Derek’s a private guy, sure, but you can’t be surprised he told us about his new—“

“Laura—”

“Lord, Derek, calm down. You already had your big bisexual awakening, I’m allowed to be excited to meet your first boyfriend.” Laura shot back, her glare rivaling Derek’s absolute best ‘listen to teacher’ look, and Stiles could see the muscle in his jaw start to twitch. He probably would have done something, but… he was basically short circuiting, brain trying to keep up with whatever the fuck Laura had said, because Derek now had his arm around Stiles’ waist.

Derek had a big bisexual awakening?

And a boyfriend, apparently?

How had Stiles missed that??

“Stiles, these are my sisters, Laura and Cora Hale.”

Okay, great, they were Derek’s sisters. Stiles didn’t even know that Derek had sisters, which was a little sad if he thought about it.

Thankfully, he didn’t have long to think about it, because Derek—

“This is Stiles, my… my boyfriend. Now stop bombarding him. Give him half a fucking second before you go a thousand miles an hour.”

Oh—oh God. Stiles was the boyfriend.

He had seriously missed something, then—he didn’t think he had confessed his feelings for Derek anytime recently, or he probably would have died from embarrassment. Scott was really good at hiding his phone when he was drinking, which ruled that entire scenario out. Stiles could be forgetful at times, sure, but he thought he would remember if he had managed to score himself a boyfriend.

He looked up at Derek, trying to ignore the sudden burn of contact where their bodies were pressed together, but his brain was extremely focused the moment that he caught the look on Derek’s face, there and gone in a flash. He felt the hand squeeze at his waist, and the message was clear enough.

Please.

Ah, well. Stiles was always good at bullshitting, and this was no exception.

“No, no, Der, it’s fine! It’s good to meet you both, sorry, I wasn’t even expecting to see Derek until… uh, later, let alone meet anyone new,” Stiles said, his voice 100% betraying his nerves as it picked up an octave.

Laura’s voice was much more evenly toned, even if it was a little teasing. “Oh? You two have big plans tonight? We aren’t interrupting anything, are we?” she said with a grin, giving the distinct impression that even if they were interrupting, she and her sister wouldn’t be leaving until they were good and ready. Stiles felt his mind kick into overdrive, waving the question aside.

“Oh, nothing like that. We were going to meet up with my friend Scott for dinner, introducing the boyfriend to the best friend, you know how it is,” he continued, hoping his little chuckle wasn’t too terribly fake as he reached up to pat the lapels of Derek’s jacket, letting his fingers linger a little too long on Derek’s chest as he nodded.

He hoped that she knew how it was. Hell, Stiles didn’t even know how it was. He hadn’t exactly been rolling in romance since moving across the country.

“Well, if you say so,” Laura mused, raising a perfect brow, head tilted to the side. “You look like you’re about to pass out, Stiles. You alright?”

And, okay, Stiles knew enough to know what that meant. It meant that her super-sonic ears could hear his heart trying to break through his ribs with a staccato beat, typically a tell-tale sign that someone was lying, but… maybe he could work that to his advantage. He swallowed, voice a little tight as he laughed, waving the concern away.

“Sorry, I just wasn't… planning on meeting the family today,” Stiles said, probably the most truthful thing he had ever said. “Usually I’d try to prepare a little more, you know, make sure I’m wearing something nice and avoid putting my entire foot in my mouth. Maybe just a toe or two,” he said, relaxing minutely as Cora snorted from her position near Laura’s elbow.

Okay, so self depreciation was a good way to avoid suspicion with all the Hales. Got it.

“Well, if you both have plans, I’ll make this quick,” Laura said, her voice deceptively charming as she sidled up next to Stiles, though he certainly wasn’t going to complain about the way Derek’s hand tightened around his waist. “The semester is up soon, what are your plans this summer? Never mind, move them back. We’re having a family reunion the week after finals, and everyone is dying to meet baby brother Derek’s new boo after all the stories he’s told.”

…stories?

He looked up to Derek again, who was now blushing up to the tips of his ears, which—okay, cute—but which told him absolutely nothing and offered him exactly zero defense.

“Actually, I already have a flight booked as soon as my spring contract is up. Heading back to Beacon Hills for a few days, and—“

“Wait, did Derek already invite you?” Laura asked, her expression pleasantly surprised, and Stiles was speechless for a half second before Derek stepped in.

“No, I didn’t invite him because I’m not even going, Laura. Besides, he has his own plans with his own family,” he said, and Stiles blinked as he tried to keep up. “And what do you mean, they’re excited to meet him? I was very clear that the further I can keep him away from you and Mom, the better.”

Laura only rose a brow as she turned back to Cora, who took a beat before looking up from her phone, her expression halfway guilty as she clutched the device. “I uh—I may have just sent a picture of you two to the family group chat.”

Stiles choked on a laugh as Derek gasped—actually gasped—and pulled his phone from his pocket, making the mistake of releasing Stiles’ shoulder to unlock the device, looking absolutely scandalized as he glared at Cora.

It wasn’t long before Stiles had a similar look on his face, though, as Laura took advantage of his free arm, linking her own with his as she started to walk. “Alright, Stiles, here’s the deal.”

“Cora, you little—hey! Laura, get back here with my boyfriend!”

“Calm down little brother, the adults are talking.”

“He’s younger than I am!”

“So, Stiles, like I was saying,” Laura started, oblivious or ignorant to the way Stiles' mind had absolutely reeled when Derek had called him his boyfriend for the second time. “Derek hasn’t been home for more than a day visit since he moved out to this dump, and no one has raised a stink about it in years. This year, though, is… important,” she started, and Stiles nodded idly as he mentally ran through the calendar in his head.

The semester was over in just over a week, with finals crammed into three days after that, and then—oh, the full moon.

No, Stiles corrected himself, the blue moon. The first blue moon in May in probably… thirty years, if he had to guess. He nodded up to Laura as that clicked into place, a flicker of curiosity crossing over her face as she continued talking.

“We won’t take up that much of your time—it’s only like two events, I promise, and I also promise Derek will personally take care of whatever flight changes you have to make so you can still get some time with your family. After all, it’s not your fault my bonehead brother tried to exclude you until now.”

“I’m not a bonehead!” Derek said, his tone of voice just exasperated enough that Stiles sighed, carefully extracting himself from Laura’s grasp as they slowed to a stop near the curb of Fifth Avenue, the noise from the farmers market blending in with the sound of traffic as he turned back to Derek.

“Alright, hang on, hold up,” Stiles started, his tone firm enough to stop the three wolves in their tracks, Derek and Laura wearing matching expressions of surprise as they stopped in their tracks—even Cora was peeking over her phone, clearly interested, and Stiles couldn’t blame them. It had probably been a long time since either of them had been stopped by a human.

“Laura, Derek is not a bonehead. He’s smart, and he’s sweet, and he’s very kind, and it’s okay that he’s a little more private. Yeah, he’s also a stubborn asshole, but… well, that’s one of the reasons I like him so much,” Stiles said, the first genuine smile in the entire conversation gracing his face as he looked at Derek again. “But you know your brother. Did you really think that catching him off guard across the country in person was going to be the best way to convince him to visit?”

He was fine taking their silence as an answer, honestly.

“Now, Derek, that being said, I… if you are comfortable with it, I can rearrange my plans and come down with you. If you’re not comfortable with that, that’s okay too. Meeting the family—at least, the rest of the family—is a very big step,” he continued, his words very pointed.

(Yes, Derek, meeting the family would be a very big step for someone you weren’t even dating, please pick up on the subliminal messaging here.)

“But even if you’re not comfortable with me being there, I think you should still go down. I’ll get to spend plenty of time with my dad, you shouldn’t have to be all alone up here while I’m gone.”

Moving to smooth over the lapels on Derek’s jacket again, Stiles only barely tampered down a noise of surprise as Derek intercepted his hands, pleasantly shocked by how easily Derek’s warm, smooth fingers slipped between his own lanky digits.

Stiles felt his cheeks pinks up as he cleared his throat, doing his best to act normal, because he was… well, he wasn’t lying. He had absolutely thought about Derek being alone here in New York while Stiles was gone, but that was more in the sense that Stiles would miss him.

He just didn’t know that Derek might be missing some family, too.

Besides, he may not have known that much about the intricacies of a normal, family pack, but Stiles knew enough to know that a big event like this would probably be good for Derek, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

Even if Derek was going to reject his offer and go down alone.

…because Derek was going to reject him.

Derek was going to reject him, right?

Stiles had been fairly sure of that when he offered, but judging by the way Derek couldn’t meet his eyes after something as simple as holding hands, Stiles might have just fucked himself over. Derek opened and closed his mouth twice before he finally let out a huff of air and looked up, doing a remarkably good impression of a guilty animal as he looked at Stiles.

“…you’re sure you don’t mind?”

Fuck.

“Derek, I wouldn’t have offered if I minded,” Stiles said, and that much was at least true—but before he could say anything else, Laura was squealing in his ear, wrapping both of them up in a hug so tight Stiles almost had to remind her that he was human, but he was able to breathe again as the car next to the curb chirped.

“Thank God, Stiles, thank you for getting through to him! Oh, Nana is gonna flip out when she hears who’s coming—Derek, you know you’ve always been her favorite—Stiles, do you have any dietary restrictions? Derek, send me his number, and—no, Cora, you are not driving us back to the airport, move your ass—“

Stiles looked up to Derek, his expression somewhere between bemused and fearful as Laura rambled on, but… well, the apologetic look that Derek had on his face wasn’t much reassurance.

“—and Stiles, you’re going to love Beacon Hills. Bye boys! See you in two weeks!”

Stiles was left, partially shellshocked as Derek’s hand slipped from his own, the need for the facade no longer essential as the shiny silver rental car pulled into traffic.

“… Derek, since when the fuck are you from Beacon Hills?”

—————

“Scotty, stop laughing, this isn’t funny.”

“Dude, are you kidding me? This is hilarious.”

Stiles groaned as he shoved another slice of pizza into his mouth, ignoring the burning sensation that spread across his tongue as he tried to pack as much melted cheese as he could into one bite.

Scott’s apartment had been their go-to for the entire time he and Stiles had been in the city—not because it was huge and glamorous, not by any means, but Scott’s shoebox had a door between the bathroom and the living room, and therefore it was the best place for bro-time by default.

Stiles had loudly complained about the entire situation when he and Derek showed up on Scott’s stoop, firmly planting himself in his favorite of Scott’s chairs—the ‘old man’ recliner next to Scott’s little television, the game on screen forgotten as he recalled their harrowed tale.

“Stiles, if you weren’t comfortable with it, why even… okay, no, don’t you dare answer me until you swallow,” Derek snapped, and Stiles rolled his eyes as he swallowed a few times, sticking his tongue out at Derek once his mouth was empty.

“Good. Thank you for pretending to be an adult. Now, why did you even offer if it wasn’t something you were comfortable with.”

Because it was supposed to just be a gesture, Derek. Because I didn’t realize you would take it as a serious offer, Derek. Because you were supposed to say no, Derek.

… because I didn’t want you to be alone, Derek.

Honestly, as surprised as Stiles was that Derek took him up on his poorly-timed moment of goodness, he was even more surprised that after Laura drove off, when he numbly asked if Derek wanted to come over to Scott’s for some pizza, Derek actually said yes.

Derek Hale was being social. Alert the media.

(Well… maybe ‘social’ was stretching it a bit—Stiles didn’t know if it was a territory thing or what, but Derek had turned hilariously, awkwardly stiff the moment he stepped inside Scott’s apartment.)

“I offered because I’m nice, dick, but don’t even think that you can turn this on me. Derek, they knew my name. They knew what I looked like. And yeah, I mean, I’m a complete catch and all—oh fuck off, Scotty—but what in the actual, literal fuck?”

Stiles didn’t think it was possible, but somehow Derek got even more tense, shoulders tightening up toward his ears as he looked down. It took a moment before he answered, but Stiles knew by then that Derek usually had to… wind himself up to talk about some things.

“My mother lives on the opposite end of the country, and even then, she still managed to set up twenty four blind dates for me last year. Twenty four, Stiles. That’s basically one every other week. Do you have any idea how much small talk that is? And how much I hate small talk?”

Yes, Stiles thought, to both of those questions. He would never admit this out loud, of course, but thinking about one of the most intensely private people that he knew stuck at some shitty little coffee shop trying to chat with some random female on behalf of his mother was hilarious to a degree he couldn’t fathom.

It definitely wasn’t a redirection of his own… personal feelings that may or may not be directed at Derek. Not at all. Nope.

“So, around the time the spring semester started, when my mother let slide that she had passed along my number to yet another perfectly eligible barista, or something, I panicked and told her I had a boyfriend. And then she asked for a photo, and the most recent one on my phone was that selfie you sent miming your own death in the stacks, so…”

“Oh fuck, Derek,” Stiles started, downing the last of his beer. “Your big bisexual awakening wasn’t just you trying to get out of your mom setting you up on dates, right?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, ass,” Derek said, rolling his eyes as he shook his head. “The two events were completely separate.”

Stiles laughed at the thought, but even then, his mind was reeling. If this wasn’t a recent discovery, how in the fuck did Stiles miss that for so long?

“Well, you’re lucky Scotty and I had a flight booked anyway. I won’t let you face them alone, not when you have a picture perfect boyfriend to show off now—what role should I take on? Doting, love struck fool? Rebel without a care? Some sad forlorn loser who… okay, no, that one is too close to home.”

Scott stood up and laughed as Derek glared at Stiles again, but it didn’t take a genius to see the tiny smile on his face, or the way his shoulders eased as he leaned back into the couch.

“Alright, this is getting too intense a conversation while the game is on. Want another beer, Stiles? You, Derek?”

Stiles made a vaguely affirming noise as he wove his hand in Scott’s direction, eyes drawn back to Derek yet again as the other wolf politely declined, his own attention affixed to the television as the game picked back up.

Derek was… not a particularly expressive person, Stiles knew, and part of that was because Derek had what Stiles affectionately called ‘resting grumpy face’; at least, he did privately, because the one time he said it out loud Derek had thrown the Encyclopaedia of Demomorgons at his head.

So, to the outsider looking in, Derek might have just seemed uninterested in the game; but Stiles had been watching Derek work for the better part of a semester, and he knew perfectly well how to tell when Derek’s resting grumpy face formed an actual frown. Which it did. Because apparently, the Mets had personally offended him.

“I’m sorry, are you seriously glaring at the Mets? While they’re winning?”

Derek leveled Stiles with the most unimpressed glare he could as Scott laughed from his kitchen, walking back into the living room with two beers. “God, I hope he was. It would be nice to have someone with taste in the apartment for once.”

“Scotty!” Stiles gasped, clutching his heart as Scott handed him a beer, extending the claw on his thumb to pop the top off before he handed the bottle over. “The Mets are a treasure, okay? If God lived in New York, she’d be a Mets fan. I have suffered much for my Mets in my lifetime, and they—woah, Derek, you okay?”

Stiles’ charming cliches would have to wait, because when he looked over to Derek, his humor dropped immediately. Derek had gone white as a sheet, jaw slack as he stared at the beer in Stiles’ hand.

He stared back and forth between Scott and Derek, trying to figure what the hell had just happened; it wasn’t until he watched Scott pop the top off of his own beer, looking between the two of them, did Stiles put two and two together.

“Derek, you… you had to know that Scott was a were, right? Like, you had to. He—Scotty doesn’t do subtle.”

“Me?! Stiles, you called me a wet dog for like a month after I fell into the Hudson.”

Derek let out a sort of choked noise as he shut his mouth, coming back into himself as a bit of pink dusted his pale cheeks, hands moving in front of his face. “Of—of course I knew, but—you knew?!”

“Dude, I’m studying mythical lore and criminology. I’m the one who taught this furry fucker how to control himself. Of course I knew, I... oh my god. You didn’t know that I knew—uh, that I know.”

Matching looks of realization dawned on Scott and Stiles’ face as Stiles stood up, putting the beer down on the coffee table. He moved next to Derek as he sat down on the couch, keeping his movement slow, reaching out to pat Derek’s leg like he was a frail old lady.

“Derek, I know.”

After what felt like an age and a half, Derek melted into the couch, a huge sigh leaving his lips as all the tension in his body bled out like a string had been cut, burying his head in his hands.

“We’ve had arguments about wolves in pop culture. I’ve offered to help you out with your coursework every full moon for, like, the entire semester. Dude, you had to know that I knew, there’s no way I didn’t—Derek!” Stiles felt his giddy laughter bubble over as Derek shot him a red-eyed glare through his fingers, his scowl somehow less intimidating now that everything was out in the open.

Okay, Derek wasn’t just a wolf, he was an alpha. That was… interesting.

“God, you two really are perfect fake boyfriends. Two halves of a whole idiot. Derek, are you sure you don’t want a beer? Or maybe something stronger, if you have to deal with Stiles?” Scott said easily, laughing as Stiles immediately protested, though the way Stiles eased himself next to Derek wasn’t exactly subtle, either.

—————

Scott may have been joking, but by the time finals had come and gone, Stiles had accepted the fact that he would have to forgo booze and opt for a mainline of caffeine to keep up with Derek. How one person remained so meticulously organized, Stiles would never know—but in the amount of time it took for Stiles to wrap up his grant work for the semester, Derek had given four exams, proctored three more, cleaned out his office, and shared the updated flight itinerary with Stiles.

“Wait, wait, hang on,” Stiles had said, tripping over an empty box in his tiny office as Derek handed him his updated boarding pass. “Why do we have to change our flights? Scott and I are already booked, you can probably just join us, right?”

Derek rose a perfectly sculpted brow as he tapped the ticket again, shaking his head. “Hey, I promised you’d spend as few days as possible with my family, and I intend to keep that promise. The sooner we get in, the sooner we start that clock, the sooner you get to spend the rest your time with your dad.”

Stiles blinked as he looked down to the itinerary, eyes scanning over the earlier time—and it was non-stop too. That would be a bit killer on the legs, but Stiles could handle that, maybe he could take some time to sleep or pester Derek for...

“Uh, Derek... this ticket is for first class.”

“I know, Stiles, I booked it.”

“Dude, there’s a reason Scott and I booked an economy ticket with a layover in Bismarck. There’s no way I can pay you back for this.”

If looks could kill, Stiles would be... maybe not dead, but at least set on fire. Derek sighed, as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders as he rolled his eyes.

“You’re not paying me back, dumbass. You’re already doing a ton for me with this little... charade, the least I can do is make sure your frail human body—“

“Hey!”

”—is comfortable in a lie flat seat.”

“Look, I appreciate that, but I’m not leaving Scott alone on his flight in coach just because of our... fake... whatever.”

Stiles’ voice trailed off in curiosity as Derek sighed, his cheeks pink as he pulled the paper out of Stiles’ hand, pointing to the second half of the sheet—where MCCALL, SCOTT had been printed in big, bold letters, that Stiles had completely ignored.

“... you got Scott a ticket too?”

“Of course I did. He’s your best friend, I wasn’t going to ask you to leave him behind just for me. Besides, who do you think I got your information from to book the flight?” Derek said dryly, as though his deadpan delivery could cancel out the ruddy color to his cheeks, or the way that Stiles’ stomach flip flopped when the reality of that sunk in.

It was nice that Derek acknowledged the importance of their friendship, in the way that tugged at the little space right beneath his sternum, but something about the way Derek so quickly dismissed himself was... concerning.

Stiles couldn’t help but play that little bit of their conversation over in his head as he packed, as he hopped on the train, as he met up with Scott and Derek in security.

Scott, bless his heart, was absolutely elated—his excitement was almost tangible as they dropped off luggage, walked through security, and stood around at the boarding gate. Derek had to smack the both of them to get them to stand up when first class was called to board, and Stiles idly wondered if Derek regretted associating himself with them when he and Scott managed to trip in sync as they went down the jetway.

Derek and Stiles were seated together, of course, and once Stiles got over the novelty of not having a middle seat on a plane, he liked to imagine he fit right in—easing back into the seat, enjoying the comfort of the little blanket he had been given, grinning at the flight attendant as she checked in with them.

(Scott was one row ahead and across the aisle, close enough that Stiles could lean forward and smack him if he wanted to... but the moment Stiles saw his seat mate, a pretty woman with dark hair and impeccable eyeliner, he knew his best bro would be on a different planet for the entirety of the flight.)

His grin slipped a little bit, though, as he thought back to the conversation surrounding the tickets, and he looked up to Derek as he settled in a bit further.

“So, we never went over what role I should be taking on.”

“Stiles, just be yourself. You’re funny enough, and you generally mean well, they’ll love who you are.”

Yeah… who he was. Well, who he was was someone who was going to be dangerously invested in a fake relationship that would probably end terribly for him, so that was fun. He sighed as he settled into the seat, opening and closing his mouth a few times as he debated on where to go from here.

No time like a non stop plane ride to have a potentially awkward conversation, right?

“Dude, we’re friends, right?”

“We’re fake boyfriends, don’t call me dude.”

Derek’s tone was teasing as he flipped through his SkyMall, a small smile on his face, and Stiles felt a little bit of the tension ease out of his shoulders as he buckled in.

“First of all, I have called many boyfriends ‘dude’ before,” Stiles started, ignoring Derek’s snort of laughter, “and I’m being serious. We... we are friends, right?”

Be it his words or his awkward energy, Derek looked up, surprise on his face as he closed the magazine and stowed it away as the plane bumped down the taxiway.

“Of course we are, Stiles. You’re like... the only person I talk to at work outside of teaching, that’s light years ahead of most of New York as a whole.”

“I mean, I’m glad to hear, I just...” Stiles chewed on his lip as he turned in his seat, weirdly soothed by the roar of the engines as the takeoff roll started. “You know about my dad, and about my school, and about Scott, and those are basically the three important things in my life,” he started, letting out a sigh as Derek just stared at him blankly.

“It’s fine that you’re a private person, I can respect that... seriously, I may not understand it, but I can respect it,” Stiles said, grinning as Derek shot him a look, lowering his voice again as he leaned over the divider between them. “But I didn’t know that you were from my hometown, too. Or that you had sisters, let alone other family. I should have asked, I guess, but... you know you can talk to me about things, yeah? Even after all this is over, you’ll always be Derek to me. Not just another Hale.”

Stiles’ was smiling as he gently bumped Derek’s shoulder with his own, watching the way different emotions warred over his face, biting back on the urge to babble on so he could give Derek the time he needed to respond.

“We’re... we are friends, Stiles. We are.” Derek insisted, looking down to his linked hands as the plane continued to rise. “Sometimes, I just... I’m not great about talking about myself.”

For a while, Stiles thought that was all he was going to get, and honestly, he was fine with it—it wasn’t until the fasten seatbelt sign chimed off and the flight attendants passed out little bottles of water that Derek spoke again, his voice low as he cleared his throat.

“My family is huge. Like, big enough that we need spreadsheets and flowcharts to organize family events like this. I know they love me, and I love them too, of course I do, but I made some really, really stupid decisions when I was younger… I know they forgave me for it, but...”

Derek sighed, taking a deep breath as he ran his hands through his hair.

“Sometimes it’s hard to be around them and still be okay with myself, you know?”

No, Stiles didn’t know. He only had his dad and Scott growing up, but he nodded his head encouragingly as he took a sip of his water.

“I actually have four siblings. Mark is the oldest, and then Taylor, and I’m right between Laura and Cora. They’re betas, like my dad; my mom and I are both alphas, her mom, too…” Derek continued, and Stiles smiled as he settled into his seat.

By the time the flight landed, Stiles’ head was full to the brim with Hale family trivia, names, faces, teasing stories, and the warmth that had danced across Stiles’ chest for the past year or so had bloomed into a full-on fire.

Would it lead to his downfall? Probably.

But when he saw how Derek smiled when he remembered Mark’s graduating medical school, or heard the pride in his voice when he talked about Laura’s charity work, and the genuine joy he got to see when he heard another story about Derek’s childhood… well, that was all more than worth it.

—————

“I think you should kiss me.”

Stiles had to stop himself from laughing at the look that Derek shot him, doing his best to keep his body language casual as he leaned against the gas pump at a tiny station outside of Beacon Hills, though he knew his heart was going at about a million miles a minute.

“I—you—what?”

“Derek, I’m an affectionate dude, in case you couldn’t tell from all the hand holding. And if you’re going to freak out if I kiss your cheek, then you should freak out now, not when we’re in front of your family.”

Stiles knew full well his heart betrayed his confidence, but seeing Derek’s ears go pink as he dumped the armful of snacks Stiles had asked for into the back seat was a welcome sight—it was always nice to know that Derek’s cool and controlled exterior could be ruffled up once in a while.

Somewhere between the rental kiosk and the gas station, Stiles had decided that he was going to go all in on this. His little crush was already stuck right in the back of his throat and would be unlikely to dislodge any time soon, so he figured that indulging himself in the fake relationship Derek had set up for him… well, it wouldn’t do any good, but it was unlikely to make things worse for him than it already was.

It was a little weird being alone with Derek—Stiles didn’t realize it until now, but between meeting Derek’s sisters and meeting the rest of their family, this was the first time they had been alone together. They had other staff members at school, or strangers around the city, or Scott (who had politely declined a ride back to Beacon Hills with Derek and Stiles, choosing instead to split an Uber with his pretty new friend, Kira).

“You know, as far as first kisses go, usually they’re a little more romantic than just a demand. You’re supposed to woo me, Stiles,” Derek said, his sarcastic tone betrayed by his shy little smile as he pulled the nozzle out of his tank, closing the gas cap as Stiles gasped in mock offense.

“Hey, I said you should kiss me, not the other way around. Why should I have to be the one to woo?” Stiles started, sliding into the passenger’s seat as Derek followed suit. “After all, this relationship wouldn’t have even happened without your instigation, so why should I… uh… Der?”

Stiles’ voice trailed off as Derek’s hand sunk into the soft crook at the juncture of his neck, effectively cutting off his entire train of thought as Derek’s thumb pressed against the hollow of his jaw.

“Stiles.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to kiss you now.”

“O-Okay.”

For a minute, all Stiles could think of were those cheesy old rom-coms, where fireworks would go off, or bells would chime, but kissing Derek was nothing like that. It was the comfort of wrapping yourself in an electric blanket, instead of the shock of jumping into a frozen pond; the familiar buzz of goosebumps over his skin over a bolt of lightning. He felt a surprised little noise leave his chest as Derek’s tilted his head to deepen the kiss, his tongue flicking out instinctively to drag along Derek’s bottom lip, hands coming up to rest against the wolves chest.

Stiles could feel his heart beating through every inch of his skin as the kiss broke, struggling to remind himself how to breathe as he opened his eyes again, his nose brushing against Derek’s as he let out a little huff of a laugh.

“Was that enough woo for you?” Derek asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, and Stiles smiled as he nodded his head, savoring the way that neither of them moved back. Derek’s hand was warm against the crook of his jaw, his own palm flat against Derek's chest, and it was natural, it was so nice, it was—

Fake. It was all fake.

Stiles sighed, closing his eyes as he gently leaned in and pressed their foreheads together, that mantra playing through his head as he pulled himself back. He buckled himself in easily as he took in a deep breath, his goofy grin still in place as he looked back up to Derek.

“See? Now you can honestly tell your mom we had our first kiss at a gas station and that it was magical and I totally rocked your world.”

“Is that what happened, though? I mean, if you wanted me to kiss you so badly, you should have just asked,” Derek said, the sarcasm thick in his voice as he started the car, and Stiles laughed as they pulled out of the lot, his hand finding Derek’s easily once again.

Their silence remained comfortable as they left the city skyline behind and basically blew through Beacon Hills, the trees inching closer to the road as they wound through the preserve.

Finishing off a bag of M&M’s, Stiles cleared his throat as he crumpled up the wrapper and chucked it in the back seat, sucking a little bit of melted chocolate off of his thumb. “So. Is this regular introducing-the-boyfriend-to-the-family nerves I’m looking at here, or is this introducing-the-fake-boyfriend-to-the-family nerves? You don’t have any weirdos in your family, do you? An ex-felon auntie? A cousin who doesn’t quite get personal space?”

Stiles grinned as Derek laughed, oddly comforted by the sound as Derek shook his head. “Nothing exciting. A weird uncle, I guess. Lots of cousins, you should basically abandon any idea of personal space as soon as we walk in, and plenty of human family, too—so you won’t be alone in that. As far as felons go, well… none of us have been caught?”

“Hey, game recognizes game, it doesn’t count if you don’t get caught. And I can work with a weird uncle.” Stiles laughed at the sheepish look that Derek shot his way, his fingers still happily wrapped up in Derek’s warm hands. He could almost feel it when they crossed over onto the Hale land, the huge, white house as much of a giveaway as the shrieks of joy that even Stiles could hear from the property.

“They’re gonna love you, you know?” Derek’s voice was soft as he pulled the rental into a long row of cars, nearly lining the road leading up to the house, and Stiles felt the snarky remark die on his tongue as Derek caught his eye, his expression somewhere between grateful and wistful as he turned the car off.

“Maybe, but…” Stiles sighed as he popped his door open, chewing over his next words carefully. “But if they do, it’s because they already love you.”

He took it as a personal victory when Derek turned away, his ears pink again, and Stiles couldn’t help but grin as he followed the werewolf up the path to his family home.

The Hale House was probably as huge and impressive as the Hale family itself from the outside, and Stiles did his best not to gape like a fool as Derek opened the door for him, his hand finding the small of Stiles’ back as they stepped into the house. Polished floors, huge, high windows, a grand staircase that was the definition of grand, and—

“Derek!”

—and another unfairly attractive Hale moving forward to greet them. Tall, broad, dark hair with just a splash of salt around the temples and the goatee, shining a million watt smile on Derek and Stiles as he wiped his hands on his probably-uncomfortably-tight jeans.

Jesus, was everyone in this family gorgeous? Stiles was going to get a complex.

He looked up as the stranger and Derek briefly hugged, watching the halfway-subtle way they scented one another, Mark’s head buried in Derek’s neck for a half moment before they pulled away. If Stiles strained his ear, he could have heard something along the lines of ‘be nice’ as Derek pulled back; if the situation weren’t so funny, Stiles probably would have blushed.

“Don’t listen to him, I’m always nice. I’m Mark, and you…” Mark started, his million watt smile back in place as his eyes dragged over Stiles’ body, “... you must be Stiles.” Stiles snorted as Mark pulled him into an easy hug, catching Stiles just a little off-guard as he was wrapped in another pair of arms.

Apparently Derek’s family was an affectionate bunch. Stiles didn’t know if it was a wolf thing or a Hale thing, but either way, it was good to know.

“Mark, uh, Seattle, right? You’re the surgeon?” Stiles asked, clearing his throat as the hug carried on just a bit too long, regaining some footing in the introduction as he pulled back. “Derek’s told me a lot about you.”

That was… mostly true, Derek had told him enough about Mark to thoroughly embarrass the older male, and Mark looked like he expected nothing less as he laughed, holding Stiles’ shoulders as he stood at arms length. “Yeah, I’m sure he did, but it’s probably all garbage. After all, how can you really describe a wonder like me in words, huh?”

He actually winked, and Stiles honestly couldn’t believe that this dude was for real.

“Der, nice job with this one. He’s cute. Kid, is my brother treating you well? Cause, you know, if Hale is your taste, you can do much better than—”

”Mark—“

“Oh, lighten up Der-bear, there isn’t enough Botox in the world to get rid of those scowl lines. It was a joke. Now come on, everyone’s out back.”

Stiles laughed again as Mark put Derek in an easy headlock, ruffling up his hair as he led them outside, immediately filing ‘Der-bear’ away for future use as they stepped out into the backyard.

The backyard, which was absolutely filled with Hales.

He felt his heart do a funny little lurch as he was hit with the sheer family of it all—all dark haired, all gorgeous, and for just a moment, he wanted to smack Derek upside the head. There were probably generations of Hales here; Derek had all this family, this built in support group, and he was just going to spend the summer holed up in New York?

“Alright, Siles, we’re gonna keep you in with the main family and keep you away from the cousins,” Mark started, artfully ignoring the way Derek was swatting at him. “Uncle Peter all but insisted that Mom come pick him up, so you’ll get to avoid them until later tonight, but who you really want to watch out for is—“

“Is that my grandbaby?!”

Mark stiffened as Derek perked up, and Stiles couldn’t help but snicker as a bony hand shot up, grabbing Mark by the scruff of his neck, pulling him off of Derek with a flourish that would probably seem overly dramatic if Stiles didn’t know just how much werewolf strength was packed behind it.

“Derek!”

“Hi, Nana.”

Stiles couldn’t keep the smile off of his face as Derek leaned in to wrap his arms around the older woman—she was a good foot shorter than he was, her movements loud, with light skinned with the same tell-tale black hair that the rest of the family had. What caught Stiles’ eye, though, was the way Derek scented her—it was the same way Mark scented him, a familial nudge that Stiles read easily as a sign of deference.

Whoever this Nana was, she was clearly the woman in charge here.

“You know, we’re all technically her grandbabies,” Mark started as he reappeared at Stiles’ shoulder, rubbing the back of his neck, his childish pout painfully obvious as he pointed his words. “But you wouldn’t know it with the blatant favoritism she shows for Derek!”

“Mark, don’t be such a baby,” Nana Hale said as she pulled back from Derek’s hug, patting his cheek affectionately. She raised a brow in a spectacularly unimpressed fashion as she turned to look at her eldest grandson, sighing in mock disappointment. “Not that I thought a career based off of liposuction and face lifts would have brought you some maturity.”

“That’s—I don’t just do—Nana!”

“Now, who do we have here? Derek, are you going to introduce me to your special friend?”

Ignoring Mark’s protests easily as she turned her attention, Stiles felt his heart pick up again, his eyes flicking to Derek as he beamed; Stiles wasn’t sure if he was happy to see Mark get smacked down, or if he was happy to introduce Stiles, but Stiles would have literally killed a man to see Derek smile that brightly on a regular basis.

“Nana, this is my boyfriend, Stiles Stilinski. Stiles, this is my grandmother, Ger—“

“Nana Hale will do just fine, thank you very much,” she interrupted, pulling a face that made Stiles grin—he could absolutely relate to someone who would rather set their birth name on fire than own up to it. “Now, come here, let me get a look at you.”

Stiles stepped forward and hesitated a half moment, not sure if he should try one last time for a handshake or wait for her to initiate a hug, but before he could make up his mind she had her hands clasped on his elbows, a grip like iron stopping him in his tracks.

“Scrawny little thing, aren’t you? We’ll take care of that, don’t you worry. It’s good to meet you, sweetheart, let’s get you some food.”

“It’s good to meet you too—and some food sounds great,” Stiles said with a laugh, ignoring the fact that he was still full of junk food as Nana Hale all but preened beside him. Her grip was gentle but unyielding as she dragged him to a table that was piled with food, giving a half wave to Laura and Cora, who were stationed beside a punch bowl the size of a fish tank as he kept himself a half step behind Nana.

Stiles wasn’t dumb, okay? He knew how to make nice with wolves, and more importantly, he knew how to be subtle.

(He didn’t like it, but he knew how to do it.)

“Uncle Derek! Get Uncle Derek!!”

Thankfully, the moment was over in a flash as Stiles heard a familiar name called out in a high pitched squeal, looking back out to the yard where a hoard of kids had just caught sight (or scent?) of Derek, immediately abandoning the rough-and-tumble games they seemed to be wrapped up in to run toward Derek as fast as their little legs could carry them.

Derek immediately tensed, a manic grin on his face as he prepared to run, body twitching as he caught himself before taking off. He sent a look Stiles’ way that was somehow both apologetic and asking remission, and Stiles sighed as he smiled.

“You better run, Uncle Derek. They’re gonna get you,” Stiles said mock-seriously, only barely keeping a straight face as Derek instead ran straight to the kids, making all sorts of comedic noises as they mobbed his legs.

Fuck, he was cute.

Stiles’ attention was pulled off of Derek as he felt eyes on him, subtly scanning the yard before he made eye contact with another adult in the family, who was very shirtless, and very sweaty, and very much walking toward them with a bright smile on his face.

Okay, Stiles was definitely getting a complex.

“You must be Stiles!” he exclaimed once he was closer to their little group, and Stiles had never been as thankful for a child as he was for the tiny body perched on top of the other males shoulders, because he was just about at his ‘hugging gorgeous people’ limit. He was still sweating, for fucks sake, but Stiles supposed that even a wolf got tired out when they had eight kids hanging from their body until Uncle Derek stepped in.

“I am, and…” Stiles was about to assume this was the firefighter sibling, but as soon as he opened his mouth, the kid on top of his shoulders smiled, and Stiles was absolutely smitten. “And who is this little guy?”

The distraction was apparently a welcome one, because shirtless dude’s smile grew even wider, reaching up to pat the kid on a mop of curly hair before he lifted him up and over, holding him at chest level. “This is Isaac. Isaac, can you say hi to Stiles? He’s your uncle Derek’s special friend.”

Stiles literally felt his heart melt as Isaac gave a shy little wave, looking up at him with big blue eyes. He couldn’t have been older than three or four, and Stiles smiled and waved back as Isaac was set down on the ground.

“You wanna go play with Uncle D?” Any hint of shyness was forgotten the moment the question was asked, taking off toward Derek as fast as his little legs could carry him, which… wasn’t very fast, but was very, very cute.

“They all yours?” Stiles asked, raising an eyebrow as he looked over to Derek, who now had at least six kids hanging off of him. He smiled as the other male shivered, shaking his head quickly.

“God no, just the three. Erica and Boyd, and Isaac too, now that the adoption has been finalized. Those kids basically run the joint, Derek included—as long as you don’t mind the occasional toddler mobbing, you’ll fit in just fine.”

“Thanks, random shirtless man, I really hope so.”

Stiles grinned as Laura choked on a mouthful of punch, the weirdness of the situation apparently just now visible to her as she sputtered, punching her brother in the arm. “Oh god, Taylor, what is wrong with you! Go put on a shirt, you can’t just—you didn’t even introduce yourself, I swear—Stiles is a guest, you weirdo!”

They kept bickering back and forth as Taylor pulled an undershirt on over his head, the whining turning into background noise as he poured himself a glass of punch. He knew perfectly well what Laura was trying to say—Stiles is a human—and he was pretty sure he was mostly flattered by everyone trying so hard, but any coherent thought left his head as he took a bite of the ribs, watching Nana Hale grin out of the corner of his eyes as he groaned in delight.

“God, they really do have Derek wrapped around their pudgy fingers,” Cora mused, and Stiles nodded his head, swallowing. It was honestly hilarious to watch Derek try to manage all those kids by himself; they seemed determined to pile themselves onto his head and shoulders, and he could almost see Derek sweat, trying to make sure he didn’t drop anyone as Isaac managed to wriggle his way into Derek’s grip.

He tilted his head in consideration, taking a sip of his drink before he spoke up.

“Yeah, he always did strike me as that kind of Alpha.”

He couldn’t help but savor the way the conversation ground to a halt around him, Laura and Taylor both sucking in a deep breath as Mark shattered the glass he was holding. There probably was a better way to acknowledge that he was in on the secret, but as funny as it was watching Derek’s siblings tiptoe around the fact, he figured it was best to rip the bandaid off in one go.

Even if it meant he had the attention of the Hales closest to him in one second, flat, Nana’s burning red from where she stood with a plate piled high with food.

He probably should have been nervous, but as he looked back at Derek, he could tell it was the right choice—Derek was all smiles, waiting only a beat before he popped his fangs and playfully snapped at one of his little nieces, the air soon full of squealing laughter once again.

Keeping his gaze even, Stiles smiled in thanks as he took the plate of food Nana offered to him, watching as her eyes melted back into their darker, human color. She was staring at him like he was a particularly complex puzzle, and she wasn’t alone—Cora looked hilariously outraged that she didn’t realize sooner, and even Mark was looking over him with renewed interest as his hand healed.

“I knew you were a smart boy. He told you?”

Nana’s question was accusing, but not unkind, and Stiles shrugged it off easily as he popped a chip into his mouth.

“He didn’t have to. My best friend was bitten when we were both fifteen. He didn’t have… anything, no alpha, no pack, just me and my mad Googling skills, and we’ve had plenty of supernatural run-ins over the years. Derek didn’t tell me because he didn’t have to tell me—I’m not anything special, but I’d like to think I can spot a non-human from at least fifty feet. Maybe more on a good day.”

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong.”

Stiles jumped as he heard Derek’s voice from behind him, and it truly was a credit to his poise and sophistication that he only blushed a little as Derek’s arm snaked around his waist. His body was warm, far warmer than it had been ten minutes ago, and Derek’s breath came a little heavy as he kissed the back of Stiles’ head.

“You are definitely something special.”

“You—you absolute cheeseball, what is wrong with you—” Stiles managed to get out as he shoved at Derek’s shoulder, his entire face burning red as Laura and Cora both gagged. Any residual awkwardness melted away as Nana’s sharp laugh cut through the air, the sound putting him back at ease as he leaned back into Derek’s warmth.

Somewhere between the fortieth round of storytelling and the gathering moving back into the house, Stiles needed a breather. Derek’s family was huge, and loud, and honestly, Stiles loved it—but it wasn’t long before he felt an itch beneath his skin, his fingers buzzing against his thigh, the muscles in his jaw a little too tight.

Stiles had expected Derek to be pretty popular in the family—what he didn’t expect, though, was that he would be anything more than an introduction and the same polite questions that everyone gave the new boyfriend.

“Wait, no fucking way did the two of you take down a Kanima, Stiles, I’m calling bullshit right now—“

Derek’s siblings were great, but they were also the worst; the minute they found out that Stiles had his own supernatural background, they were pestering him for stories, demanding his opinion of things, getting more and more exasperated with his entire life the more he shared.

Stiles knew that his life was crazy, okay? He didn’t need the constant reminders or the slack-jawed shocked expressions to reinforce that fact.

“Jesus, we didn’t even know that there were any wendigos in the state, and you knew an entire family of them?”

The only stories he flat out refused to talk about were the… issues he had had with hunters through high school—this was a party, after all, and he didn’t want to be the one to bring the vibe down by talking about the one time an assassin held a gun to his head to try and draw Scott out.

Fun times.

“What do you mean, you just know a banshee? And set her up with a hellhound? Dude, who are you?!”

Kissing Derek had, oddly enough, only exasperated the situation. In less than a day, they had gotten better at trading little affections back and forth; but instead of helping Stiles calm down, they only increased that thrumming nerves that bounced around at the base of his skull.

Which sucked, honestly, because kissing Derek was… really, really nice.

Stiles waited until another cousin who’s name he would never remember caught Derek up in a conversation about another tradition he couldn’t follow before he squeezed Derek’s hand, taking the opportunity to stand up from his spot on the couch and slip away.

The Hale House was huge, and outside was no exception; Stiles soon found himself on the porch, a huge wraparound wooden structure with built-in benches that let you enjoy the kind of view that made Stiles remember why he loved home so much. He treated himself to a few pictures of the sunset over Beacon Canyon before he flopped himself down on a bench, rubbing at his neck.

“Stiles? Everything alright?”

He had half expected Derek to follow him out after a few moments—but to his surprise, it was Nana Hale that sat beside him, her cheeks still pink with laughter as she tucked a jet black flyaway behind an ear.

“Is—oh, no, it’s great! Just wanted to, uh, snap a few pictures of the view.”

Another half truth—he was full to bursting with those lately.

“I know that our family can be… a little overwhelming,” she said, her tone even as she rose a brow, keeping her gaze forward as her fingers drummed a pattern into her knee.

Stiles hummed in agreement, his own smile a touch more genuine as he looked over to her. “Maybe, but that’s not a bad thing. When I was growing up, I spent so much time wondering what it would be like, to have siblings, and cousins, and… well, it might be a lot, but it’s a lot of love, too. I’m really glad Derek has that kind of support.”

Nana’s fingers stilled against her knee as she turned to face Stiles, and for the first time, Stiles was really able to get a good look at her properly. He could understand why she was the matriarch of the family, and how she had kept that title so long; even if he hadn’t witnessed her taking Mark down less than four hours ago, there was a whole other kind of strength that she was showing here, radiating off of her in waves.

“He does. But he doesn’t just have us for love and support... or was I reading the way you look at him wrong?” Her tone was teasing as she rose her brow, and Stiles felt his cheeks pink up spectacularly as he coughed, his eyes flashing back to the window for only a moment before Nana patted his knee.

“Don’t worry, the house is completely soundproof. Those nosy little pups can’t hear a word we say. Now tell me, how long have you been in love with my grandson?”

Now fully, beautifully red, Stiles groaned as he hid his face in his hands, Nana’s laughter ringing strong and clear as she stood up and walked toward the railing. “Oh don’t be so dramatic, I have no intention of spoiling that surprise until you’re ready to really woo him with it. And you’d better woo him! You know as well as I do that he deserves the romancing.”

Her tone softened as she chuckled, trailing off with a sigh and a sort of wistful smile as she shook her head. “New York has been good to him. You have, too, I think. California was… a rough part in his life.”

Something in the way she phrased it got the investigative side of his brain thrumming, his curiosity piqued as he remembered what Derek said on the plane.

‘I know they forgave me, but… sometimes it’s hard to be around them and still be okay with myself, you know?’

The nosy part of him wanted to pry, to dig a little more, but his eyes flicked back to the window again, where Derek and all four of his siblings were doing a terrible job at acting like they weren't trying to stare him down.

“Whatever it is, I’m sure he’ll tell me when he’s ready.”

Apparently, that was the right answer—Nana’s face softened again as she smiled, nodding her head, beckoning Stiles into standing up. She put her hand in the crook of his elbow easily, steering them back toward the house in a way that allowed no room for compromise.

“You are going to be good for my Der-bear, I know it.”

“Oh, I mean, I hope so. Derek deserves that, and I definitely—“

“Just let him be good for you, too.”

She reached up and patted Stiles cheek as he stared at her, dumbfounded, automatically opening the door for her as she walked back into the house. His expression was mirrored in the matching expressions of slack-jawed shock from all five Hale siblings, all staring at Stiles as Nana started in on another family story that would be sure to embarrass Mark, or Laura, or anyone who wasn’t Derek.

He meant what he said, of course. Derek deserved someone who would be good for him.

Somehow, that was the problem here.

—————

“Stiles, you reek of nerves. All I can smell is nerves and bell peppers. It’s not a good smell. Are you going to tell me what you’re freaking out about, or what?”

Stiles jolted as Derek called him out so effortlessly, pulled out of the trance he had fallen into as he watched Derek work, pushing around some of the barbecue from the night prior with some fresh chopped veggies into a delightful spur of the moment stir fry.

Derek was also as dressed down as Stiles had ever seen him, in a light grey henley and a dark pair of jeans, and that was even more delightful than the stir fry.

“Wait, you—that’s just something you can do? Oh god, your entire family must have known how nervous I was yesterday, did they—“

“Stiles. Breathe.”

Right. Breathing. He could do that.

…. maybe.

The truth was, Stiles could honestly say that he was having a great time back in Beacon Hills.

Derek and his family were great, no lie, and fake relationship aside, the researcher in him was absolutely thriving seeing how a huge, well-established pack worked with one another. They were literally a well oiled machine, the personification of the old ‘it takes a village’ metaphor, and the only thing that amazed Stiles more than how well they worked together was how well they adapted to Stiles being there.

Of course, he thought a big part of that came from having the Alphas on his side—not just Derek, but Nana too.

(“I can’t believe she hugged you,” Laura had hissed after yet another glass of infused punch. “When she met my last boyfriend, she threw him off the porch.”

“Well, Stiles is a fragile little human,” Taylor had snorted, ignoring the way Stiles smacked his arm, “and Hank was a major, prolapsed asshole.”

“Well yeah, but that’s not the point!”)

As great as Derek and his family was though, getting to come home and surprise his dad early… well, there was no place on the planet he would rather be than wrapped in a signature Stilinski hug, the kind of hug where you held on just a little longer than you needed to so you can pretend you definitely weren’t crying.

He got to watch a game with his dad, he got to sleep in his old, lumpy-ass childhood bed, he got to make breakfast in his mom’s kitchen.

So yeah. Great time.

Or at least, it had been, until a text rolled through after he kissed his dad goodbye that morning.

der-bear: Do you want to come over for lunch? Nana has everyone out of the house, Mom and Uncle Peter showed up this morning and he’s already driving everyone crazy.

sent: sure man. want me to bring anything? :)

der-bear: Don’t worry about it. Besides, I figure we should talk before the bonfire anyway.

And just like that, something brought around a cloud to rain on Stiles’ parade.

“Is it about tonight?” Derek asked, and if Stiles’ hadn’t been so laser focused on his cooking technique (his arms, okay, he was staring at Derek’s arms) he probably would have missed the way Derek hesitated when he asked, like he was afraid of the answer.

He picked himself up off of the barstool at the island in their gigantic kitchen, leaning against the counter closer to Derek, reaching in to pluck a chunk of onion out of the pan, skillfully avoiding the swat from Derek’s wooden spoon. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you… You know we’re looking forward to having you with us, right?” Derek asked, spooning some of the food onto two separate plates, using his claws to rip two fresh chunks of bread off of a loaf. “But if you don’t… I mean, I just don’t want you to feel like you have to be there if you don’t want to.”

Stiles frowned as he accepted one of the plates, pulling the smaller chunk of bread off of one of Derek’s claws, mulling his next words over. “As long as you want me there I’ll be there,” Stiles said slowly, because there really was no way to politely say that Stiles would rather throw himself into the sun before his mythical lore studying ass missed out on observing pack activity on a blue moon.

“Why would you think I didn’t want you there?” Derek asked, looking like he was offended at the very notion, sliding a fork to Stiles as he sat down at the countertop, that offended look only growing as Stiles snorted.

“I dunno, I thought you might have changed your mind about it. Dude, you sent me a ‘we should talk’ text. I’m no expert, but I know that nothing good follows a ‘we should talk’ text,” Stiles said around a mouth full of bread, but any degree of playful levity he had gone for was sapped out of his voice the moment he saw Derek look back down at his plate.

“That, uh. I do think we should talk, but not about that. Stiles, I...”

Ah, fuck. Derek’s ears were pink again, and for once, Stiles thought that was a bad thing.

Stiles did his best not to panic as he thought through things, wondering what he had fucked up, because he just knew he had fucked up a little something. Maybe he had come on a little too strong last night, maybe he had gotten too comfortable with his crush, maybe—

“I was thinking that maybe… we shouldn’t be faking this anymore.”

—or maybe, he had fucked up a whole lot of everything.

Stiles felt his heart sink through his shoes as he swallowed his bread, his appetite suddenly gone. He brushed his hands on his jeans, giving a few short nods, swallowing again as he pushed back from the table a little bit. He thought for a moment that he should argue against it, but Derek had a sad puppy expression splashed across his face, and Stiles wasn’t strong against that on a good day.

“Oh.”

He could feel Derek’s eyes tracking him as he started to move, standing up and starting an easy track around the kitchen, flexing his fingers before he rubbed his palm with his thumbs, an old habit he had thought he had kicked back when he graduated from Berkeley.

“I think, uh, maybe you should wait until you’re back in New York to tell your family?” Stiles started, missing the tiny smile on Derek’s face before it melted into a look of confusion. “You should tell them I broke up with you, not the other way around, I don’t mind being the bad guy,” he added, staring down at his hands.

“Wait, Stiles—“

“No, seriously, it’s fine,” Stiles interrupted, putting a smile back on his face, because he knew this was going to be coming at some point. Derek had made up their entire relationship, and Stiles had worked hard to remember that the reality of it was… that it wasn’t reality. He was the one with the inconvenient crush, he was the one who had gotten stupid. This was all on him, and taking the high road to bow out gracefully would be too.

Or, at least, it should have been. But Derek had abandoned his seat as well, halfway following Stiles in his trail around the kitchen, putting his arm out against a countertop to stop Stiles at a turn.

“I said I wanted to stop faking, Stiles.”

Hell, when had Derek gotten so close to him? Stiles blinked as he backed up against the counter, Derek’s arms closing him in, and suddenly he was getting an up close and personal look at Derek’s lips, and his eyes, and the way the blush was going back up his ears, and—

...why was Derek blushing?

“I never said anything about wanting you to leave.”

But why would Stiles be staying if… oh. Oh.

Realization dawned on Stiles’ face as Derek blushed and looked down, moving his hands a little bit closer against the counter, and Stiles felt a shiver run down his spine as he felt Derek’s thumb settle right along his hip. He had to clear his throat before he could speak, swallowing down the hope that was threatening to bubble over, chewing on his lip as he put one hand on Derek’s chest, the other gently tipping his head back to look him in the eye.

“Dude, if you’re saying what I think you’re saying, you gotta spell it out, I’ve had a crush on you for like forever and if I’m mis-reading this—”

“I told you. I’m your boyfriend, don’t call me dude.”

Stiles laughed again, elation making him feel light and giddy, finally breaking eye contact with Derek as he felt his own blush burn through the back of his neck.

“Stay, Stiles. You belong here. With me.”

Rather than even try to form a coherent response, Stiles dropped one of his hands, cheeks still a ruddy color as he looped a finger into one of the belt loops on Derek’s designer jeans, pulling him just that much closer.

“Derek?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to kiss you now.”

“Oh, thank God—"

—————

Yeah, Stiles thought hours later, still feeling the warmth of Derek’s smile against his lips as howls sounded off around the Hale House, moonlight swirling around him from the vantage point he had on the porch.

This was exactly where he belonged.

#teen wolf #sterek #stiles stilinski #derek hale #hale family #teen wolf fic #fake dating #everyone lives #two halves of a whole idiot #this is actually my first sterek fic ever lmao HOW WILD

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maybankiara · 3 years

Photo

pairing: JJ Maybank x Kiara Carrera

summary: Kie meets her housemates. For the better part of the day, it’s a warm welcome (even from one housemate’s girlfriend who lives downstairs), until JJ Maybank rolls around. Snappy and unwelcoming (and somehow never wearing enough clothes), he’s only the beginning of troubles for Kie.

word count: 8k

my foolish heart masterlist

read on ao3

Moving to Kildare is a decision Kie makes in about fifteen minutes, on a rainy Thursday. After spending four years getting her degree and a year travelling the world, returning home is nearly unfathomable. It’s a month of endless arguing, of never seeing eye to eye, and her parents’ inability to understand that she isn’t their “little Kie” anymore.

She’s had enough, so Kildare it is.

Moving to a place she’s only heard of once or twice in passing is better than living with parents who don’t give a damn about what she wants.

She packs up her belongings, counts her savings, and sets out for the town on the West Coast. No plane ticket – the prospect of a four-day bus trip is daunting, but she’s put herself through worse. The important thing is that there is nothing worthy she’s left behind.

Kie lets herself change her mind until she reaches the bus station at Chapel Hill. When she boards the bus and sits down next to an elderly man that she’ll be sitting next to for hours until the next transfer, she scours Craigslist for housemates.

If she’s moving to Kildare, she’s moving to Kildare.

The adventure doesn’t end until she lets it.

She finds a decent-looking apartment with four housemates urgently looking for a fifth. It’s cheap, too – she’s applying to jobs as the day turns into night, but there’s no guarantee of getting it. Her savings won’t last her a lifetime; she needs to get her life kickstarted.

By the time she steps foot in Kildare, it’s Monday morning, and she has a place to live.

John B. Routledge is the first housemate she meets. He’s the one who posted the ad and he’s the one who answers her calls (throughout the following days, video calls, too). He’s also the one who picks her up from the bus station.

Kie thinks about this situation as she makes her way off the bus, waiting for the driver to open the cargo so she can get her two suitcases. She is essentially agreeing to go live with four boys (granted, they’re all also in early twenties), across the country, because one of them seemed like he’s not going to kill her.

The driver takes out her suitcases and she goes to fetch them, adding a quiet ‘Thank you, have a good day.’

She walks off the bus stop and into the station, glancing around for a tall boy with floppy brown hair and a kind face. Possibly with a red bandanna wrapped around his neck. The boy is a little eccentric—and possibly overenthusiastic—but he seems kind, and he’s willing to give her a hand.

Kie doesn’t forget kindness easily.

John B ends up waiting for her at the entrance into the station, hands relaxing in the pockets of his jean shorts. His face stretches into a grin as soon as he lays his eyes on her.

‘Hey, Kiara!’

She returns the smile. ‘Hey.’

He approaches her, wearing the bandanna just like she thought. He paired it off with a half-buttoned shirt that’s almost see through – it’s the look she’d see him wearing to the beach, not to pick up his new housemate.

(Don’t judge before you meet, she reminds herself.)

John B goes in for a hug, and she awkwardly wraps her hands around his back. When they part, he glances around. ‘I’ll help you out with the suitcases.’

‘Thanks, but you don’t have to—’

‘I can’t let you carry all of that yourself,’ he argues, already reaching for the suitcases. ‘C’mon. You spent days getting here.’

Accepting that he has a point, she lets him take over, but keeps her backpack. They’re actually faster this way, too. John B tells her he parked a little out of the parking lot so he wouldn’t need to “pay the outrageous price”, and the refusal of going with the system warms her heart a little.

John B’s taller than her by a few inches and he’s got that broad-shouldered, chiselled-body look from what she can tell (his muscles are literally about to pop out of his shirt.) Usually, going into a car with someone like this and letting them drive her to their place would feel ridiculous, but the boy looks as far from menacing as possible.

(Still, Kie tells herself she’d fend him off if she had to. Truth is, she’s crashing from the lack of proper sleep and she hasn’t had food in over twelve hours and she’s a little bit exhausted.)

His car is actually an orange van filled with trinkets belonging to him and his friends; when Kie climbs into it, it feels as if it has a personality of its own. It’s as brown on the inside as it is on the outside, and she likes the whole hippie, surfer vibe it’s going on. She’s not sure if that extends to its owners, but she’s happy to find out.

John B takes care of the suitcases. She throws the backpack with them, relishing in not having to carry anything for the first time in days.

‘There’s a sandwich for you.’ John B reaches into the glove department, taking out something that Kie never would’ve guessed is a sandwich. ‘Pope made it. He’s pretty good with food.’

‘Okay, thanks.’

Kie takes it and examines it a little. John B drives them onto the road, driving close to the beach – she looks out with longing in her heart. It makes her decide to not be ungrateful and takes a bite into the sandwich that, surprisingly, actually turns out to be delicious.

John B takes a turn. ‘You ready to see your new home?’

(Kie is starting to think that smile is permanently etched on his face.)

‘Temporary home,’ she emphasises, then flinches at the intensity of her own tone. ‘Sorry. I’ve had a few long days. Right now, a bed is all I can think about.’

‘We set up your bed yesterday. The whole room is in a really good state.’

They get onto a bigger road and right into the traffic, but John B doesn’t seem to mind. He puts on a chill reggae song (is this really happening? did she get that lucky?) and hums to it, before turning back to Kie.

‘Sarah actually insisted on getting you some new bedsheets and all, so it’s all ready for you.’

‘Sarah?’

‘My girlfriend. She lives downstairs.’

‘Oh, that’s nice.’

‘Yeah, she’s pretty nice,’ says John B, in this half-dazed voice that tells Kie the couple is definitely still in the honeymoon phase. ‘How was the sandwich, by the way?’

‘It was amazing, thanks.’

He doesn’t ask anything else and she doesn’t have anything to say, so she puts up the volume up the tiniest bit, and lets herself relax a little. (Even if she’s about to be sacrificed to a cult – she deserves to breathe.)

Kildare is prettier in real life than in pictures. It’s one of the older fishing towns, with modern job prospects only flourishing in the past half a century, so most of the houses are ancient, for American standards. The beach is nice and although the waves don’t seem to be the same, she knows she’ll manage. She plans to make herself busy in town, anyway, but knowing that she’s not bound to land is soothing enough.

‘So,’ says John B after the second Marley song ends. ‘What’s your story?’

‘Oh, quite boring, actually,’ she admits. ‘Squabbled with my parents and decided to move to the other end of the country.’

‘Ah.’

‘Yeah.’

He ponders over her words a little, then gives her a glance and a warm smile. ‘Kildare is a pretty good place to start a new life.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Mhm. The best, actually. We’ve got everything you could possibly need.’

The hints of humour in his voice drag a smile out of her, too. ‘What, like housemates who try to pull a Hotel California on you?’

John B lets out a hearty laugh. ‘Exactly! But don’t tell the others.’

He embarks on a brief history of Kildare and manages to entertain her enough to keep her from falling asleep – she thinks he might be a tour guide. John B’s lived here his entire life, only moving to the city when his dad died a few years ago. He could go back to his “Chateau”, but he says there’s something nice about having his old home be a getaway, now.

By the time they actually arrive at John B’s—their—apartment, Kie feels like she knows exactly what the boy with the bandanna around his neck is made of. He’s quite simple and easy to understand.

Kie likes simple.

When they pull up in the parking lot of their apartment complex, a boy John B refers to as their housemate Pope is waiting on the porch. He ends up being a tall, dark-skinned boy John B’s age with a little less enthusiasm, but a little more maturity. He’s wearing a shirt over a tee and a pair of shorts, shaking her hand.

‘Hey, Kiara. I’m glad to finally have you here,’ he says, giving her a smile that’s more reserved than John B’s. ‘Are you sure you’re okay being with four boys?’

It’s half serious and half a joke, but she chuckles regardless. ‘I guess I’ll have to be.’

John B appears at her side, handing Pope one of her suitcases. ‘She’ll be fine. She likes reggae and I think she likes the beach, she’ll fit right in.’

Kie just looks at him, eyebrows raised.

All she gets in return is a shrug and another smile. ‘What? I saw you staring at the beach and don’t tell me you turned up the volume on that Bob Marley song.’

‘I love Bob Marley.’

‘Good, because we are all very fond of Mr Marley,’ says Pope. He tilts his head then, frowns, and looks over at his friend. ‘Does Kelce like Bob Marley?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Huh. Well, we should probably get going.’

In the end, Kie enters their apartment building with the bandanna boy behind her, and Pope in the front. Each of the boys is carrying a suitcase and John B took it upon himself to carry the backpack, too; the lack of any weight, for the first time in days, feels disconcerting.

‘So on the ground floor, there’s the Glissons,’ John B tells her. ‘A pretty charming family with one kid, but they can be loud sometimes. I can hear the kid screaming in the backyard from my window.’

John B ends up telling her the stories of all residents as they walk up the stairs. It’s interesting, and it’s all the people she’ll be seeing around for a while, but Kie can’t pay attention for more than two minutes for the life of her. Judging by the way Pope’s shoulders are slumped, he’s not listening to the boy, either.

‘This is Sarah’s apartment,’ John B says, with a smile on his face once again. ‘She’ll come by later, she’s at work right now, but she’s really excited to meet you.’

‘Oh, I’m excited to meet her, too.’

Kie finds it a little odd that everybody seems so excited to meet her, but doesn’t dwell on it. Maybe it’s normal, and she’s the odd one.

‘Yeah, she said she stalked you on Instagram, or something.’ He frowns a little, eyes shifting from Kie to Pope. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.’

Kie feels the tug at the corners of her mouth. ‘It’s okay. I don’t mind.’

At least being excited after stalking her Instagram account and therefore knowing something about her (travelling, blogging, feminism, activism, and probably some other stuff) makes sense for someone to be excited.

(She’s also slightly taken aback at John B’s tone insinuating that the boys didn’t perform a background check on her before letting her stay with them. She certainly did one on them – or tried, really, because they didn’t end up being much of social media people.)

‘So,’ says Pope, ‘here we are.’

The trio don’t dwell before opening the door to the apartment. It’s a rather newish place with walls painted a soft, creamy brown; right behind the door is a massive coat rack with a variety of styles displayed on it – from leather to plaid jackets, and an occasional winter coat. The smell of the flat is nice, surprisingly. Sweet.

John B gets in behind them, her suitcase creaking as he pulls it over the doorstep, and shuts the door.

‘So? What do you think?’ Pope has a nervous look on his face.

‘It looks nice, so far,’ Kie says, giving him a smile.

‘So far,’ John B chuckles. ‘Just wait till you see what we have done with the living room.’

‘Alright, show me. Better sooner than later.’

‘You’re gonna love it,’ says Pope, in a voice that’s either really genuine or oddly sarcastic.

She doesn’t have the time to build up expectations before the boys urge to keep going forward. They pass Pope’s bedroom on the left, next to the first bathroom, and Kelce’s bedroom is on the right. The hallway widens in the front and there’s a corridor that extends to each side – she thinks it’s a little weird that the middle of the flat is basically an intersection but hey, she’s not an architect. John B tells her it’s him and JJ on the left, and Kie’s on the right, with the second bathroom and a storage/laundry room to keep her company.

In front of them is a massive open-plan living room/kitchen, painted a very soothing baby blue all over. The room seems to be split in half by an island counter with barstools propped up around it – kitchen elements are to the left, and the couch and the medium-sized TV with a PlayStation underneath are to the right. The curtains are wide open with sun shining bright enough to make the whole place liven up.

There’s also the tiny aspect of the decor that she assumes was the boys’ touch. Road signs and traffic cones and even something long and thin that seems a little too much like a ramp are scattered across the living area. Above the couch is a massive pin board with a lot of notes, letters, postcards, schemes and designs for something that resembles cars; and all of this is put together by several different strings of fairy lights, pinned all around the walls—even the ceiling—looking like weeds, almost.

Kie lets out a surprised, breathy laugh.

It’s not that it isn’t nice. It just… not what she expected, really.

(The surfer girl in her is living for this.)

John B goes to stand in front of her, arms spread wide and a dumb grin on his face. In the middle of the living room, like this, he looks like the king of his castle – Kie’s laugh becomes a little firmer.

‘And?’

She grins, wide and honest. ‘I love it.’

The boys cheer and John B flings himself at Pope, next to Kie, smacking a high-five to his hand. They walk further into the room. Pope goes into the kitchen, and Kie and John B take a seat on the barstools. He gives them a glass of water, each (‘Sarah and I are doing this healthy living thing, so I only drink water and milkshakes.’)

‘This place is really nice,’ Kie admits, then nods towards the collection of things from the road with a smirk. ‘Not very legal, though.’

‘Are you a cop?’ asks John B.

‘No?’

‘Do you know a cop?’

‘…no?’

‘Will you tell a cop?’

‘Look, if you get me drunk enough, I’ll be the one adding some more to the collection.’

If there was any tension between them, it dissipated in this very moment. Kie’s statement seems to confirm the boys’ assumptions – she is going to become one of them, they tell her that much. It’s this fact that earns Kie a lunch because she arrived here, and John B lunch because he brought her here. JJ earns his lunch by simply not being here to make his own, according to Pope, who Kie learns absolutely adores cooking.

It’s lovely. They have a good vibe between them and they’re not excluding her, and she feels comfortable around them.

John B takes her to her room shortly after they’re all done eating their tacos.

‘There you go,’ he says, opening the door to her room. ‘It’s not much, but…’

Kie walks in and feels herself smiling. ‘I love it.’

It’s a cosy room – queen-sized bed with soft purple bedding, a long desk right underneath the window looking west with a simple white desk lamp from IKEA with a black wooden chair, three shelves on each side of the window, and a modest closet that she already knows she’ll only half fill with the things she brought. There’s enough floorspace for her to bring some decorations in (maybe a mirror and some plants – Kie always wanted that.) Her suitcases in the space between the closet and the wall, with her black backpack perched on top of one.

Like John B said, it’s not much, but it already feels more like home than her actual bedroom ever did.

‘The bedsheets, uh, they’re Sarah’s, but she’s okay with you keeping them.’

‘I’ll give them back, don’t worry.’ Kie opens the window wide, letting fresh air in. ‘What’s her favourite chocolate?’

The boy frowns, thinking. His arm is leaning on the doorframe and his forehead against his arm, and he looks both quite out of place and perfectly in place.

‘I don’t know,’ he admits. ‘She prefers milkshakes, anyway. You know, that homemade stuff. She’s trying to get me into that, but it’s just too much effort, y’know?’

‘Effort is always too much.’

‘I know, right?’ John B groans, playing along (or maybe he doesn’t notice the teasing in her voice.) ‘Anyway, I’ve got stuff to do. Pope said he’d make dinner for everybody tonight, I can let you know when that’s ready, if you want. I was thinking about having a chill night, but you’re tired, JJ isn’t back yet, and I don’t know where Kelce is, so we should do it some other time.’

Kie frowns. ‘Is Kelce not around often?’

‘Eh,’ says John B, shrugging. ‘He doesn’t like us very much, I think, but he just stays away.’

This Kelce guy doesn’t sound like he’ll be as nice to be around as the two she’s met so far, but Kie doesn’t allow concern about that to take over.

‘Knock on my door, then. I’m a light sleeper.’

John B nods, wishes her a good nap, and closes the door when he leaves.

The silence that befalls is different than the one back home. There, she could always hear the vastness of the empty space when her parents aren’t around; she would be drowning in knowing that she’s the only being alive on the premises. Even this tiny bedroom seemed more alive – if she leans out of the window, she can see Kildare around her. The apartment breaths with life.

For a moment, Kie just looks around, trying to rewrite her life in her head – this is her life now. This little bedroom, four guys out of whom two are suspiciously kind and the other two she hasn’t met, and Kildare.

It’s not a dream. The bed she sits on is a little creaky but the bedding is soft and smells like her grandmother’s backyard, and it’s real.

All of this is real.

Kie starts crying.

★

A couple hours later, John B’s knock wakes her up. She tells him she’ll be there in a few and he replies something she doesn’t catch, but she hears footsteps before she can ask.

Rolling over on the bed sheets, still wearing the clothes she travelled in, Kie feels like she woke up in a different reality. Before her nap, she managed to compose herself enough to get some of her belongings sorted – the books she brought are on the shelves, her journal and a pen are on the desk, and a clean change of clothes is neatly folded on the chair. The room still doesn’t really feel hers, but it’s starting to.

(She doesn’t want to think ahead of herself, so she doesn’t think about tomorrow, or the day after, or whatever is going to happen with jobs and—No.)

Kie rubs her eyes. Her stomach grumbles and she pushes herself off the bed; the beige walls look brighter than they were when she fell asleep. She opens the window again, leaning through it – she can see someone’s window being wide open on her floor. She wonders if it’s John B or that JJ guy.

Kildare looks pretty from here. The view isn’t the greatest, but it’s unfamiliar, and Kie loves that.

It takes her nearly half an hour to get herself to the kitchen. She ends up opting for a shower, first, because priorities are priorities and she washed herself in the disgusting bus stations for days.

She’s halfway through showering, hair all wet, when she realises that she doesn’t have a shampoo. Or anything else, for that matter. Which is terrible, because Kie is quite particular about her shower routine and the fact that he’s prevented from enjoying it, truly puts a damper on her day. Using someone else’s shower gel, shampoo, conditioner, all of that… It’s not her favourite.

In this situation, she wouldn’t really wash her hair if that’s the case (it’s curly, okay) but there’s someone’s coconut shampoo for dry hair and a matching conditioner and okay, maybe she’ll steal a little bit of that. The shower gel is one of the minty Axe ones and she knows that she will smell like a man, but it’s either that or keeping on the smell of all the buses she’d been on.

(She hopes no one will notice.)

The bathroom itself is smaller than she expected, but there’s a toilet and a shower tub and a mirror over a sink with a cupboard behind the glass, and it’s cute. The only thing she notes is that there’s only one of everything. Could it really be only one person using the bathroom? She’s the only one in this end of the corridor, and the only thing here aside from her bedroom and the bathroom is the storage that also serves as the laundry room.

It could be any of the boys. Or, actually, she assumes it can’t be Pope or Kelce, since they have a bathroom in their corridor. Probably John B, then – he seems like he cares enough about the way he looks to have some nicer hair products.

Looking in the foggy mirror, Kie feels as if the mirror is making her face look thinner than it is. That could be the case, but knowing what kind of stress she’d put herself under for the past few days… and the lack of eating…

She leaves the bathroom looking a bit better for the wear, and smelling like a minty coconut.

(I’m not trying to make an impression, she tells herself, but the lie falls flat even in her own head.)

Kie dries hair quickly with a fancy cotton towel she took—stole?—from home. She puts on the clean clothes, feeling very Lara Croft-y in her black tank top and denim shorts; it’s a confidence boost, for sure. She finishes it off with a pair of converse trainers (she forgot to pack slippers) and sets out for the kitchen. The smell of food fills the corridor, and her stomach churns.

‘What smells so good?’ she asks, right before entering.

‘Hey, Kiara.’ Pope’s leaning on the island counter as he eats out of a massive pot with a spoon, giving her a warm grin. ‘You’re looking fresh.’

‘Had a shower. Works wonders. It’s Kie for friends, by the way.’ Pope hums in response and Kie approaches the kitchen, looking into the pot. It looks like a bolognese sauce, except the colour seems is more of an orange than a begie, and there’s a few scents to it she can’t identify. ‘What’s that?’

‘Bolognese a la Pope Heyward. I’ll get you a spoon and a fork.’

‘Is it spaghetti?’

‘It’s penne, why?’

Kie pretends to gag, taking a seat at the island counter. ‘I hate spaghetti. I just can’t’—she makes a rounding motion with her hands—‘twist it the right way.’

Pope laughs as he hands her a plate and a fork. He has a nice laugh, Kie notes – it involves the entirety of his face, with his eyebrows going up a little bit. It’s sweet.

‘Yeah, spaghetti tends to be ridiculous sometimes,’ he tells her, leaning on his elbow against the counter. ‘You’ve got to cook them just the right way. Timing and salt is everything.’

‘I don’t like to cook by the rules, so precise dishes don’t really suit me.’

‘You’re more the type to cook by the heart?’

‘Eh, I guess you could say that.’ She takes the fork and pushes the penne around until it’s all mixed together – and realises just how much food that is. She brings her eyes to meet Pope’s. ‘This looks absolutely amazing, but I don’t think I’ll be able to eat all of it.

He waves her off. ‘JJ will finish it, if you don’t. He told me to leave him everything that’s not eaten by the end of the day, although he had more than a fair share already.’

Kie perks up at this, a forkful of food halfway to her mouth. ‘He’s home? I thought John B said he was at work.’

‘He came back about an hour ago. Wanted to use the shower after eating, but you must’ve been using his bathroom, so he went for a jog instead.’

There’s no way—

‘His bathroom? But I thought John B said everything was communal.’

She should’ve known the toiletries would belong to one of the two flatmates she hasn’t met. She should’ve known that at some point, her luck had to start running out.

Kie runs a hand through her hair and the scent of coconut and mint both engulf her; she pulls her hand down immediately, gauging Pope’s reaction. Can he smell it on me?

‘It’s communal,’ he says, ‘but he’s been the only one using that bathroom since Topper left. John B’s lazy, he likes to shower in the one that’s closer. Or at Sarah’s.’

‘So I can use it, right?’

‘Of course!’ he says, as if he hadn’t pretty much just told her it’s JJ’s. ‘JJ will get used to it, as long as you’re clean.’

Come think of it, the bathroom was unusually clean for a boy. ‘Is he a clean freak?’

‘No it’s more like… He just likes to have a safe space. It’s him and showers, or water in general – I often joke that he’s a siren.’

With her heart finally at peace, knowing that JJ won’t gauge her eyes out for taking a shower, Kie takes the first bite of Pope’s dish. It’s still warm and absolutely delicious, and he laughs when she lets something along the lines of a moan.

‘Pope, this is — oh my god.’

Tilting his head down, the boy’s face stretches into a shy smile. He grabs a wet glass from the drying rack and starts wiping it with a cloth, leaning against the counters. ‘Thanks. I’m having a good day, so.’

He doesn’t finish. Kie takes another bite and says, ‘So you’re cooking for everybody.’

‘Yeah. Kind of.’

‘That’s pretty nice of you. I’ll cook tomorrow, if you’ll have me. I’m not the greatest of cooks, but there’s some Asian dishes I can cook pretty well and—’

‘Kie, that would be amazing.’

‘Yeah, well – I try. Don’t judge before you try.’ Kie isn’t too keen on hyping herself up. Offering to cook is fine, but she doesn’t want anyone to have expectations.

The two of them fall into a comfortable silence; all Kie can hear is her munching on the bolognese, and Pope drying the dishes and putting them away (Kie makes a mental note of what goes where, and another note to ask what is communal and what isn’t.)

‘Why do you call JJ a siren?’

Pope seems a bit stricken with surprise at Kie’s question, but answers quickly regardless. ‘He’s like that. Mischievous, will die if away from a body of water for too long, lures a lot of people to his bedroom… He’s got quite a reputation.’

‘He’s a player,’ Kie interprets.

‘I— Yeah. Kind of.’ Pope makes a grimace that tells her he’s not the greatest fan of that. ‘It doesn’t happen to often, anymore. Work’s been keeping him really busy these past few months.’

Kie just nods. She’s not a fan of casual hookups herself (there’s gotta be…something to them) and she usually doesn’t mind someone else doing that sort of thing, or one-night stands, but she doesn’t quite fancy the idea of random people being around the apartment.

It may be a bit evil, but Kie likes to hear he hasn’t been having sex as often.

(She doesn’t even know the first thing about the guy – it is evil.)

‘What does he do?’ she asks in an effort to distract herself.

‘Mechanics. Engineering.’

‘Mechanical engineering?’

Pope frowns and tilts his head, shaking it a little. ‘Not quite. It’s complicated. He’s a really smart guy, he’ll explain it to you himself. He should be back anytime now, I don’t know what’s taking him so long. Usually he jogs for half an hour only – must’ve been a long day at work.’

Kie opens her mouth to ask what JJ does for work, when she realises that she’d kind of already asked that. Instead, she finishes her meal and then washes up, listening to Pope talk about his own issues at work (he’s a coroner, which is only slightly morbid, but somehow fits him.) He talks about it a lot, so when John B joins them fresh out of the shower and lets them know Sarah’s coming over in a bit, she’s saved. John B drags Pope into telling her some of the shenanigans the group has been up to during their long friendship, and Kie notices how much John B’s energy makes Pope more energetic.

That’s the thing about John B – his energy is contagious even when he’s not the one talking the most. Even Kiara feels more awake than she did minutes earlier.

Nothing about moving to Kildare is how she expected it to be. It seems too easy – too natural. John B and Pope accepted her into the apartment group as if she’d always been a part of it, and they’re all like a family (cooking for everybody? Where did they come from?) and Kie is not used to it.

She’s never had friends who felt like family. No, scratch that – she’s never had a family that felt this much like family.

Eventually, Kie goes to rest on the couch while John B updates Pope on the latest news about Kildare’s football team (Kie’s starting to think he might actually be a football coach, now.) Pope doesn’t seem to be listening that much, but John B doesn’t notice, so it’s fine.

She sees JJ for the first time about an hour since she came out of the shower, and he’s no more than a blotch in the corner of her eye as he marches from the main entrance into his room.

‘JJ?’ calls John B. No answer, but they hear a door shut. ‘Kiara’s here!’

‘Kie,’ Pope reminds him, and gives the girl a gentle smile.

No answer comes. The door shuts again. This time, Kie sees a boy slide by, too fast for her to see him properly – but he’s tall, with hair definitely a dirty blonde or a light brown.

Right before they hear the bathroom (her bathroom) door slam, a voice shouts, ‘I’ll be there in ten!’

Pope sighs. ‘Multiply that by two.’

‘Three.’

‘Maybe four, if he got really sweaty.’

‘He could be doing himself up for Kie.’

It’s an offhand comment that’s supposed to be a joke, including her in this whole banter thing, but Kie’s cheeks go ablaze at the idea. Not too long ago she was doing herself up for them in that very same bathroom.

(First impressions matter, okay?)

‘We apologise on JJ’s behalf,’ says Pope. He’s looking at her over the island counter, with one elbow propped up on it to hold his chin. ‘He can be a hardass sometimes.’

‘And he won’t apologise,’ adds John B. ‘Got a stick up his ass.’

‘He’s a nice guy, though.’

‘Yeah,’ Kie muses, ‘I can tell.’

The boys just sigh, telling her that they can’t convince her otherwise until he convinces her, and Kie starts cataloguing everything she knows about this JJ guy.

Tall, probably blonde, probably lean. Uses coconut-scented, quality hair products and keeps his bathrooms clean – high maintenance. Demanding, or at least that’s what she got from his asking Pope to save him the food. He seems to go on jogs often, so he’s probably sporty, caring either about his appearance or health. He’s got a job that keeps him busy and it’s got something to do with mechanics and engineering (but not together), so he’s probably quite smart. A player who’s currently on hold, so he could be cranky if there’s a lot of sexual frustration pent up. Slightly possessive (his bathroom?) and not really the one for manners, if him not introducing himself is anything to go by.

From what the boys told her, she thought he’d be fun – the guy she has in her head doesn’t seem like the guy who’d tape fairy lights all over the living room and decorate it with stolen road signs, or really like the ocean.

So, JJ – Kie’s not his biggest fan.

(He definitely pales in comparison to John B and Pope. Maybe he doesn’t take change well; maybe he doesn’t like newcomers in his inner circle.

She isn’t already making excuses for his behaviour.)

There’s the irritating iPhone message chime somewhere in the room, interrupting whatever conversation the boys have been having while she’s thinking about their friend. John B reaches into his pocket and reads the message from his phone. ‘Sarah’s here. I’ll go get her, JJ must’ve locked the door.’

‘Dumbass,’ says Pope, as if locking the door isn’t the sensible thing to do.

(Maybe JJ isn’t all bad.)

Surprisingly, Kie isn’t too bothered about the girlfriend coming up. She sounds nice, from what John B has told her, and she’s actually looking forward to a dash of femininity in the place.

Sarah Cameron ends up being an incredibly lovely girl, and a completely suitable match for John B – neither of them know when to shut up. In a good way, of course, because Kie likes listening to both of them.

‘So, how are you enjoying your room? I wanted to get you some plants and stuff, but John B said it’s probably best if you get them yourself. I know you probably don’t know a lot of people in Kildare and I thought I’d help out. Boys, as you know, aren’t the best at being welcoming.’

‘Actually, I’d say they’ve been pretty welcoming.’ Despite the fact that her housemates are engaged in a very passionate conversation about something, she doesn’t want to trash-talk them. ‘Better than I expected, anyway.’

Sarah chuckles, draping an arm over the back of the couch. ‘Just you wait, honestly. They’re absolutely ridiculous, I love them. They’re chaotic as it is, but with JJ around, it’s all hell breaking lose.’

‘That bad?’

‘That bad.’

Exciting, crosses Kie’s mind in a sarcastic tone, until she realises that she genuinely is excited at the prospect of chaos. His life’s been lacking it for a good few years now, if she’s being honest. Besides, all these conflicting statements about JJ and the lack of any mention of Kelce whatsoever is making her curious about the two missing housemates.

And Sarah is nice, which is why she says, ‘We can go get some plants together, if you’re down. I’ve been meaning to get some anyway.’

The blonde clasps her hands together, cheeks stretching into a wide grin. ‘Great! Could you do tomorrow? After three, though, because I’ll be in kindergarten until then.’

‘Yeah, tomorrow sounds great, just let me know when you’re back here.’

And any other day. Any time. It’s not like I’ve got somewhere to be.

Another part of her mind concerns with the whole “kindergarten” part, but she figures she’ll find out, eventually.

‘You drive?’ asks Sarah.

‘Yeah, but I don’t have a car here. Yet.’

She thinks of her car back home – it was a nice car. Kie loved that car, especially when something would need fixing and she and her dad would get into their ugly and old clothes and—

Kie rests her arm on the back of the couch, glancing at the girl sitting next to her. She’s wearing a floral tube top and high-waisted denim jeans, with her blonde hair loose save for the two front pieces on each side that she plaited – it’s an effortlessly chic look.

‘That’s fine,’ she says. ‘I can drive. I’m honestly so happy there’s finally a girl in the flat, I’ve been telling them that this place is lacking a feminine touch for ages. As much as I love them, it gets a little too full of testosterone sometimes.’

‘Oh, I don’t think I’ll be giving it much of a feminine touch.’

It’s a joke, but it catches Pope’s attention: ‘The most feminine thing we’ve got is JJ’s coconut hair set. I feel like that says enough.’

Kie’s cheeks flare up at the comment. She tells herself no one will connect the dots despite her smelling like minty coconut. First things first, she needs to go shopping tomorrow, and she’s happy to hear that Sarah is more than willing to accompany her.

‘So, shopping tomorrow?’ asks the blonde.

John B makes a groan that sounds a lot like “girls”, but blows Sarah an air kiss the moment she gives him the death glare.

Kie doesn’t hide her laughter, and neither does Pope hide his groan that sounds a lot like “couples”. It only makes Kie laugh harder, before she composes herself.

‘Shopping, definitely. I need things.’

‘And we can go sightseeing. I know all the best places in Kildare—’

‘Unless you’re showing her the Boneyard, you’re not showing her anything worth seeing.’

Her eyes are drawn to the unfamiliar voice coming from the corridor, and she stifles a small gasp.

Kiara Carrera has seen a fair share of shirtless boys throughout her life. Most of them, however, were expected – at the beach, at the pool, or in the bedroom. Most of them she was mentally prepared for and they didn’t catch her off-guard. Realistically, she knows he just came out of the shower – but there is absolutely no fucking need for him to be walking around in just a towel, and a loosely wrapped one around his waist most of all. Not with hair that’s still damp and dripping down his bare torso, making him look like he’s glistening.

And Kie’s got eyes – the lean muscle covering the entirety of his torso and arms doesn’t go unnoticed.

(It should.)

Pope sighs as the group watches JJ make a beeline for the hob with the sauce and the pasta on it. ‘And this is JJ,’ he says. ‘JJ, Kie.’

She tries looking everywhere but his body, and it’s surprisingly difficult. ‘Hey.’

The blond boy glances in her direction and nods, then glances at John B. ‘I went to the pier today. Had a fucking day at the workshop, the fucking asshole kept giving me the most tedious jobs just because I told him he was wrong.’

‘Was he?’

JJ snorts and fills up a plate. ‘Fuck yeah.’

As he continues telling the boys about his day, munching on the food with his back turned to Kie, Sarah indulges her in a conversation about music. Kie tries to focus, she really does because she really appreciates the girl trying so hard, but she can’t focus on anything when she’s staring at the back of someone built like that.

Besides, he’s acting like Kie’s not even there. She tells herself that she isn’t hurt, that she expected something like that – she was waiting for the other shoe to drop, and…

Yeah.

He doesn’t even so much as look at her.

Not too long after that, Kie bids her goodbyes as she goes back to her room. Things seem a little weighty now that JJ’s around and the boys seem to not understand that there’s something off – it’s easier to just leave the room.

She’s got to unpack, anyway. There’s a load of clothes and knick-knacks she took from home that she needs to put somewhere.

Kie begins with her backpack, seeing as it’s got the least things in it. The first thing she takes out is the phone and the charger along with it; the device is heavy in her hand. If she turns it on, she knows she’ll have dozens of missed calls and texts, despite her leaving a note before she left.

The note doesn’t matter. They don’t understand.

(That’s why she left, but it’s not like they’ll understand that, either.)

She puts it off for a while but the pressure is on the fact that she applied to jobs with this phone number and she needs to be available. If she wants to act like a grown up then there’s some sacrifices that need to be made.

Reluctantly, Kie plugs the phone into the charger, but doesn’t turn it on just yet.

★

Kie doesn’t plan on seeing anyone again. It’s nearly two in the morning already, so she doesn’t think before she goes to the kitchen wearing nothing but an old Bob Dylan sweater and pyjama shorts.

She just wants some berry tea, really, because falling asleep in a strange bed is more difficult than she thought.

The fairy lights are on – all of them. The blue light is bright enough to shine the corridor, reflecting pleasantly from the brown walls. Kie rubs her eyes, having come out of a completely dark room.

It’s almost intimate, the little differences in colour from one set of lights to another; all in different shades of blue. It must be John B, but hopefully she doesn’t walk in on him and Sarah – not like she’s judging a book by its cover, but both of them seemed confident and open enough so that Kie wouldn’t be surprised if they have a sort of a public kink, or something.

(Sometimes it’s fun to be risky; the possibility of getting caught adds a certain kind of flavour.)

Kie steps into the kitchen, and the light shines on the back of JJ’s tee.

Fuck.

This is, like, the worst case scenario. Of all the people—

‘Hi,’ she says.

JJ doesn’t react. He’s fiddling with something on the counter, his body swaying from side to side in rhythm. He turns his head a bit to the right, reaching for a cutting knife, and she finally sees the earbuds.

Kie lets out a heavy sigh, feeling her fingers going a little cold.

(It’s not from the room temperature, because the apartment is roasting.)

Bracing herself, Kie makes a beeline for the kettle, feeling much like JJ earlier today. He still doesn’t notice; he’s humming along to a song and it’s familiar enough that she almost gets it. She checks the kettle—empty—and turns to fill it up when she nearly bumps into the blond’s chest.

JJ whisper-screams a profanity, just whatever he was holding thumps on the ground.

Kie flinches, too, so she figures an apology isn’t necessary (it’s not like she wanted to scare him. She said hi.)

Still, she takes a step back. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to— We must’ve turned around at the same time.’

‘Yeah, must’ve.’ JJ crouches and picks up the bread and whatever’s fallen out of it, all with a melodramatic sigh. ‘Can I eat that?’

She looks at his hands – ham, cheese, pickles, and a sauce. She feels her face distort. ‘Absolutely not.’

JJ sighs again, then throws it all into the bin. Kie notices he hasn’t taken out the earbuds as she fills up the kettle and sets it to boil; he delves into the fridge and starts making another sandwich.

Rude.

Then again, it is the middle of the night. She’s not feeling very chatty, either.

She starts making her tea and struggles to find the mugs and the teabags, but doesn’t ask for help. It’s odd; all she can hear is the clanking of her moving around the kitchen, JJ preparing a sandwich, and his humming along to the music in his ears.

It’s exhausting.

‘How come you’re still up?’ she asks. He doesn’t acknowledge her so she taps on his shoulder, waits until he takes an earbud out, and asks again. ‘Can’t sleep?’

‘I’ve got work.’

He doesn’t elaborate. Kie’s jaw clenches and she lets out a huff, just in time for it to be drowned out by the sound of the kettle boiling.

She goes to tend to her tea, then looks back at JJ – it must be a good sign that the earbud is still hanging off his neck. ‘What’s the Boneyard?’

‘You still don’t know?’

JJ’s tone is demeaning, almost amused – and Kie doesn’t like it the least, so she decides to be just as respectful. ‘Would I be asking if I did?’

He looks at her, for once; his eyes gaze into hers as if he’s trying to decipher her. The chuckle he lets out is a little more amused and the corners of his lips turn upwards ever so slightly.

That’s the closest to a smile she’s seen on him so far.

‘No, guess not.’

‘So, you gonna tell me?’

His hands come to a still. He frowns, then grins. ‘That’s for you to find out.’

Right.

Kie has two options here – fall back, make her tea and leave, not cause any trouble, be the best possible flatmate she could be so they don’t kick her out. If JJ doesn’t like her, that’s on him. It’s also probably what he’s expecting, for her to do all the work.

A smile flutters on her lips. Kie has never been one for choosing the passive option.

‘What’s your deal?’ she asks, pulling her mug up to her chest. ‘Having a bad day?’

He looks at her with his head tilted a little; she’s pretty sure there’s annoyance written in the wrinkle between his brows, tiredness in his bright eyes. ‘Have I not made that clear enough? What’s with all the questions?’

‘Dunno.’ She shrugs, holding her mug to her chest. ‘We’re living together, shouldn’t we try to get to know each other?’

‘I don’t really care, to be honest.’

He might’ve as well just slapped her across the face. She blinks and swallows the sudden lump in her throat. ‘Right.’

JJ puts the new sandwich on a plate and he starts walking out of the kitchen when he turns on his heel, sighing. ‘Okay, what’s your deal, then? Why’d you come all the way here from Outer Banks on such a short notice? What are you running from?’

The blue light is behind JJ, softening his silhouette and making him look like he’s glowing. Menacing or benevolent, Kie would go for the former. Her blood runs cold and that’s not a feeling she wants to experience in her new home.

(But the way he’s looking at her, it’s not menacing. It’s curious – it’s as if he wants to gauge her reaction more than the answer itself.)

What are you running from?

Instead of giving him what he wants, Kie takes a sip of her tea and ignores the liquid scorching her tongue. ‘That’s for you to find out.’

JJ raises his eyebrows and she thinks she sees a smile betraying him in the corners of his lips, shaking his head. ‘See?’

‘See what?’

‘Questions,’ he says, ‘they’re too much.’

He’s the type of guy Kie usually cannot stand – full of self-assurance and bravado that may or may not be real. He also knows how to get someone like Kie, usually very vocal and confident, into tripping over her own words.

At a loss for words, she squeezes herself into the counter so he can pass between her and the chair, when his head tilts, nose scrunched, and his eyes glancing at her hair. ‘Do we have the same shampoo?’

‘Oh, I used some of yours,’ she replies, pressing her mug even closer to her chest, forcing herself to not look away from him. ‘Sorry. I didn’t have my own, but I’ll get it tomorrow. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘It’s fine, just don’t do it again.’

‘Okay.’

He turns around the island counter and for a moment, she thinks he’s going to sit there and her mind starts wondering whether that would make her want to stay in the kitchen more or less. But he keeps walking and nods at her from the entrance into the corridor, muttering an almost inaudible ‘goodnight.’

Kie waits for about a minute, sipping her tea, before she turns off the fairy lights and goes back to her room.

(She thinks about how fluffy JJ’s hair is when dry; how deep the circles under his eyes looked under the intensity of the blue light; about the tension in his shoulders that was present the entire time she was in the kitchen.)

She plops into her bed, finishing off her tea. Her phone’s still on the desk, now fully charged, calling to her.

It’s been nearly a whole day. Dragging it out will make the whole thing more painful than it already is, so she takes it in her hands, and holds the button on the side.

Kie spends the next fifteen minutes scrolling through the sea of messages her parents have drowned her phone in. Not just her parents – there’s messages from aunts and uncles, great aunts and cousins, both sets of grandparents as well. Much like she expected, instead of keeping their problems to themselves, her parents made them everybody else’s.

Some of the messages were encouraging – her dad’s mum told her to stay safe and smart and return home whenever she’s ready; her mum’s sister said that she understands her choice. Some were the exact opposite – a lot of them called her ungrateful, or attention seeking, or childish and irresponsible.

The worst one was from her mother. Granted, it was followed by an apology and a change of attitude, but the message is clear.

If you really think you’re ready to leave, be ready to make it permanent.

Kiara goes to sleep with one thought on her mind, and it’s that even with a housemate she doesn’t like, and one that she doesn’t know, and being on completely foreing ground, moving to Kildare was the smartest decision of her fucking life.

★

next chapter

#jiara #jiara fanfic #outer banks #obx #obx fic #obx fanfiction #jj maybank #kiara carrera #jj maybank x kiara carrera #my foolish heart series

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mwolf0epsilon · 3 years

Note

Spooky prompt with Norman x Sammy

Summary: After getting accidentally locked in the studio after-hours, Norman and Sammy feel less alone than they should of...

Closing prompt requests for now! Got something else I want to focus on for a while that I'm hoping you lot may enjoy.

---

[[MORE]]

It was a bit of an inevitability that one day this scenario came to play, being locked in for the night after Wally mistakingly assumed all personal had vacated the premises. What was unexpected was that it happened to two people on the very same night...

The people in question however? What with Sammy's new habit of isolating himself in a secret and tightly locked corner he'd claimed for himself, and Norman's proficiency in getting inside nooks and crannies no one else thought a nearly 7 foot tall man could fit? Definitely the sort to escape the janitor's notice and end up in this conundrum... Especially considering they'd clocked out many hours prior to Wally cleaning up and setting off for the night. If anything, they deserved it for being exceptionally sneaky.

"Fantastic..." The blond composer groaned as he watched the much taller projectionist give up on trying to fiddle with the lock. Cheapskate as Joey was, Mr. Drew seemed to at least invest in some very tight security. Likely a courtesy of GENT when the studio's partnership with the company arose. "Just what I needed, to be kept from my bed another night because Franks decided to go home early."

"N'aw. I reckon it ain't that early... When I was comin' upstairs the clock read 'bout 2:50..." He tapped his chin in thought and snapped the pin of his cravat back into place, no longer needing it to act as a makeshift lockpick. "Must be witchin' hour just 'bout now. Takes these old bones o' mine a while to get up here all quick-like..."

"3AM? Already?!" Sammy worried his lower lip as he realized how sidetracked he'd become. He should get a clock into his sanctuary at some point to avoid something like this in the near future. "Abigail is going to kill me... She must have waited all night..."

"Yous could always just call the landline an' say yous as busy as a one-legged cat in a sandbox." Norman offered with a smile that was bordering on the mischievous "In kinder words no doubt."

"She'd spit fire over the phone if I woke her up at 3 in the morning." He grimaced as he rejected such an idea. "The one thing she inherited from her mother is the capacity to transform into a fire-spitting drake if you wake her up at an ungodly hour..."

At such a notion Norman couldn't help grin and guffaw at the sight of Samuel Lawrence in all his peacock-like might, cowering away from a positively irate 18 year old girl with his tail between his shaking legs.

"Well, slap my head and call me silly! Yous still got your funny bone somewhere in that pile of highfalutin' grouchiness." The Louisianan's smile only grew as Sammy glares up at him. "Hey now, don't yous go lookin' so sour. It's good that yous is still yourself... Even after..."

"I'd rather not talk about that, thank you very much!" The musician knew exactly what Norman was referring to and he cut the topic short immediately. "Lets focus on the fact we're both trapped for the night. I don't know about you but I, for one, am starving and exhausted."

The projectionist nodded, conceding to the fact they should head to the breakroom and see if anyone had forgotten their packed lunch, or if maybe Lottie had left some non-perishables in the cabinets next to the stove. Like canned beans or maybe even canned fruit.

"I'm so hungry my belly thinks my throat's been cut... Tell yous what, if we gots the ingredients I could make us my Nanna's go to dish for when we was lil' tots growin' up." An easy enough meal that was effortless to make, and gave him enough time to see if Grant still had those blankets in his office while his companion ate

"And what's that?" Sammy asked, eyebrow raising.

"A peanut butter and jelly sandwich." Norman winked, which earned him a groan. "N'aw don't you go dissin' my poor Nanna's cookin' she was a skilled lady, but we was several youngins! And we was growin' bigger every day."

"I'll say... You're as large as a breeding bull." With better taste in clothes, albeit often overdressed for the occasion.

"You askin' for a ride, cowboy?" The mischief returned to Norman's grin as he noted Sammy's unusual fondness for boots rather than dress shoes. A more practical choice in his humble opinion.

"Buy me dinner, you pig." The blond dismissed, albeit unable to keep a smile off his face. "A man of my caliber deserves proper servicing, wouldn't you agree?"

Before the conversation could get any bit lewder, a noise downstairs halted their banter altogether. The two instinctively turned their heads towards the stairs, twin expressions of concern as they assessed what they had both just heard. It had sounded like clattering, down in Dr. Hackenbush's tiny little infermary.

"You hear that?" An unnecessary question, as Sammy knew for a fact Norman had. Still it felt better to acknowledge it aloud.

"Somethin' yes... Probably them lousy paper-thin pipes again... I don't know where Mr. Connor is gettin' the metal for 'em but I have half a mind t' tell him off for gettin' such shoddy materials." He looked unnerved more so than curious. Maybe a little irritable as the noisy pipework distracted him just as much as it did Sammy.

"You'd think they were made of flimsy tin...Either way let's uh, let's go eat down in the breakroom." The blond shook his head and began making his way to the stairs. If there was anything in Hackenbush's workspace it's not like it could get to them. The damn thing had been locked for a while, until the Doctor's services were needed. Something about preventing people from stealing his sedatives or whatever.

He was probably worked up over a raccoon either way. The dang things kept getting in through the ventilation. Just the other day Wally had fought one over a donut of all things...And lost.

"Yeah..." The towering projectionist followed, quieter now. Pensive. "Might as well fill our bellies an' get some shut-eye... Tomorrow if we is lucky, Drew might let us go home an' shower."

"Maybe..." Sammy nodded. As reasonable as it was that a raccoon was the likely cause of the strange noise, he couldn't help feel like it might be something more sinister. He was sure Norman felt the same too, as neither were strangers to Joey's... Less than savoury dealings with criminals and charlatans. But the thoughts of a bit of sleep and a shower in the morning were much more interesting and inviting thoughts than to worry about his paranoia. "Maybe not."

"We'll see, now won't we?"

"Guess we will."

That night the pipes sounded louder somehow. It felt like they were calling to them even... Whether or not Norman heard the calls was debatable, as the man was harder to read than a Russian dictionary, but Sammy swore up and down that he could hear his name in the flow... It spooked him terribly.

Never again, he thought, would he let himself sleep over-night in this damnable studio. He already wasted enough time in there after all. Living in it was nowhere in his future. Even if it meant he could spend an entire night or two shooting the breeze with a man that both infuriated him and made his heart go soft.

#eps writes:#bendy and the ink machine #batim #sammy lawrence #norman polk

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need-a-new-hobby · 3 years

Text

Feed a Cold, Starve a Fever

Sickfic drabble that I wrote at 12 am. It’s probably terrible but it’s fluffy so I’m good. TW: scars, fever, sickness, illness, reference to torture/mutilation. Prompts used are bolded.

Spencer had a bad habit of ducking through doorways, even though the elevator doors were an easy foot taller than him. He carried two warm cups in his hand, a spiced chai latte for Piper and his own. He smiled to himself as Anderson opened the glass double doors before sidling past him. His girlfriend, he’d never get used to saying that, had taken it upon herself to get Spencer off caffeine. It hadn’t gone well until she told him that she’d have to drink coffee every time he did. It was working so far, in that every time he almost poured himself a cup of coffee, he’d remember every bad thing his mom and Piper had ever said about too much caffeine. He’d cursed his memory and settled for a soothing cup of ginger tea.

Spencer looked up to see their corner of the bullpen empty save for his pile of pending paperwork and consultancies. That was strange, he noted. Piper was notorious for waking up unnaturally early and as such, getting to work at exactly 8 am. Dismissing it as just a trip to the bathroom, he set the cup on her desk, before remembering her distaste for stains. Her discomfort had been challenged once by Derek who had called her ‘OCD’ and proceeded to challenge her. She’d get 10 bucks if she didn’t wipe away the mug stains on her desk for the next hour. Suffice it to say, she’d failed miserably, snapping at everyone who spoke a word to her and egregiously misspelling her report. Eventually, she’d shoved the takeaway cup she hadn’t even raised to her lips into the garbage before wiping down the desk. Unfortunately, she was exactly 40 seconds from winning the bet. Spencer placed the cup gently on a counter before settling into his seat, getting started on his paperwork. Emily arrived a few minutes later, a latte held firmly in her hand. “No Piper?” Emily asked, slipping into her seat.

“Haven’t seen her yet,” Spencer replied uneasily. He glanced at his watch.

“Maybe she’s with Penelope. She’s been having a rough time with JJ gone.” Spencer leaned back into his chair.

“You think we’ll get her back?”

“I hope so. We need her. I don’t know how we do this job without a communications liaison.” Spencer nodded, taking in a deep breath.

“We still have to do the job,” Spencer sighed, glancing over at Piper’s desk. She always knew how to make his fears go away. He remembered when he’d first told her about his addiction, how forgiving she’d been. That was before he knew she’d battled it before. But she had this magical way of making everything feel so much simpler. “She should be here by now,” he murmured.

“Maybe she took a day off,” Emily shrugged. “I know Rossi took a few days to work on his book.” Spencer nodded, a little uneasy. He was about to dive into his work again until Anderson marched over to Piper’s desk, lifting a large pile of files from her corner across from Spencer’s desk.

“What are you doing?” Spencer asked in outrage. Piper would kill anyone who messed up her desk.

“Dr Bishop called me,” Grant said defensively. “Said she wasn’t feeling like coming to work, asked if I’d bring the files to her apartment. I don’t really have anything to do until Gina gets the forensic report from the Maryland case.” Spencer narrowed his eyes and Emily chuckled.

“Let the man do his job, Reid.” Taking it as a cue to leave, Grant pulled the files into a box and left promptly and Spencer tapped on his desk, still thoughtful as he stared at Piper’s empty desk. “My god, Reid, just call her,” Emily groaned as she pulled a file from her desk to start working on and he punched in her number into the dark receiver. It took a few rings until Piper’s stuffy voice filtered through.

“Anderson, where are my files? I have work to do, I can’t stay in bed.”

“Piper?” He heard muffled curses, and something crash on the other end of the line before her voice came through.

“Hello, light of my life. Have I mentioned how much I love you?”

“Yes, Pipes, is everything okay?”

“Yep, just peachy.” He heard a muffled cough on the other line.

“Piper, are you sick?”

“No… I’m just…tired?”

“Is that a question or a statement?”

“I don’t—Wait, the room’s spinning again...that’s not normal, is it?”

“No, it isn’t normal. Honey, you’re not making any sense.” He was very conscious of Emily’s stifled chuckle on the other side of the desk.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he heard her say after sneezing loudly. “’M fone.”

“Oh, well if your fone, then sure.”

“You know, last I checked, they don’t pay you to check my grammar,” she grumbled. and Spencer would’ve chuckled if he wasn’t so worried. “Besides, it’s like Dr Phil says, you don’t have a fever if you believe it strong enough.”

“Okay, that’s it. I’m checking up on you.”

“No, really, pretzel, I’m fine. Everyone has colds, you don’t have to—”

“Pretzel?” A reluctant chuckle spilled from his lips. “You know what, I—I don’t care. I’m coming over.”

“No, don’t!” But the rest of her protest was deafened by Spencer placing the receiver into his landline.

“What’s up, pretzel?” Emily said, valiantly fighting back a laugh.

“Shut up,” he murmured as he left his seat, almost tripping over himself as he made his way up the steps to Hotch’s office. Emily was still laughing by the time he marched past.

Spencer found Anderson waiting outside Piper’s apartment. “Hey, Dr Reid,” Grant greeted him. “I tried calling her cell, she didn’t pick up. I’ve been waiting for her for 20 minutes and Gina’s almost done with her report—”

“That’s okay. You can give me the files. Besides, I’ve got the spare key.” He watched Anderson leave and carefully tucked the box under his arm before rummaging through his bag for his key. He pushed his shoulder against the door, calling out her name while squeezing through the door. But the sight of his girlfriend collapsed on the floor made him drop the files, rushing to her side. She moaned softly as Spencer rolled her on her back. Piper squeezed her eyes together. He called out her name again, but she just rolled to her side.

“Five more minutes, Mama,” she mumbled, and Spencer blinked slowly. Quickly, he pressed the back of his hand to her forehead, then to her neck.

“Oh, you’re burning up.” Ignoring the number of germs that were probably covering her entire body, Spencer slung her arm around his shoulder, slowly lifting her up. He shifted her weight, inching towards the bedroom. Piper was wearing one of his button-ups that he’d left at her apartment and a pair of sweatpants. She’d rolled up the sleeves high enough that her scars were visible. Her university seal glowered against her warm beige skin while faint white lines traced her other arm. Finally, Piper seemed to wake up for a moment and her weight was shared between them until her head hit the mattress and she let out a groan. Spencer retrieved her medical supplies, returning to the familiar room with an armful of various medications and inhalers. “Have you eaten anything?” Piper shook her head thickly.

“Waffles,” she mumbled. “With butter and whipped cream and chocolate and—”

“And DayQuil,” he finished for her as he pressed to fingers to the bridge of her nose, forcing her to open her mouth. He popped the pill in and passed her a glass of water. Grumbling, she swallowed it.

“I told you not to come,” she said nasally. “You’re gonna get sick, peanut.” He looked up; forehead wrinkled. “Not peanut?” Spencer smiled at her and she looked to the sky to take an enormous sniffle. “I can’t breathe,” she groaned before collapsing backwards onto the mattress.

“How’d you get so sick?” Spencer asked her, fumbling for the thermometer.

“Well, I remember I was really sad about JJ leaving so then I was eating ice cream and then Mrs Jameson came over,” she said deliriously. “She told me her cat got stuck up a tree. I think.” She shot up, sniffed deeply, relieved at being able to breathe for about 2 seconds until her nasal canal was blocked again and she groaned, collapsing sideways. Spencer stuck the thermometer into her mouth and Piper continued the story. “So, I left and what Mrs Jameson forgot to mention was that it was raining.”

“How did you not know it was raining?”

“Because I was blasting Linkin Park. I was sad, remember?”

“Right, duh,” Spencer scoffed, folding his legs under him next to the bed as he waited for the thermometer to ping.

“So, there I was, half-way up the tree, only for the cat to jump down. Only issue was, now I was stuck in the tree and it was raining a lot and if I took the wrong step, I’d probably fall.” Piper sighed miserably. “By the time I got home, I had a huge cold and probably a sinus infection. I figured chow mein and sleep would get rid of it. But no, my body can’t fight off a cold without turning into a bloody oven.” Spencer pressed a kiss to Piper’s forehead.

“How ‘bout a cup of tea?” Spencer murmured. “We can watch Doctor Who.” Piper’s eyes drooped and she hummed before shaking her head and wrinkling her forehead.

“No, I’ve got work to do. My paperwork—”

“Really?” Spencer challenged as his gaze hardened, a nearly impossible feat at Piper’s shrunken, stiff, pale body. “Where’s the last case we went on?”

“Maltimore,” she mumbled.

“And the names?”

“Sigmund Petersen and, um, Jilly Boel,” she said, grinning. “Fee, I’m sine!” She wrinkled her nose before the thermometer pinged and Spencer plucked it, careful not to touch the moist end.

“Baby, you’re 110 degrees.”

“That’s me,” she mumbled. “Always 110 per cent.” Spencer shook his head, moving to unravel Piper’s sleeves and tucking her into bed.

“You need to sleep.” Piper tried to mumble something, tried to fight the drowsiness but her body seemed to want to heed Spencer’s words and soon enough she was snoring softly. Spencer sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he got up from his uncomfortable seat next to the bed. He figured he’d have an hour before she woke up again, plenty of time to get Penelope to make her signature soup and clean up.

Piper rolled over, her hand migrating to settle under her pillow. Slowly, her eyes opened to find Spencer sitting in bed next to her, reading one of her books. “Thank you for staying with me,” she mumbled. Spencer looked over at her warmly.

“How do you feel?” Piper clutched her head, finding the energy to push herself into a sitting position.

“I feel thoroughly disgusting.” She smiled feebly at Spencer’s chuckle. He never laughed; Piper noted as Spencer adjusted her pillows. Always little chuckles and smiles. Sometimes it was hard to tell when Spencer found something funny, almost never at the moment. Most of the time he found things odd, but he’d always laugh about it after. He reached out a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Hungry?”

“Starving,” Piper smiled. She still felt a little weak, but maybe the sickness was worth it if it meant a little love and affection from Spencer.

#spencer reid sickfic #sickfic #criminal minds #spencer reid #caretaker #whump #fever prompts

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camseanron · 3 years

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𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐠: "fuck this, i need a drink." he leaves the circle. he looks at nobody. 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐧: sean had gotten up and was about to go after craig, but when ellie did, he turned off and went in the other direction instead. sean's pissed at a lot of things, and overall he's really fucking drunk. all he can think is one foot in front of the other but he hears ellie's voice and it sounds like he might be imagining it and if he's not, then he's definitely not doing this right now. so he keeps walking, through a door and round a corner and when he hears paige's voice, he turns to face her whilst taking a couple steps back and pulling cigarettes out of his pocket, pulling one from the pack. "i'm not okay, really, but i'll find you later. i just -" he held his cigarette up, turning again to make his way outside. the cool of the air is refreshing and it sobers him up just enough to sit on the ledge of a fountain and light his cigarette without any risk of falling in and drowning . when he hears a door on the other side of the courtyard-type-area open up he dreads it's someone coming after him, but when it's craig and he's going in the opposite direction towards the cars, he's relieved and concerned and angry and everything in between. 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐠: craig doesn’t witness sean move to get up and go after him, doesn’t see ellie start to do the same, nor does he witness her going after and then getting blatantly ignored by sean. by then he’s already moving through the house pushing through people at a pace that makes him damn near impossible to keep up with, making his way back to the place where in his out of his mind inebriated state, he last remembers having the keys to his shitty car. he’s got a bottle in one hand while he’s searching around in the trampoline room, and once he finds them it turns into him making a beeline for the nearest door to lead him out of the hollingsworth house. he finds himself crossing the driveway where there’s tons of cars parked, drinking from the mouth of the bottle as he walks. when he gets close enough to the drivers side door of his own vehicle he yeets the bottle he’s holding, watching the glass shatter and the remainder of the booze soak into the ground. he thinks about what a good time he’d been having, how weird he feels now. maybe it’s the come down, maybe it’s the confusing emotions that came from kissing an ex, or being insulted by a best friend’s replacement for him, or just... sitting in that circle with all of those people. either way, craig is ready to go. he fumbles with his keys, dropping them, having to bend down to pick them up, and when he’s in that position he kinda feels like he might puke. he doesn’t, thankfully. 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐧: sean's annoyed. and angry. on behalf of the past few months of his life, and for everything that happened in the past five minutes. everything he had to witness sat in that circle. it was shitty, and he feels bad for the fact paige came after him and he asked her to go like that. he was just pissed. and he'd been avoiding both ellie and craig for months now to avoid an argument, to avoid a fight, and then one nearly appeared right in front of him. he never asked, or gave permission, for landon to be pissed on his behalf. and it also wasn't okay for craig to have been such a dick towards landon for no reason. but that doesn't mean he suddenly gives zero fucks about craig whatsoever, and when he sees the guy walking towards his car - he knows it's a bad idea. he gets up, throws his barely-burned cigarette into the fountain and pretty much runs over to where craig's bending to get his keys. he almost falls over when bending down, but he steadies himself and reaches out to grab them before craig manages to, managing a "you're not driving" and a half-hiccup before stepping back a few paces, putting some of the distance back between them that had been present since mid december. 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐠: “dude.” craig complains through half slurred words, “gimback my keys, i’m goin’ home.” he steps forward at the same pace he creates distance, and holds out his hand for them like sean is just going to willingly give them back over. 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐧: "fuck off," sean says, not with nearly any venom but just distaste at the fact that craig would even think that he'd just hand the keys back over like that. he doesn't like the way that craig is coming forward at the same pace he's going backwards, and it's only when he nearly knocks over an array of flowerpots that he stops. "order an uber." 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐠: "m'not paying for a fuckin uber! i can drive. gimback my keys!"craig he does his best to try and snatch them right out of sean's hand, not even realizing he's backing him into flowerpots until one teeters and almost topples over. 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐧: "well it's a long walk, then." sean sounds the most sensible that he has done all night, and he's not sure what brings that out of him. especially where his stupid ex best friend trying to drive whilst drunk pulled him away from the calming cigarette he'd planned to have, which floats in the fountain as they have this stupid argument. he ducks under craig's arm, too drunk to have any sense of balance and hitting his head on his forearm on the way under. but he makes it, and this time he's backing towards the direction they'd just came, definitely not in a straight line. "stop being a baby." 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐠: craig accidentally smacks sean in the forehead with his arm, "i'm not being a baby! you're bein an asshole!" he lunges for the keys again, grabbing sean by the wrist, trying to pry them out of his hand. he is taller than sean by a notable amount (he thinks anyway bc he's a turd), but sean is definitely stronger, so they're a pretty even match. 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐧: sean's fist is clenched around the keys, not willing to give them up for no bitch. the audacity of craig to call him the asshole? after sean having to maintain hurt for multiple months and still being there to make sure craig didn't drive whilst this fucked up? ridiculous. he grabs the wrist of criag's hand that's holding sean, moving around swiftly so that his back was to craig's front and pulling his arm down. he just figured craig wouldn't be able to reach over his shoulder and down that far, planning to put space between them again when he's free. "yeah, well, that's me," he concludes, taking ownership of the title. "go catch a bus." 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐠: craig doesn't hesitate when sean turns around to get away from him, jumping and climbing up onto his back the second he presses it to his front like a damn monkey as he reaches over his shoulder, still trying to fight the keys out of his hand. "dude! c'mon i'm serious, i wanna go h-oh shit!" obviously they topple over. i said craig was toller. he's also heavier, and sean's drunk, so i mean. 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐧: sean can barely keep himself upright and has absolutely no chance with craig suddenly on top of him. he hadn't anticipated it, and suddenly he's holding the keys underneath his body. which granted - it feels safer there, but he also does not want craig on top of him. he uses his elbows as a weapon, jutting one backwards in effort to get this pain in the ass off of his ass. "you can go home, but you can't -" he pauses here to try and shake craig off. "-can't ride me home so get off my back!" 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐠: craig is now yeah literally sitting on sean’s ass as he tries to reach underneath his body where he knows he is shielding the keys from his reach, “is that a challenge?” he asks sean, a line that comes to him way too quickly, sneaking a hand underneath him finally but not getting a grip on the keys as desired. instead he accidentally pinches a nipple in the struggle, “shi- sorry..- dude, c’mon!” 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐧: sean's not sure where the line is, but he's definitely sure they've way surpassed it when he gets nipple injury from this stupidity. "this isn't fucking funny," he warns through gritted teeth. and everything's spinning so slightly and he feels like he's gonna throw up with craig sitting on him like he's a fucking beanbag but somehow he manages to put both hands on the ground below him and push himself up, hoping to knock craig off but unsure if it'll instead result in craig sitting on sean's back like a child playing horsey. 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐠: “who’s laughing?” craig demands, “fuck!” but suddenly he’s being thrown back and he has to hold on or risk being yeeted, so that’s exactly what he does, just grips onto sean’s shoulders and doesn’t let go, then winds one arm around his thick ass neck, but doesn’t actually apply any pressure, it’s the loosest not chokehold ever. “give. me. the. keys!” 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐧: "it's not gonna happen,"he pushes up onto his knees, trying to get him off. "i'll drop it round yours tomorrow," he offers, not for one second believing that craig deserved this level of kindness but somehow happy to play the role whilst it was here and still easy to slip into. "fucking- just go back in the party," he ordered, just wanting to have his cigarette at this point. and if sean discovered that they were crushed, craig might wanna be long gone for his own safety. 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐠: months of rising tension fueled by going so long without speaking has led up to this moment- this ridiculous moment, with craig on sean's back in the middle of the hollingsworth's insanely long driveway, not that far from a smashed bottle of liquor on the ground beside them, screaming at each other because he won't give craig his keys (rightfully, he shouldn't have them). "yeah, yeah okay, alright, okay- 'cept you haven't been to my house in months!" and with that he finally climbs off of him, or rather shoves off of him, coming to his feet. "yknow joey asks me about you every fucking week, at least- sometimes multiple times a fucking week and i have to tell him, 'no joey, i know joey, we all miss sean joey, sean hates my rotten fucking guts joey, sean's never coming over again!'" he is definitely way too fucked up to be having any conversation with sean...- but he definitely shouldn't be steering it in this direction. his eyes are getting glassy, threatening to flood when he speaks, and the words start sounding thicker in his throat. he turns away from him, blinking it all back. "fuck this, i'm just gonna walk." he definitely can't walk from this rich ass neighborhood and expect to get to his house in the burbs, but in that moment, he doesn't care. he just starts walking.

#✗ — 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐌𝐀 ⸢ꜰᴛ. craig⸥

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athenaquinn · 3 years

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Crossing a Bridge || Orion & Athena

TIMING: After the events with Luis (apologies for delay!) LOCATION: Cafe near UMWC PARTIES: @3starsquinn and @athenaquinn SUMMARY: Athena comes to help Orion. The twins try the talking thing again. CONTENT: Mentions of abuse, brief mentions of cleaning injuries

The restaurant was a wreck. Outside of the blood and bodies, broken glass and plates littered the floor. There was food everywhere and the tables and chairs were overturned and broken. Orion sat outside of it, staring inside through the glassless window without actually seeing anything. He was staring more into space than at anything in particular. The only thing he could see were scenes on repeat from earlier. Police and paramedics rotated in and out of the building, helping lead people from the kitchen out to ambulances. Rio’s mind was too fuzzy to figure out how many there were in total. How many people had died tonight before Rio had done something to stop the wolf? Just more people on his conscience.

He had refused medical attention initially. Shrugging off their advances and insisting that they check on the people still inside the restaurant. Avoiding the hospital was always the smartest option, but even he could admit that the wounds he had suffered tonight were far worse than the usual ones that he would shrug off. His shoulder and leg ached from where the wolf had bitten him. His hoodie hung in tatters on his side and back, exposing the open wounds from where he had drug his claws down Rio’s back. On top of that, his previously grey hoodie was now soaked a dark red color. It had begun drying, caking on a thick layer that forced the material to stick against his skin and pull against his wounds whenever Rio moved. His hands were stained with the same blood, something that he had unknowingly smeared across his face at some point. At some point, the police must have taken pity on the mostly silent kid with trauma and grabbed his things from inside. He wasn’t sure if they used his wallet to get his name or if Rio had simply forgotten that he gave it to them, but it wasn’t long before a familiar figure was weaving through the police cars and up to Rio. No surprise that if they were going to call someone, it would be the only known living family that he had left. “Hi there.”

She didn’t know how to respond to her brother’s frantic message. Athena only knew that she was starting to loathe the idea of him being in danger even more than she’d ever done so before. Which was saying quite a bit, given that she considered herself afraid of very few things but her brother ever coming to harm was undoubtedly one of them. Which was more ironic than she’d ever have wished it to be, given that she had - both indirectly and directly - been one of the causes of most significant harm to him. But now their parents weren’t around and that meant that things had to get better, didn’t it? She wasn’t naïve enough to believe that everything would be simple now, but part of her hoped that maybe what they had done would change something. It had, in a way, she supposed - because she couldn’t think of the last time that the two of them had talked as much as they were now, despite the fact that they’d entirely avoided talking for weeks after everything that had happened.

Still, it meant a lot that instead of someone else he’d called her. Athena didn’t even think about where she was driving, she knew the cafe and so drove over from the apartment practically on autopilot, parking a few blocks away and quickly rushing over, the sound of her boots a clear reminder on the sidewalk. “I know what I’m doing.” She scoffed, pushing through the small crowd of people and the police. “My brother called me, I’m allowed to be here.” She looked straight at one of them, a man who was at least half a foot taller than she was but who shrank away the second she crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. Once he’d backed away, she found her way over to where Rio was sitting, up against the wall. “What happened?” Her voice was hushed. “Let me look you over.”

It was Orion’s goal to avoid his sister’s eye contact as much as physically possible. He had no idea how she would react to what had happened tonight, but he was absolutely sure that he wouldn’t like her opinion either way. Whether she was proud of him or thought he was an idiot, both would only work to make Rio feel even worse about himself. Probably because he had spent so long craving his sister’s approval while simultaneously detesting it more than anybody else’s. His breathing was heavy even though his need to catch his breath had passed long ago. He knew that meant it was the start of his panicking. He desperately needed to keep that under control. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a panic attack in front of his sister, but he wasn’t planning on breaking the record today. “There was a wolf” Rio stated simply. He knew she would demand greater details, but for now that was all he could manage. “A werewolf” Rio finally amended, tacking the last bit on just for clarification. At Athena’s insistence, Rio motioned to the empty space beside him. She could do whatever examination she wanted, but it would have to be one that didn’t involve much movement from him. He was far too sore and tired for that. “They want to take me to the hospital.”

At least the paramedics and police were leaving them alone for the moment. Athena wasn’t sure how long it would last - which meant that she had to act fast, whatever she was going to do. Except she felt herself freeze, at least for a moment, and just look at her brother, her eyes wide, as she reminded herself that he’d asked her to come and that had to mean something. “Hey, it’s okay.” Her hand found his shoulder, cautious to the touch, because the two of them had spent so long at each other’s throats (by their parents own design), that falling into something simple and practically delicate felt more surreal than anything else. Perhaps that was possible, again, no matter how odd and overwhelming the thought might have been. “I - oh my god.” She said, her voice low. “I -” she opened up her bag, pulling out a small, travel-sized bottle of disinfectant and one of the many pieces of cloth that she had on her. She readjusted her position, leaning back up against the wall, nearly-though-not-quite mirroring his position. “I mean, you probably should go, but I’d like to at least get a general look-over before they take you. Do you - I can - what happened? I can come to the hospital if you want?” She ran her fingertips along the collar of his shirt, noticing the injury on his shoulder. “What would best help right now?”

Before Orion realized it, Athena was on the ground with him. Unsurprisingly, she looked in far better shape than he did. He was almost glad that the dim lighting of the streetlights and sirens limited people’s visions. Between that and the blood soaked clothes, it was almost easy to miss how bad Rio’s wounds probably were. Especially if it had been done to an ordinary human. Rio’s vision granted him too many details into the sight. Sometimes night vision was a curse. “They killed people.” Rio began, the only real way that he knew to begin the story. Rio’s life had been all sympathy for werewolves, but now he couldn’t stop thinking about the way the werewolf had ruthlessly taken out those people. “I tried to stop it and it didn’t go so well until-” Rio could still remember how tightly he had been gripping the pocket knife. His fingers curled into a loosely formed fist out on the pavement just thinking about it. “I stabbed it. With that-” stupid pocket knife was what Rio had wanted to say. But it had been a gift from Athena, and probably one that had saved lives tonight. “With the pocketknife you gave me. Nice touch on those.” He didn’t argue against her checking out the wounds, though a paramedic might have different opinions if spotting a random girl doing her own check-up. He hated the hospital. But not going would be far dumber than any other time he had avoided going. “Can you grab me clothes? I don’t want to get discharged without anything to wear. My key is in the bookbag. Ariana has one too.”

She could feel her whole body tense up - though she knew that maybe her vision wasn’t quite as good as her brother’s (she did know that her hearing wasn’t as good - his reactions to her tantrums when they were kids was proof enough of that), but she could tell he was badly injured. Not again, was all that Athena could keep thinking. “The wolf did? That’s -” what they do, she wanted to finish - her words caught in her throat, and she knew that her brother had heard the very same ones. From their parents, dozens of times, if not more. Ariana was an exception, clearly, and though Athena was hardly willing to give thoughts to figuring out more exceptions, not right now. That didn’t mean that her brother needed to hear that. He’d dealt with twenty-one years of her parroting their parents’ words and she didn’t want to do that to him now. “Awful.” she finally settled on. She let him finish what he was saying, though she couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow, fighting away a smirk at his next words. “Yeah, no problem. Glad it helped.” Told you so. She continued to clean his shoulder, paying no attention to everyone else around them. “Yes, of course. I’d be happy to do that. Any preferences, or should I just grab whatever I think is best?” She placed the cloth off to the side and grabbed a new, clean one as her fingers ghosted over his leg. “Though this is it for hospital visits, alright? I’m not super keen to place merry-go-round with hospital visits with you.” At least she hadn’t had to, with Deirdre. Something she figured she should mention to Rio at some point, but that wasn’t the focus right now. At least Deirdre hadn’t been the one to hurt him. At least that was something - and he was immune to the bites. “How are you going to explain this to all the very human doctors at the hospital? Wild animal?”

Athena was being surprisingly careful, a personality trait that Orion wasn’t used to when it came to her. Admittedly, that had been happening a lot with her recently. But it wasn’t any less jarring for Rio to try to process. She had managed to get through Rio’s explanation without any bragging or signs of blatant disgust at the mention of a werewolf. He watched the way that the gears turned in her head as she handpicked the words that she wanted to speak. Since when did Athena do any prior thinking before speaking? “Yeah, it wasn’t a pretty sight.” Especially having to watch and listen to it happening in real time. He still couldn’t get the image of the waitress out of his head. “No. It doesn’t matter what you grab. As long as it’s a hoodie.” He flinched at her touch but tried to stay as still as he could. “Well it’s definitely not my goal to end up in the hospital again. I don’t even want to go now.” Athena was right that they would be asking a lot of questions when he got there. “I guess I planned on doing what I’m best at. Staying silent. Maybe they’ll think I'm some traumatized kid and the rest of the people can fill in the blanks for me.” Technically Rio was some traumatized kid. But not nearly in the way that any of them could expect.

“I’d be alarmed if you believed it were, Ri.” She knew he could see her raise an eyebrow. “Even with… well, even with how you see things, I don’t think you’d find this kind of destruction pretty.” Athena’s fingers fiddled with Amanda’s ring as she continued to work to help her brother - still mostly one-handed given the fact that her cast was still there, but at least she could help him. Help someone, unlike with Amanda. She wanted to ask her brother more about what happened, but this wasn’t the time. “One hoodie and other assorted and coordinated clothes, coming right up.” She’d probably sneak in some food as well, though she wasn’t about to let him know, because knowing her brother he’d find some excuse for why she shouldn’t do that, and though she was content to ignore him, avoiding the conversation altogether was better for the both of them in the long run. “Mm, that makes two of us, but still. Going is probably better, even though I think you’ll be all healed in not too much time, though there’s a chance you’ll have some new scars.” She didn’t want to focus on her new ones now, even though she figured at some point she should mention the murderous banshee to her brother. “Hey, I think you’re actually really good at talking,” too much sometimes, “but staying silent and letting the doctors fill in the blanks for themselves works best in times like this. I mean, I did make up my own excuses for the arm but letting them make their own ideas about this is probably for the best.”

“Don’t” Orion sighed, raising a hand as a signal for Athena to stop there while she was ahead. He knew that Athena hadn’t meant it in a judgemental or hostile way, but old habits died hard. Sometimes it was still hard to imagine any conversation with Athena where she wasn’t trying to dig under his skin to mess with him. “I’m not having that conversation.” How he saw things had nothing to do with what happened tonight. Even if it had everything to do with it. Rio wasn’t in the mood to fall down that rabbit hole. “Thanks. I appreciate you grabbing it for me.” By now even though he wanted to just go back to the house and lie in the bathtub with the shower running, he probably needed to concede and go to the hospital. “I have a tendency to overtalk. That doesn’t make me social.” I just made him awkward. With all the stories that will be going around from the rest of the survivors, the police and hospital staff would be able to fill in the blanks and come up with some conclusions for the quiet kid that threw a plate at a wild animal and got attacked by it. “The paramedics coming over here,” Rio nodded towards them, “Probably means they want to take me soon.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she didn’t mean to snap back, scrunching up her face after that. Despite the fact that they were talking, Athena knew that certain things held on far more than she’d have ever liked for them to. “Fine. No conversation to be had.” She took in a deep breath for a moment. He’d asked her to help and she wanted him to keep feeling comfortable doing so. Needed him to feel that way, almost. “Of course. It’s the least I can do.” Even for things outside of this, sat there unspoken. “Besides, once they give you a lookover and some painkillers, you’ll probably be dismissed. Ideally within a few days at least.” She shrugged. “If not, let me know and I’m happy to come and talk some sense into them.” Athena raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, well, some might take it as social. That’s all I’m saying.” Her gaze followed his nodding. “Probably. You sure there’s nothing else I can do?” She shoved some of the fabric into her bag. “I - thanks. I’m glad you trusted me enough for this.” She looked over to him, lips pushed to the side. “Now I’ll go get you a hoodie and at least some sort of snack.”

There was just enough tension between the two of them to remind both that the whatever relationship they had left was fragile and hanging by a dangling thread. For whatever DNA they shared, so much about them fell on opposite ends of every scale available. The two had spent so long against each other that even when they were on the same side they couldn’t help but bite back at each other. For what it was worth, Athena seemed just as eager to avoid an argument as Orion was, leaving the conversation between the two quiet and nearly empty, but pleasant. “Yeah. I’ll be fine. They can’t keep me for too long.” Rio answered her just as the paramedic came up to the two and helped Rio up off of the ground and onto his legs. They shook as he was led towards an ambulance. He only turned back towards Athena once to nod his head, “I’ll see you there, okay?”

#wickedswriting #c orion #chatzy #crossing a bridge #abuse mention #injury clean up #// i love cody and rio dearly #also me? using an anastasia song as a chatzy title?#more likely than u think :)

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barnesandco · 4 years

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Nikah: March

Story Masterlist

Nikah: noun, Arabic, meaning the contract of marriage.

Bucky marries Peter’s former tutor because her student visa’s about to expire and the government isn’t granting her a green card. Can she find a way to permanent residence by marriage, and if so, will it be at the cost of their hearts?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: None.

A/N: Written under the Arranged/Accidental Marriage trope for @mermaidxatxheart ‘s writing challenge. Thank you all for reading and commenting! (Picture below is mine, btw)

Bucky’s birthday arrives amidst blooming flowers and a pollen-scented breeze, the day marked by preparations for a party Sam is throwing for him at one of the hotels downtown. Avengers and close friends only, yet he’s spared no expense, insisting on a proper welcome back. The captain is unrelenting in matters of social activity, especially since he has been spending minimal time with his teammates since his marriage. Marriage. He shakes his head at himself in the floor length mirror as he straightens his cuff-links and moonlight catches on the gold band on his finger. It no longer feels like a burden.

Rather, it’s a seed that’s been planted on him, and it’s taken root inside him, growing, growing, growing into a steady feeling of friendship with the person he wears it for. An understanding, a companionship. He refuses to confess to anything more, even within the confines of his own mind. His heart, on the other hand, has no compunctions about making its opinion known, setting off like a hare being hunted whenever she approaches. Most dangerous assassin in the world, defeated by her smile.

She offers him one now when she enters, picture perfect elegance very nearly succeeding in concealing her nerves. Bucky’s nerves, meanwhile, are on fire at the sight of her, sensory overload short-circuiting his brain. He finally turns to look at her directly and the fox-hunt pace of his heart stumbles, stutters to a stop.

“You- you’re- jeepers,” Is all he can manage, the rosewater blush deepening on his cheeks. It has the opposite of the desired effect, and she steps back, mascaraed eyes widening, horrified.

“It’s too much, isn’t it. Oh God, I knew I should’ve-” She begins to reach for a tissue box on the dresser and Bucky stops her. Lowers her hand slowly and keeps a hold of it, as if she will float away otherwise.

“Jesus, doll, stop. You’re perfect,” He tells her, and she slips her hand away but smiles a little as she sits on the foot of the bed - their bed - to put on her shoes.

“Thank you. You look nice, too,” She says, lifting the hem of her black gown as she pulls on pearl white heels. The matching clutch - pearl encrusted - is on the bedside table, and he hands it to her as they leave the room and then the apartment.

“Hang on, your tie is loose,” She says the moment they enter the elevator. He can’t even press the button for the ground floor while she holds him in place. The split-second it takes for her to wrap her hands around the green silk and pull it tighter stretches into hours, the graze of her knuckles gentle in his cotton-covered chest. He has enough time to carve the shape of her cupid’s bow into his mind, the descent of her jaw to her chin into his lungs. After half an eternity, she puts distance between them again and presses the button while he tries to smooth his hair back only to feel the short strands tickle between his fingers, and he remembers cutting it last week.

The lobby is bustling, people coming and going like bees in a hive, and they nod their hellos and offer the doorman a Good evening before getting in the car Sam sent. The seats are cold and comfortable, and the chauffeur tips his hat once in the rear-view mirror before putting the Rolls Royce into gear.

“ ‘Possess ye, therefore, ye who borne about In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue’ ” She murmurs, letting her fingers trace the stitching in the butter-soft leather.

“Marlowe?” Bucky asks, turning away from the New York evening, that special, streetlights-reflecting-on-wet-asphalt evening, to look at his wife.

“William Cowper. The Task.”

“I think I’ve read that one,” He lies, fully prepared to come clean, and she looks at him curiously.

“Wow, really? Even I haven’t read all six books,” She says, dubiously verging on impressed, and Bucky drops the facade.

“I’m pullin’ your leg. I’ve read some of Cowper’s work. Don’t remember much, but bits and pieces of school are still there,” He explains, all cheeky smile. “What’s it about? And why in God’s good name is it six books long?” This - the conversation, letting her talk about her work, her passion for literature - this he can do. Playful questions intermingling with genuine intellectual interest is manageable. Her beauty, her grace, the cloud of perfume that bleeds into his veins and makes his lungs strive for air, is not. So he concentrates on what he knows. Or doesn’t know, apparently.

“Honestly, what isn’t The Task about?” She laughs, eyeshadow glimmering like stardust in the smile wrinkles in the corners of her intelligent eyes. “Cowper had a bit of a breakdown during his barrister training in London, and retired to the countryside. In 1781, he met his friend Lady Austen, who later gave him a task to write about, to cheer him up. He started, and then just followed that train of thought wherever it took him.”

“Which book is that line from?” Bucky asks as the car stops in the inevitable Friday night traffic jam. At least they accounted for it, leaving early on purpose to avoid tardiness.

“I don’t actually remember. I think it’s from an extract in which Cowper criticizes the superficial pleasures and unnecessary luxuries of city life,” She answers, opening her clutch. Her phone and a tube of lipstick peek out but she reaches deeper for a pair of earrings.

Closing her eyes, she fastens the first one on the side Bucky can’t see, the other crescent-moon shaped accessory in her silk draped lap. The flower made from pearls matches her bracelet, the two pieces of jewellery clinking together as she puts on the other one.

“City life, huh?” Bucky muses, trying desperately to calm his heart. The earrings dangle, contrasting wonderfully against her simple black gown, and he swallows. She looks like royalty.

“Yeah, many poets of the time wrote a lot about the beauty of nature. They had a lot more of it at their disposal, I guess,” She shrugs.

“Do you have any favorites?” “Nature poems? I don’t know. There are so many good ones. Wordsworth’s To the Cuckoo, Herrick’s Daffodils, Yeats’ Wild Swans at Coole, Tennyso-” She cuts herself off with a huff of a laugh at herself.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, no- I just-” She laughs again, trying to wave her hand like she’s shooing a fly. “I just have conflicting feelings about these poems by classical authors who write about nature. Poems that express a keen appreciation of beauty yet are fillled with sadness because so many beautiful things are short-lived and because human life itself is so short,” She says, twirling the ring around her finger, deep in thought. Bucky doesn’t know how he found her. This simple, wise soul, in the midst of all the chaos of the world. The chaos of resettlement.

The chaos of the kitchen, an hour before dinner as the Avengers prepare dinner together, is unholy. Sam’s panicking about dessert while Wanda stirs the marinara sauce for spaghetti in her signature demure fashion, while Peter’s pile of handmade spaghetti grows taller and the pasta dough shrinks. His phone lights up on the table, and Bucky - kneading more dough nearby - is the only one who notices. He calls for Peter and pushes it over to him, not knowing what the point of having a phone is if it’s always going to be on silent, but Peter holds it out to him after just a moment of conversation.

Bucky reads the caller ID on the top and sees who it is, closing the kitchen door behind him, flour on his black t-shirt, as she speaks.

“Hi, Bucky. I hope I’m not disturbing.”

“No, not at all. Have you decided?” He asks, pacing the hallway, staying out of sight of the others. Not that it matters, they’re still fairly busy. She had seemed unsure when they met, and he had given her time to decide it she wanted to do this.

“Yeah, but I just- this is a huge favor,” She says.

“Not to me, doll. I’m just helping a friend of a friend,” He says, and it isn’t entirely true. That isn’t why he’s doing this. Something in him wanted to help, wanted to repay the debt of kindness that he owes the world. This is how he wants to do it, although he doesn’t think it’s fair that he gets to choose his penance.

“I thought you said Peter talks your ears off.” Bucky cringes, grateful she can’t see his face, even though he can hear the joking lilt of her tone.

“He’s a good kid. And I want to do this. Do you?”

“Yeah.” A lengthy pause, heavy and tangible, even across the phone line.

“When do you want to get married?” She asks finallly, voice shaking. His hand is, too.

“We have a week-long mission right after Christmas. Boxing day arms deal in Sao Paulo,” He replies, cursing the Brazilian gangs who could find no other time do get up to no good. Evil doesn’t go on vacation, and neither do the Avengers.

“So… New Year’s Eve?” She asks, doing the math. He realizes that’s true. A week from Boxing Day.

“Yes. Shit, you don’t have a ring-” He begins to say, freaking out about the logistics. He didn’t even propose properly.

“It’s okay, we’ll figure it out.” “Alright, I’ll see you then.”

“Bye Bucky.”

“G’night.” He bids her farewell, then looks at the phone, asking himself what the hell he’s just gotten himself into. A knot builds and twists in his body, and he tries to loosen it. Breathes, and makes his way back.

“I’m engaged,” And the kitchen freezes in time as they all drop everything - not literally, Sam’s holding a knife - to look at him. The smile on Peter’s face is brighter than the Christmas tree in the adjacent common room, and the somersaults in Bucky’s stomach only settle at the sight of his relief.

It seems that his teammates gave him a later time on purpose, because they’re all ready, dressed to the nines and wine-tipsy, waiting for him when they enter. It’s a small ballroom, downtown Manhattan, quaint and graceful. A chorus of Happy Birthday erupts in the room, and he smiles and thanks them. The hugs pile on, and he begins to introduce his wife to his friends. Home away from home for the man who has never had one since the 1940s - until he met her, that is. She’s home now, though he wouldn’t tell her that.

Instead, he relishes in the grin she offers him between introductions, till Sam drags him off to stand him on a chair and sing a birthday song. The party commences in much a similar fashion, too much noise in the room for a couple of dozen people. He stays away from Thor’s alcohol, knowing she doesn’t drink, not wanting to make her uncomfortable.

He’s just thinking about how she might be dealing with the hectic atmosphere when her hand slips into his while he’s talking to Harley Keener about letting him look at his arm. He’s shocked, looks at her to see her smiling and concentrating only on the conversation, but he can tell she’s tired. It’s been hours, and he knows he can’t leave early - it’s his party - but he just wants to slip those heels off her feet and sit and talk, still in partywear, for hours on end. Let her quote Byron and Cowper and Austen to him, poems and essays and books, until he falls asleep on their sofa. Instead, her voice says something he isn’t expecting at all.

“Is it possible to put some sort of temp regulation in it?” She asks curiously, head tilted to the side like a sparrow. Harley thinks it over for only a second.

“Of course, why?”

“It hurts in the cold. He rubs and rolls his shoulder a lot in the winter,” She answers, and the thoughtful observation astounds him. It’s accurate, but it hadn’t even occurred to him, the movements that she’s citing entirely subconscious. They talk to Harley for a while longer, and then dance to several of Bucky’s favorite songs. Billie Holliday is crooning in the background as the second-to-last guest exits, leaving only his wife and his captain and his deputy director. When the door shuts behind them, they break apart, and Sam and Maria approach, ready to call it a night.

The car ride home passes in complete silence, a comfortable weight resting like a blanket between them, so much so that she falls fully asleep on the way, her head resting against the cold window when they arrive. He doesn’t have the heart to wake her, so he goes around to her door, opening it slowly and lifting her into his arms, not caring what it might look like to onlookers. It’s late, and there are few of them, at least in the lobby, and as the elevator doors shut, her head curls against his shoulder, hair tickling his Adam’s apple.

Bucky looks down at her, her resting, easy expression, the chandni earrings still on, and thinks: what a way to turn 103.

Taglist: @suz-123 @mermaidxatxheart @buckyreaderrecs @shield-agent78 @corneliabarnes @readerandcinephileingeneral @stevieboyharrington @notsomellowmushroom @veganfangirl5 @mood-pancakes @lbuck121 @starnight-charmer

#ayesha writes #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x reader fluff #bucky barnes x reader fluff #bucky barnes fluff #slow burn #bucky barnes x desi!reader #desi!reader

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binary5tar · 4 years

Text

Sledding

AO3

Word Count: 1767

Rating: Teen

Tags/Warnings: Jinkook, Seokjin/Jungkook, fluff, more fluff and nothing but fluff

A/N: Written for @btsholidaybingo square “Sledding”. It’s been ages since I wrote and published something but... here it is!

Summary: Seven friends decide to go sledding. When a friendly competition goes wrong, Jin is forced to confront and accept his buried feelings.

"I'm the best at sledding. Did you know, Jungkook?" Jin boasted as they got out of Jin's SUV.

"Oh really?" Namjoon asked, clearly disbelieving.

Jimin and Yoongi stood to the side of the parking lot, having gotten there a few minutes earlier in Yoongi’s coupe.

Jimin rolled his eyes affectionately at Jin's boasting. "How can you be best at sledding? There's no skill. You just sit on the sled and go down."

Jungkook turned around from his position in the front of the group as they walked toward the snow covered hill. "Want to race? I bet molasses could beat you on that rickety old sled you brought."

Jin scoffed, offended. "This is a classic." He held the old style wood and metal sled to his chest and tapped it proudly. "It's a classic, tried and true. That little disk of plastic is better?" He glared at the purple plastic sled in Jungkook’s hands. "No way. You're on," Jin agreed.

"Kids these days, right?" Yoongi shook his head with a smile then asked quietly. "Have you ever even been sledding?"

"Of course!" Jin replied indignantly, then added. "A few times, as a kid."

They laughed as they crested the top. It was taller and steeper than Jin was expecting. Paths wound down the hill smoothed from many uses to a glassy sheen of packed ice. Suddenly Jin was maybe a little nervous.

"Ready old man?" Jungkook was already on his sled at the top of one of the tracks. He was grinning, eyes bright with excitement.

Jin swallowed his nerves, not wanting to disappoint, and set his sled on the track next to Jungkook’s.

"If I win, you have to grant me one wish, deal?" Jungkook said.

"Deal," Jin agreed, too busy lining himself up evenly to notice the mischief in Jungkook’s eyes. "But, if I win, you’re doing dishes for a month."

"Alright, you guys ready?" Jimin asked, after assuring they were even.

They both nodded. Jin gulped looking down the hill again.

"3… 2...1… Go!" The others all chanted together.

Jungkook pushed off immediately and was away. Jin tried but didn't get far enough to get to the slope.

"Hey! Cheating!" Jin yelled after Jungkook’s slowly shrinking form. Not willing to give up, he nudged his way forward until gravity started to pull him down the hill.

For a moment Jin forgot about Jungkook and the race as the wind swept past his face and he flew down the hill. The speed was exhilarating and he let out a shout of laughter from the sheer joy of it. He even started to catch up to Jungkook.

Then his sled hit a bump. Jin panicked as him and the sled soared through the air for a brief moment. He put a foot out to try to slow himself down and only managed to dislodge himself. He tumbled a short ways down the hill getting snow in his face, down his neck and in his boots.

He sat up, slightly disoriented and heard shouting from the top of the hill. He looked up just in time to see his runaway sled crash into Jungkook.

He froze and watched in horror as Jungkook was tipped off his sled and rolled faster and faster, seemingly unable to stop himself. He finally came to a stop at the bottom and lay on his side, unmoving. Fear was enough to set Jin's feet in motion. He ran down the hill, miraculously able to keep his feet under him despite the ice and steep angle.

He heard shouting again from the top of the hill but didn't bother to turn around. He was too focused on getting to Jungkook and making sure he was okay. All the possible horrible things that could have happened ran through his mind. He could be seriously injured and it would be all Jin's fault.

As he got closer he could see Jungkook’s shoulders shaking. Jin was relieved he was conscious but he must be in a lot of pain to be crying that hard.

"Jungkook, are you alright?" Jin called when he was a few steps away. He dropped to his knees at Jungkook’s side. "Where does it hurt? Are you bleeding? Don't move." Jin leaned over him trying to assess the damage. He didn’t see any blood.

Jungkook rolled onto his back. "That was awesome!" He had a huge smile on his face though his eyes were a little glazed.

"You… you're not hurt?" Jin looked him over some more, expecting to see a bone sticking out or something serious.

"No. A little dizzy." Jungkook sat up slowly

"But that was so much fun! Can we do that again?"

Jin stared at him in surprise for a moment. The idea of reliving the last few moments was too horrible to think about. "Hey!" He thumped Jungkook lightly on the shoulder with his fist. "You scared me! I thought you were hurt."

Jungkook just laughed. "Just a little dizzy but I'm fine." He stood up and dusted snow off his jacket. "I'm better than fine. I won." He grinned cockily.

"Is that all you can think about?" Jin complained, getting to his feet. He was still a little shaky, not fully recovered from thinking he'd been responsible for grievously injuring Jungkook.

"Mmmhmm," Jungkook nodded. "Because you agreed to grant me a wish."

Jin squinted at Jungkook suspiciously. There was mischief and trouble written in every line of his beautiful face, from the sparkle in his eyes to the curve of his lips.

Jungkook stepped closer, his gaze burning into Jin's. "I'm not a child anymore Jin, and I haven't been in a while."

"You just nearly got a concussion rolling down an icy hill and then asked to do it again. Not exactly proving your point." Jin scowled, trying to be stern but he suspected it didn't come out harsh enough because Jungkook only rolled his eyes and stepped closer.

Jin knew he should step back and put an end to whatever Jungkook was thinking like he had every other time Jungkook had brought up his feelings for Jin. But his emotions were still high from the previous scare and it made him reckless. He just watched as Jungkook got closer.

"Jin! Jungkook! Are you alright?"

Jin looked up just in time to see Jimin crash into him. Jin barely kept his balance while Jimin bounced off him and landed sprawled in the snow. Taehyung and Hoseok were not far behind. Namjoon was halfway down the hill coming down slightly slower while Yoongi stood at the top watching them anxiously.

Jin waved one hand at them. "We're okay!"

"Are you really okay? That was so scary." Hoseok's usually smiling face was pinched with worry. Taehyung nodded next to him.

"I'm fine. It was fun! You should try it." Jungkook put a hand on Taehyung's shoulder to reassure him and was quickly pulled into a hug.

"You just laid there at the bottom, not moving. I thought you were dead," Taehyung mumbled into Jungkook’s shoulder.

"Really, I'm fine. Let's go back up." Jungkook steered Taehyung back up the hill and they all started up.

"Hey, the sleds!" Yoongi shouted, pointing to where they had slid halfway across the empty field at the base of the hill and toward a clump of trees.

"I'll get them," Jin said and started trudging through the snow.

A few moments later Jungkook caught up with him. Neither said anything, though Jin could tell Jungkook was thinking about it. Jin was too. He thought about how he'd watched Jungkook grow from an awkward teenager into a confident young man. Over the years their relationship had changed too. It had been a while since Jin had thought of him as a child. They'd become friends, equals. Jin had always been aware of Jungkook’s crush but he assumed Jungkook would grow up and find someone better. But that didn't seem to be happening and Jin was finding it harder and harder to deny his own feelings...

By the time they had retrieved the sleds and gotten back to the bottom of the hill, the others were nearly at the top.

Jungkook stopped and turned, opening his mouth to speak. Jin stalled him by leaning in to kiss his cheek.

Jungkook blinked.

"That's what you wanted right?" Jin asked with a smirk.

"Not exactly." Jungkook touched his cheek, blushing.

"Oh, sorry." Jin kissed the other one. "Better?"

Jungkook smiled back now. "Almost."

Jin sighed dramatically. "Oh fine."

He meant to kiss Jungkook’s nose but he leaned up and their lips met, half crooked and slightly awkward. Jin started to pull away, alarm bells ringing in his head. Too much, too fast, too young. Jungkook grabbed the front of his jacket and held him in place, shifting to kiss him fully. As Jungkook’s mouth moved against his, Jin couldn't help but kiss back. Jungkook was an adult and he wanted this, and so did Jin.

They pulled apart to gasp for air, looking into each other's eyes.

"That’s what I wanted," Jungkook said, a huge smile spreading across his face showing his cute bunny teeth and wrinkling his nose.

Jin shoved his shoulder, flustered. He could feel his ears burning. "I can't believe you stole a kiss!"

"You kissed me back," Jungkook countered, smile not budging.

Jin scoffed, "I-That’s not the point."

"Jin kissed me baaack, Jin kissed me baaack," Jungkook sing songed.

"Let’s just get up the hill," Jin grumbled.

By the time they reached the top, Jin was exhausted and his head was spinning from the events of the last few minutes so he was grateful when Jungkook suggested they go home.

"But we haven't even gotten a chance to go down yet," Taehyung whined.

"Jin, why don't you take Jungkook home in my car and I'll take the rest of the kids home in yours later?" Yoongi suggested, while Jimin rolled his eyes at being called a kid.

Yoongi looked frozen and ready to go home. He had already been reluctant to go in the first place so Jin appreciated the offer.

"Just do some talking first before jumping each other, " Yoongi suggested quietly as they traded keys. "And it better not be in my car!"

Jin blushed a bright red. He hadn't realized anyone had seen them kiss. "I-we-" he stuttered.

"Thanks Yoongi," Jungkook said cheerfully, dragging Jin away.

He wasn't exactly sure what would happen once he was alone with Jungkook but he decided not to worry about it. If Jungkook wanted him, he would stop denying them both happiness.

#Jinkook #Seokjin/Jungkook #bangtanarmynet #networkbangtan #kwritersworldnet #btsholidaybingo #tash's crappy writing #Holy shit I wrote AND published something

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dontcare77ghj · 4 years

Text

Quirks

Natasha x reader x Bucky x Clint

Masterlist Sleep Series Masterlist Halloween/Supernatural Masterlist

The four of you were the perfect match. You all shared a very similar background, filled with pain, bad decisions and choices, and things you would all regret long after you were gone. But the four of you had all attempted to put the past behind you and do some good in this world.

The four of you had all joined the Avengers in an attempt to right the wrongs of your pasts. You, Clint and Natasha had all been a part of the team from the start and Natasha and Clint had been an item since the start.

They were very subtle, very private about their relationship, so it wasn’t until you accidently walked in on them you knew they were together. From that moment on you’d shoved the feelings you’d felt for the two down, but you’d continued your friendship with the two.

A couple months later, after a lot of drinks, Clint had revealed how the two felt for you and then promptly passed out. The next morning the three of you had a serious conversation about what Clint admitted and your feelings for each other. The conversation ended well and the three of you had gotten together.

A year after you’d all gotten together you met Bucky. At the time Bucky wasn’t interested in anything more than friendship and shaking off his past, so that’s what you gave him. Nearly six months later the four of you had another successful conversation and three had become four.

The four of you loved each other deeply, there was nothing the four of you didn’t know about each other.

“Clint don’t you dare!” You shrieked as the archer threw you over his shoulder. “Seriously Clint, put me down.” You laughed as he started twirling around.

“I don’t think I can.” He told you, continuing to walk as if you weren’t strung across his shoulder. “We promised to meet Natasha and Bucky in the gym in two minutes and with how slow you walk; it would take another two years.” He jested. You glared at the ground and sent your foot gently into his ribcage.

“Not funny, Barton.” You scowled. “Just you wait until I get down from here.” You threatened, letting out a gasp as Clint’s hand contacted your ass. “Clint!” You scolded as he rubbed the area.

“You kicked me!” He defended himself. “Besides I thought you liked that.” He said, smirk clear in his voice.

“Clinton Francis Barton, I swear to Thor, you better put me down.” You said as he rounded the corner.

“Great minds think alike.” Bucky said, making you jump in surprise. You turned your head to look behind you and then cocked your head. Bucky stood before you with Natasha hanging over his shoulder, though she appeared to be asleep.

“Is she seriously asleep?” Clint asked moving towards the pair.

“Mm-hm.” Bucky hummed, leaning down to kiss Clint. “Fell asleep on my shoulder and I don’t want to move her too much in case she wakes up.” Bucky explained before kissing you too, albeit awkwardly.

“How about we move this to the bedroom then?” Clint suggested. “So we can put Nat to bed?” He added quickly when you went to kick him again.

“Sounds like a plan.” Bucky said.

“You know what else sounds like a plan? Maybe, I don’t know, putting me down?” You suggested, looking between the men.

“No.” They said in unison. You let out a groan and dropped your head back down as the two laughed. The four of you made your way back to the bedroom and while Bucky put Nat to bed Clint, finally, put you down.

“You are an ass.” You complained as your vision blurred. Clint grabbed your shoulders and sat you on the couch when it looked as if you were going to fall.

“You love me.” He teased, kneeling in front of you.

“Not right now.” You groaned, still feeling dizzy. “Right now, Tasha is my favorite.” You said as Bucky came into the living room.

“What did I do?” Bucky asked, sitting next to you.

“You laughed.” You said, pointing accusingly at the brunette. “And you wouldn’t help me down.”

“Tash ok?” Clint asked, sitting on the coffee table. Bucky nodded and pulled you closer.

“Yeah, she didn’t wake up and I got this.” Bucky said, unlocking his phone and clicking on the gallery. He clicked a photo and showed the two of you.

It was a photo of Natasha curled into a tight ball, one hand hidden under the pillow, with a smile on her face.

“I thought she took the knife out of the bed?” You asked, smiling at the image of your peaceful girlfriend.

“She did.” Clint confirmed. “That’s the gun.” He added.

“I’m not even going to comment on that.” You said, standing from the couch.

“Where are you going?” Bucky questioned curiously. You smiled at the man and kissed him and Clint quickly.

“Why look at a cute photo of Nat? I’m going to join her.” You told the two before moving into the bedroom. You had just taken off your jeans and were beginning to get in to bed when you heard Clint and Bucky begin to move into the bedroom.

You smirked as you shifted towards Natasha, who remained curled into her ball with her hand under the pillow, obviously clutching the gun tightly. You win this one.

“Steven Grant Rogers, what the hell were you thinking?” Bucky demanded as you, Clint and Natasha sat back and watched Captain America get scolded by Bucky.

“I was thinking-“

“You weren’t! There is no way in hell you were actually thinking after you pulled that move.” Bucky said, glaring at the blonde who looked incredibly embarrassed.

“I wasn’t thinking. Is that what you want to hear?” Steve asked. “I’m sorry I almost got killed, but I got the job done.”

“Nothing has changed. It’s been almost seventy years, and nothing has changed.” Bucky sighed, rubbing his hand down his face. “I’m too tired for this. I’ll yell at you another time.”

“Buck, come sit.” You said, patting the bench next to you. “You look exhausted.” Bucky nodded and sat next to you, he rested his head on your shoulder and was asleep in minutes.

“God, he fell asleep quicker than Clint does after he takes out his hearing aids.” Natasha said to you, making you laugh.

“Don’t mock me, you two.” Clint commented from the front of the jet. “It’s not nice.”

“Sorry Clint.” You apologized, still smiling. Natasha stood from next to you and helped move Bucky, so he was laying down, his head on your lap and the rest of his body on the bench.

“There, now he’s not going to break his neck.” Natasha said, leaning down to kiss the man’s forehead and then kissed you as she sat next to you.

“He couldn’t break his neck like that.” You giggled before stopping to think. “Wait, could you?”

“Well given how far he had to lean down to reach your shoulder, maybe.” Clint said, making you glare at the back of his head.

“I am not that short, I’m taller than Nat.” You said and Natasha started laughing.

“By half an inch.” She laughed. “Face it darling, we’re both short. There’s not much we can do about it.”

“You’re short.” Bucky murmured suddenly. Clint let out a loud laugh at the comment before Natasha shushed him. Looking down you smiled as you saw Bucky was still fast asleep. The first night the four of you had spent together, Bucky had slept talked and every night since that first he had done the same thing.

The topic could be something trivial, some non-sensical drabble, it could be serious, it could be anything. It was just what he did every night without fail.

“Does he still do that?” Steve asked from the bench opposite you.

“Every night.” Natasha answered. “Did he used to do the same back in the day?”

“Who sounds old now?” Steve asked, raising an eyebrow at the redhead. “But yes. He’s talked in his sleep for as long as I’ve known him. Once, he had this long rant about why his mother’s chili was the best and everyone else could bugger off.” Steve added, snorting at the memory.

“That’s kind of sweet.” You commented, running your fingers through Bucky’s hair. “A bit weird, but sweet.”

“Just like that, doll.” Bucky murmured, making you freeze and everyone else chuckle.

“And then he goes and says that.” Natasha says. For the rest of the ride home the four of you made quiet conversation, fighting off the urge to sleep on the floor, until you made it back to the tower where you had to wake Bucky.

Bucky trudged through the building, still half asleep, until he made it back to your floor. He didn’t even bother taking off his boots or any of his gear, he just fell asleep on the couch.

“Should we try to move him?” Clint asked, shedding his uniform.

“Just let him sleep.” Natasha said, wrapping an arm around both your waists. “He’ll come to bed when he rolls over and wakes up on the floor.”

Clint was terrible to sleep next to. No, he was terrible to sleep on the same bed with. He wasn’t a cuddler, he wasn’t a snorer, he was a starfish. He took up any and every inch of space he could and on top of that, he elbowed. It was as if he his body registered the fact someone was in bed next to him and that was its cue to fling his limbs over them and elbow them all night long.

What made it worse was the fact he took his hearing aids out before bed and couldn’t hear when one of you asked him to move or to get off.

You and Bucky had just gotten back from a week-long mission and the two of you were beat. Mentally, physically and emotionally. Everything hurt and the two of you were incredibly tired. The two of you were having trouble staying awake on the ride up to your floor.

“Do you think if we ask Tash really nicely, she’d make us her famous hot chocolate?” You asked, leaning your head against Bucky’s side.

“Maybe. I want to know if she’d put extra vodka in mine.” Bucky murmured, leaning heavily against the wall.

“I take back everything I ever said about it not being a real medicine.” You sighed. “Right now, I think it’s just we need.” At that second the doors opened with a ding, Natasha stood in front of you both and smiled at the sight of you.

“Welcome home.” She greeted, pulling you both out of the elevator and into her arms. “We missed you.”

“Missed you too, Tash.” You mumbled into her neck.

“Where’s birdbrain?” Bucky asked, his head resting on top of Natasha’s.

“The idiot decided expiration dates are for losers and drank three-day old milk. He’s been throwing up since yesterday.” Natasha told you both, rolling her eyes at Clint’s idiocy.

“What an idiot.” You said, smirking sleepily at Natasha’s words. Natasha pulled back and frowned worriedly at the two of you.

“Both of you go shower, now. Then get into bed. You need rest.” Natasha said, pushing you both into the direction of the bedroom.

“Okay, we’ll go. On one condition.” Bucky said, stopping. “Can you please make us your special?”

“Hot chocolate with extra vodka?” Natasha asked, raising an eyebrow at the pair of you.

“Please.” You both said. Natasha nodded and then shooed you towards the bedroom. When you entered the bedroom, Clint was fast asleep. Quietly you and Bucky made your way into the attached bathroom and shared a long, hot, shower.

The two of you moved back into the bedroom and dressed into comfortable clothes, for Bucky a pair of boxers and you one of his large shirts. You crawled into bed on the side closest to the door with Bucky climbing in right behind you.

“He does look a little green.” Bucky mentioned, placing a kiss onto the back of your neck.

“He should have listened to Nat.” You hummed, closing your eyes at the feel of Bucky’s lips and the soft mattress beneath you. “Would’ve spared him a lot of trouble.”

“Go to sleep doll.” Bucky said, kissing the back of your head this time. “Love you Buck.” You murmured, relaxing completely in his grip. You were on the verge of drifting off when you felt an arm smack you across the face. You let out an annoyed groan and opened your eyes to see an arm on your face.

“Seriously Clint?” Bucky groaned, shoving Clint’s hand off his face. “It’s like he has ESPN or something.” He complained.

“ESP, Buck.” You corrected, rolling over so your face was pressed against Bucky’s chest. The two of you went back to attempting to fall asleep when a body rolled into the two of you.

The sudden weight pushing into you, along with the position you were in caused the three of you to fall to the floor just as Natasha entered with a tray of hot drinks.

“Do I even want to know?” Natasha asked. You and Bucky shared a look before pointing to a somehow still sleeping Clint.

“It was Clint’s fault.”

“Look at I’m Tony Stark, I’m a bloody genius. I built this whole building and all it’s systems.” Natasha mocked, piling more blankets into your awaiting arms. “I’m such a genius that my experiment somehow ruined the heating system.”

“Are you done yet?” You asked, watching her with a grin. “Not that I don’t love that impression, but you’ve been doing it for the past ten minutes.”

“Well he’s been trying to fix the heating for ten hours and he still hasn’t done it.” Natasha complained, shoving a few more blankets in your arms before shutting the door.

“The man may be a genius but he’s trying to fix the whole buildings heating.” You said, attempting to sooth the red head. Natasha took half of your blanket pile and quickly kissed you.

“I still say I could’ve fixed the heating in under five.” Natasha commented as you walked back into the bedroom.

“Whoa. Did you two leave any blankets in the tower or New York for that matter?” Clint asked as you both dumped the mountain of blankets onto the bed.

Natasha narrowed her eyes at the man and rapped him on the back of the head gently.

“It is the middle of winter Clinton. I will not freeze because Stark broke the tower.” She said, beginning to layer them on the bed.

“It’s already three, it’s not going to get much colder than this.” You told Natasha beginning to change into your pyjamas, a pair of Clint’s sweat pants and one of Bucky’s long sleeve shirts.

“Keep telling yourself that. Out of the four of us, I am the only one who can handle the cold properly and besides even with the heater on I’m worried your feet are going to fall off.” Natasha told you.

“She’s not wrong there, sweetheart.” Clint commented, wrapping his arms around your waist. “It’s like there’s no circulation going to your feet.”

“You two are mean, Bucky wouldn’t treat me like this.” You whined, leaning back into Clint’s warm chest.

“Yes, I would.” Bucky garbled, walking out of the bathroom with a toothbrush in his mouth. “Your feet are cold doll.” He added before moving back into the bathroom.

“We win.” Clint said with a smirk.

“Well I can’t help it.” You complained. “It’s not like I can just make them warm all the time.”

“I can fix that.” Clint told you. He moved away from you and over to the dresser he shared with Bucky. He grabbed a pair of his novelty, thick, socks and handed them to you.

“Now we won’t have to feel your cold feet and you’ll stay warm.” He said, making you smile.

“Thank you, Clint.” You said graciously and kissed him in thanks. You pulled them on quickly, sighing happily as your feet where no longer touching the chilling ground.

“Buck, hurry up in there.” Natasha called, pulling her hair into a ponytail. Bucky let out a few more garbled words before Natasha pulled back the blankets. “Come on you two.” She said, patting the bed next to her.

You laid next to Natasha with Clint behind you. A minute later Bucky came into the bedroom, turned the light off and curled up behind Clint.

“Now this is toasty.” Clint commented, pulling you and Natasha closer. Natasha hummed and smirked lazily.

“And no cold feet are shoved between anyone's legs.” She said, making the boys laugh.

“I’m so warm, I don't even care to comment.” You sighed, curling into the warmth. “Goodnight you guys. I love you.”

“Love you too sweetheart.”

“Love you, doll.”

“I love you sweetheart.”

Those were the last things you heard before you fell asleep, surrounded by the three people you loved the most and feeling the warmest you’d ever felt.

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adobe-outdesign · 5 years

Text

The Draw of the Pipes

The ink is not alive, there are not voices coming from the newly-installed pipe in his office, and Grant Cohen is not crazy. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

Loosely based off of the DCTL lore, but modified to play nicer with canon.

(AO3 link here.

TWs: Unreality, suicidal idealization, accidental self harm, body horror, and some mild/unintentional ableism from some characters. This is a fic about someone with depression losing their mind, so there’s a lot of talk about mental health related issues. Approach with caution if these themes may bother you.)

__________________________________

Distribution fees, $9,842.31. Marketing and publicity, $10,372.12. Special projects, $64,921.98...

The door opens.

Grant sighs, setting his pen down neatly at the edge of the paper. “Mr. Connor, please knock before you enter. I’m in the middle of tallying this year’s revenue and I can’t afford any distractions.” And for that matter, neither could Joey.

“Sorry. Just came in to tell you you can move back into your office now.” The taller man leans against the frame of the door, removing his ink-stained gloves. “The pipe’s in place. We’ll need to put the wall back later, but it might be a while at this rate.”

Grant presses his hands against his temples, trying to fight off his incoming headache. “Remind me again why we’re wasting money doing this when we can barely afford to pay our taxes this year.”

Thomas shrugs. “I don’t ask questions, I just do the work.”

“I know. I was being rhetorical, see.” Of course it was Joey’s fault. When wasn’t it?

Grant stands up from his temporary desk, silently rounding up papers and jogging them into a neat pile before following the mechanic back to his usual office. He nearly winces as he enters the room, eyes going straight to the mess that the construction had left behind.

“You couldn’t have cleaned after yourself a little?” The entire back wall had been torn down, bits of drywall scattered about on the floor, with a massive pipe filled with black ink set back into the cavity. “Garish” would’ve been the nicest word he could use to describe it.

“No point when we have to reconstruct the entire damn wall again anyway.”

Grant just shakes his head, setting the receipts down on his desk. “I guess.” Maybe it would seem less intrusive if he just didn’t look at it.

Thomas turns to leave and then stops, standing in the doorway. “By the way, I should warn you that you shouldn’t get too close to the pipe. High ink pressure, exposed wall studs, that kind of thing. Could be dangerous.”

“I’m aware. I’ve already had to pay off several lawsuits from employees getting injured by exploding pipes.” He doesn’t mean for it to sound accusatory, but it probably did anyway.

“I already sent out a memo to the office telling everyone to stay out of the utility shafts. Nothing else I can do.” He pulls back on his gloves. “There’s a shut-off valve back by the right side, behind the drywall. You can use that to stop any leaks. Or refill your pens. But don’t-” Thomas pauses, looking back at the missing wall, as if there was something else he wanted to say. “Just don’t get too close to it unless you need to, all right?”

So am I supposed to touch it or not? Grant just shakes his head, too exhausted to discuss exactly what the mechanic meant by that. “Trust me, I have no intention to go anywhere near it,” he finally states.

Thomas nods, finally leaving, and Grant turns his attention back to the papers on his desk. He felt like something had been off about the conversation, but he didn’t realize what it was until later.

Not once during the entire conversation did Thomas look him in the eye.

__________________________________

Someone is knocking at the door, and it’s not making his headache any less painful.

“Are you still working?” someone asks, and he recognizes the voice of David, one of their auditors.

“I’m always working. You can come in,” he adds as an afterthought. David swings the door open with a bit more force than necessary, jacket already draped over one arm.

“Me and the fellas are headin’ over to Verdi’s to unwind,” he explains, leaning his arm against the back of Grant’s chair as he speaks. “You should come with! Bet they’ll be a lotta cute dames there.”

Grant attempts a thin smile, though it probably looked like more of a grimace with how much his head hurt. “David, I just got a divorce.”

“What do you mean, just? That was eight years ago!”

He ignores that statement but considers the offer for a moment. Going out for a drink certainly would be nice. Forgot all their financial problems for a bit, forget his headache...

“That doesn’t matter. Anyway, I need to stay here. I have to get these claims down to insurance by tomorrow afternoon or else we’ll all be in trouble.” In reality, he didn’t want to go because the last time he went out drinking he had ended up completely bent and crying into the arms of Toby, their paymaster. The man had acted sympathetic enough at the time, but Grant hadn’t been able to look him in the eye since.

“Your call. But hey, if you change your mind you know where to find us, okay?” David throws his jacket over his shoulder and leaves as quickly as he came in.

Time passes. Grant listens to the Bendy-shaped clock on the wall as it ticks down the minutes. God, he hated that clock. Joey had given it to him as a ten-year work anniversary present and had presented it as if it was a big deal, when in reality Grant was sure he had walked down to Heavenly Toys five minutes before to pick it up. Now it swings back and forth idly, as if mocking him.

Tick, tick, tick...

His writing was getting a lot lighter.

Grant leans back in his chair, looking at the pipe for the first time since he had fully moved back into his office. Thomas had said he use it for refills, but he had also said to stay away from it. Which one was it?

He studies it for another moment, contemplating and flipping his pen between his fingers, before sighing and getting up. If the damn pipe was going to be in his office, the least it could do was save him a trip up to the Art Department.

The pipe makes a strange groaning sound and he stops, remembering the multiple claims they had filed over the last few months regarding pipes exploding, but nothing else happens. It was just the glass creaking, he scolds himself.

He turns the shut-off valve slowly, and a smooth stream of jet-black ink flows from the nozzle and into the well in his hand. Grant returns to his desk, unscrewing the fountain pen. It was a bit of a hassle to refill it, but it was worth the effort - it had been a bar mitzvah gift years ago, and it was a finer pen than any others he had used over the years. He dips it into the well, twisting the end to draw the ink up into it, then screws it back together.

He takes out a handkerchief to blot off the top and somehow, while turning it around, stabs himself with it.

“Son of a bitch,” he breathes, holding his now-bleeding hand. He had refilled this pen hundreds of times before and had never managed to hurt himself with it. He wasn’t even sure how he had managed to do that.

He gently blots away the spot of blood, revealing a tiny puncture wound with a bit of black under the skin from where the tip of the pen had struck him. Grant shakes his head, annoyed at managing to injure himself while doing something so mundane, and goes back to his writing.

He had never written with ink that flowed so nicely, or looked so dark.

__________________________________

Grant swore his headache was getting worse, and the knocking at the door isn’t helping.

“Come in,” he calls out, lifting his hands from his head. The door opens a crack and in steps their file clerk, a timid young man in a cardigan holding a stack of reports.

“Your, uh, secretary told me you could take for a minute.”

“Yes.” He waits for a moment, but the man doesn’t seem eager to speak. “Well, go on. I don’t have all day. I have a meeting in 5.”

The man startles, like he hadn’t been expecting him to speak. “Uh, right. On these papers, sir, I think you got one of the numbers wrong?”

“What? Here, hand it over.” Grant briskly takes the sheet and sets it down, using his pen as a guide as he mentally calculates. $4,592 plus $319 equals $4911, that plus another $6,793 was $11,704, and that plus another $211 was-

$11,915. Not $11,825, as he had written down on the sheet.

“I’m- No, I’m sorry, that’s wrong.” He shakes his head and crosses out the number, recalculating the rest of the amounts quickly, the corrections looking bold and black compared to the rest of the ink on the page. He hands it back to the man. “Thank you for catching that.”

The younger man mumbles something about it being no problem and quickly darts out. Grant stares at the papers scattered about on his desk, head pounding.

He had worked at Joey Drew Studios for ten years, and had spent another 15 working in the finance business. He had never gotten a number wrong before.

__________________________________

“I’m not happy, Grant. Want to know why?”

Joey stands beside him, studying the “work hard, work happy” poster above his desk, which had partially fallen down at some point. The fact that he nearly had a foot and a half of height over Grant was intimidating enough, and sitting down only made the difference feel more extreme.

“Why?” he asks, not that he really cared but because he knew that that was what Joey expected him to say.

“Some people in the studio are starting to talk as if we’re in some kind of financial trouble! And they say they got that information from you!”

“Mister Drew, they were in overpay,” he explains patiently, scratching the wound on his hand. “I had to explain to them why we couldn’t provide them a check this week-”

“DAMMIT, THIS ISN’T ABOUT THAT!” Joey suddenly yells, slamming his hands down on the desk. Grant was very, very used to Joey’s sudden turns of mood, but somehow the sudden noise still manages to make him jump.

Joey takes a deep breath and is instantly back to his cheerful self, like flipping a light switch. “When people think there are problems, they start to get worried! And when people get worried, they start to leave! And if you don’t want to join them, you’ll stop talking about it. Got it?”

“I- Yes,” he breathes, looking down at his desk. Joey slaps him across the back, which was probably meant to be a friendly gesture but instead feels more like he just got hit.

“Good man! And make sure to make those Bendyland payments soon. Bertie won’t get off my back about it!” Joey chirps. He disappears out the door before Grant has a chance to object.

Well, it was official. His headache had been upgraded to a full-on migraine.

__________________________________

“I’ve told him before that we can’t afford to keep spending money like this. But he won’t listen to me, so there’s nothing I can do except cut the budget to other departments. And then that makes everyone blame me, see, even though I’m just trying to make sure we don’t all go bankrupt and end up out on the street.” Grant leans back in his chair, taking a drag off his cigarette. He didn’t normally smoke much, but right now he needs something to take the edge off. “And this migraine isn’t helping anything either.”

"Maybe you should take a break, sir. When was the last time you took any days off?” His secretary didn’t really need to sit there and listen to him, but she always did regardless. He appreciated it more than he tended to admit.

Grant sets down the cigarette in his tray, rubbing at his eyes. Why was he always so tired anymore? “I don’t have any more vacation days, if that’s what you mean. Used them all earlier in the year.”

“What about sick days?”

He scratches at the spot on his hand where he had stabbed himself absentmindedly. Was it just him, or was it bigger than it was initially? “I’m not sick, I’m just tired. Besides, I used all of my sick days up already.” He wouldn’t admit it, but most of those days had been spent on times where he physically couldn’t bring himself to get up out of bed. “And I can’t afford to take any unpaid ti-”

A thin, shrill scream cuts through the air, nearly causing him to double over in pain from his migraine. It was terrified and loud, like it had come from somewhere in the room with them. He jumps up from his desk - then stops, looking at Carol, who hadn’t budged an inch.

“What the hell was that?”

“What was what, sir?” She straightens her glasses, black curls bobbing as she looks around in confusion.

“The- What, you didn’t hear it?” No, she had to have heard it. It was so loud...

She walks over to him and puts a hand on his shoulder, redirecting him to his desk. “Try to take a break and relax, Mr. Cohen. All of this stress isn’t good for you.” She says it kindly enough but there’s an edge to her voice, like she was concerned, or possibly even scared.

It was just stress. Of course.

__________________________________

At first, Grant thinks it’s an error. As much as he hated to admit it, he had been miscalculating things a lot recently, or maybe there was just an extra investment made at some point that he forgot to account for. He doesn’t start to seriously consider the debt a possibility until he recaculates everything, and even then he tries to convince himself there’s an alternate explanation, even though he knows it’s a lie. He stares at the papers in front of him.

$48,128 short.

Grant checks the numbers, checks them again, over and over until his vision is blurry and his head is pounding harder than usual. He may have made a mistake earlier, but not now. Between the overdue Bendyland payments, the taxes they still owed, and the massive amounts of money Joey had spent on that damn Machine, there wasn’t even close to enough money to possibly cover everything.

He scratches at the ink on his hand again, which removes the scab that had formed there. Grant was certain now he wasn’t imaging the stain getting worse - it had progressed from a small barely-noticeable spot into an ugly black mark about the size of a quarter.

As Grant stares at the final calculations he scratches at the spot more aggressively, digging his nails into it as hard as he can as he thinks about getting fired, about what would happen when Joey found out. He can feel the panic attack coming on but he can’t do anything other than hold onto the table for support. He’s sweating, hyperventilating, his chest hurts, his vision is swimming, it’s so loud-

1-2-3-4. He forces himself to breathe deeply, leaning back to stare at the ceiling, trying to think about anything but the debt. Slowly, the attack passes, and the noise that he had been hearing slowly dims and then disappears. He couldn’t afford a panic attack, not now. What he needed was a plan, something to tell Joey so he might not fire him on the spot. They could file a bankruptcy claim and see if they could win back enough in the settlement to pay off their investments, maybe try to save at least the animation department and work up from there...

But first, he’d have to tell Joey.

He continues to stare at the ceiling, listening to the clock tick on the wall.

__________________________________

One thing he had learned since he started working at Joey Drew studios was that everything was his fault.

Not literally, of course. His job was simply to budget the numbers as best he could and advise Joey on how to invest his money, which he never paid attention to anyway. No, it was the way everyone else perceived things that made him a scapegoat. If someone got an overpay notice and his name was at the top of it, they would blame him, simple as that.

That’s not to say everyone did. His fellow accountants knew he was just the guy trying to keep the company afloat. Some of the department heads understood as well, especially the ones who he had already spoken to, but even their sympathies dried up when the budget cuts started happening.

Grant leaves his office as little as possible, only darting out to use the bathroom or to grab his lunch. It’s still not enough to hide him from catching the angry expressions and whispered conversations in the break room.

“Company will go under any day now...”

“Finances slashed our entire department’s budget in half, yet we’re still expected to produce the same amount of toys! How do they think that’s even possible?...”

“I’ve been in overpay for over two weeks! I’m about to go down to Finances and strangle that Cohen guy myself, I tell you...”

He wanted to scream at everyone, tell them that he couldn’t do anything about the budget except tell Joey not to spend so much and that money didn’t grow on trees, and if it was up to him he’d give everyone a month’s worth of paid vacation and a raise! But he couldn’t do any of those things, so he just spends his time hiding in his office, waiting for the day to be over.

He was tired. He could barely sum up the energy to make something to eat - his last meal had been a piece of slightly stale bread from the fridge. He couldn’t bring himself to have any water, either. For some reason the thought of trying to drink it repulsed him.

He has so many meetings anymore. Angry face after angry face, demanding to know where their last paycheck was or why they had been let go due to downsizing or why they couldn’t hire any new help. All he can do is explain as patiently as possible that there’s nothing the Finance Department can do.

They think he looks terrible, he can tell just by looking at their expressions when they walk in. He spends all day sleeping, yet the constant nightmares keep him restless, jolting him awake. The one where he melted alive, that was a common one. The one where millions of finance reports pile up on his desk and cut him open when he tried to touch them, that was another. And of course there was the most common one, the one with the strange demon creature with overly long arms that either ripped him apart or dragged him under a pool of ink, depending on the dream.

“Why can’t you do anything about this?”

His head hurts, and he’s so, so tired.

__________________________________

Grant studies the memo in front of him. It was some sort of mandatory form to be filled out by all employees, and when he had first got it he had set it aside, figuring it was a standard evaluation form or something. It was only upon actually reading it did he realize how strange some of the questions are. For every straightforward question asking about how their experience in the office could be improved, there was a question about how often they worked late or how many family members they had.

Who is your favorite Bendy character and why? Choose from Bendy, Boris, Alice, or the Butcher Gang. Grant just shakes his head, wondering if Joey had finally lost it. Still, the question was marked as mandatory.

He tries to think back to the cartoons he’s seen. Despite working in the studio, he rarely saw the finished products they produced - the only time he bothered to watch them was when they were screened for the entire studio after completion. They were amusing enough, he supposed.

Grant rolls his pen between his fingers as he thinks. Finally he writes down “The little spider fellow. He’s charming in a way.” He resists the urge to write “Why are you making us fill this out?” under the comment section and instead folds it up, setting it neatly on his desk so he can drop it in the mail boxes on the way out.

As he sets the memo aside he notices that his injured hand looks worse than it did earlier. He holds his wrist, inspecting it under the dull glow of his desk lamp. The black area had gone from a tiny pinprick to a large black splotch covering most of his palm. It didn’t hurt, but it did feel slightly numb and cold to the touch.

Maybe it was infected. Could infections cause headaches? That would explain some things. He didn’t know much about medical care, but he did know that infections should be drained and cleaned thoroughly to make sure they healed correctly.

He digs around in his desk, retrieving a letter opener from one of the drawers. It was one of the nice ones, with a carved wooden handle and a long pointed metal top. Almost more of a knife than a letter opener, really.

Grant takes out his handkerchief and lays it to the side of the desk. Cut open near the most infected part, drain any puss, and then wash and bandage the wound. Easy.

He selects a spot slightly above his palm and gently slides the metal point into the skin, wincing at the pain. He wriggles it a bit to make sure the opening is big enough, then sets down the letter opener and squeezes gently.

There is no puss, or any sign of an infection. What there is is a lot of blood. And then he realizes that his hand isn’t black, and it never had been - the wound was still a tiny pinprick in the center of his hand. What there was was now a much larger-than-intended cut on his palm, bleeding profusely.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters, pressing the handkerchief against the spot. It’s soaked through within seconds and he quickly pulls off his neck tie, wrapping it tightly around the wound. Stupid, stupid. What the hell was he thinking?

Grant darts out of his office and takes the back way to the restrooms, keeping his head low and his hand close to his chest to avoid any questions from onlookers. He carefully unwraps his hand as he slips into the men’s room, and for one terrified second he wonders if the bleeding will actually stop. He breathes a sigh of relief as he unwraps the blood-stained tie, revealing that the wound had clotted and dried.

He washes the area carefully, then splashes some cold water on his face. The previous injury was still just a tiny speck in the middle of his palm.

It was just a hallucination, he reassures himself, rubbing his face with a hand towel. He stares at his own tired eyes in the mirror.

No, only crazy people had hallucinations.

And he certainly wasn’t crazy.

__________________________________

Grant had long since given up on trying to get Joey to meet with him by asking him directly, as it was becoming increasingly obvious that the man was just flat-out ignoring him. He had instead tried sending a memo to his secretary, asking her to slot him in as soon as possible. Apparently that had worked, as Joey had unexpectedly barged into his office that morning, slamming the door open so hard Grant was almost surprised that it didn’t fall right off its hinges.

“All right, all right, I’m here. What do you want?” he demands, quickly brushing out his suit. He looked disheveled, and there was ink splattered haphazardly on his hands and face. “For all of your ‘time is money’ talk you sure do like wasting mine, Cohen!”

This was not good. Joey didn’t take bad news well when he was in a good mood - trying to talk to him about the debt when he was already irritated was sure to end badly. “Mister Drew, it’s about our current budget-”

“Hmm? The budget?” Joey licks his finger and rubs at one of the spots at his hand, not looking at the accountant. “I told you, just pull the money from the investors!”

This would be easier if it didn’t feel like someone was pounding a stake into his head. “Mister Drew, as I explained in my earlier memo we don’t have enough funds from the investors to-”

“Isn’t it your job to handle the damn budget? Pull the funds from Heavenly Toys, I don’t care! Just make it work!”

“You see, we can’t cut funding to the Toy Department because-”

“It’s always the same with you! Complaining about taxes and budget cuts and everything else under the sun! Stop dragging me all the way down here and do your goddamn j-!”

“WE DON’T HAVE ANY MORE GODDAMN FUNDS!” Grant screams, standing up from his chair so fast that it crashes back onto the floorboards. He stands there, breathing heavily as Joey stares at him.

He had worked at the studio for ten years. He almost never yelled at anyone, as he considered it unprofessional, unnecessary.

And he sure as hell didn’t yell at Joey Drew.

“I’m sorry,” Grant mutters, slinking down to avoid the taller man’s gaze. Joey was at least looking at him now - really looking at him, like he was just now noticing how terrible he looked, or the ink splotch that once again seemed to be covering his palm.

“No, go on.” He can’t read Joey’s expression.

Grant takes a deep breath. He had mentally rehearsed what he needed to say dozens of times, but his outburst had left him struggling to remember any of it. “We can’t pull funds from the Toy Department because there are no more funds, Mister Drew.” He pulls the piece of paper with the damning final calculations on it and holds it out to Joey, who grabs it with enough force to crumple it. “Couldn’t even cover it if I fudged the numbers.”

Joey remains silent, looking over the sheet. Grant clears his throat. “The best thing to do would be to file for bankruptcy. If we aim for a Chapter 7 case, we could have exemptions cover the debt, so we’d be able to keep the studio’s property. And it takes less time to complete than a Chapter 13 case, see.”

The other man rises from his chair, sliding the now-wrinkled calculations back onto Grant’s desk. He puts his hand on the shorter man’s shoulder, digging his fingernails into his sleeve. “How did this happen, Grant?”

Grant was used to Joey screaming at him. He could handle Joey screaming at him. This weird pseudo-calmness was not something he was used to. “I tried to warn you, Mister Drew. About the overspending-”

He stops speaking as Joey puts more pressure on his shoulder, making him wince. “You see, I’m not very fond of people letting other people steal from me.”

This conversation was not going at all like he expected it to, and the sudden twists were catching him off guard. “What? Mister Drew, I didn’t-”

Another squeeze on his shoulder cuts him off. “Oh, but you did! If I put someone in charge of watching my house while I’m gone, and they let someone walk off with my $3,000 Kandinsky, whose fault is it that my painting is gone?”

He leans down close to Grant, close enough that he can smell the aftershave he put on this morning. “Fix. It.”

Joey stands up and slams the door so hard on his way out that it sends that godforsaken Bendy clock smashing onto the floor, breaking it into a million tiny pieces.

__________________________________

“Be quiet,” Grant insists, even though logically he knows there’s no one else in the room with him. He can hear all kinds of noises though - people screaming, crying, whispering so quietly he wasn’t even sure there was any whispering at all. He struggles to focus on the typewriter in front of him, the words on the page blurring over.

“Be quiet!” he snaps at no one, and the noise seems to quiet down a little. He eyes the pipe on the back wall warily. It sounded as if the noise was coming from-

No, that was crazy people talk. There were no voices - he was just overstressed and tired. Grant takes a moment to rub at his tired eyes before turning his attention back to the typewriter.

We regret to inform you that Joey Drew Studios is going to be significantly downsizing within the next few months...

His head feels like it’ll split apart completely if he doesn’t press his hands against it. Does the wording of this memo even matter? Everyone already hated him; it’s not like breaking the news that they’d all be out of a job soon would somehow make them change their opinions.

He turns his attention back to the pipe. The pipe... ever since that damn pipe had been installed he had been having these headaches, hearing the voices. But that didn’t make sense, did it? It was just a pipe full of ink.

“Stop it,” he hisses, one hand still pressed against his head. He uses his other hand to wipe away the sweat dripping from his brow as he stares down the pipe, as if expecting it to respond somehow.

The whispering... he can almost make out words, if he pays close enough attention. Something inside of him is pulling him towards the pipe, calling to him. He sets his head on the back of the chair, and as he does so he notices that his entire hand is black now-

Get outside. Get some air. Grant stands up unsteadily, knocking the chair over again and nearly tripping over its legs. The room swims unsteadily around him and there’s ink dripping down from the ceiling, from the walls...

The floor rises up to meet him and he grabs the trashcan from under his desk at the last second, retching into it. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to get rid of the burning sensation in his mouth as he opens his eyes again.

Ink.

There’s ink splattered over the inside of the trashcan, dripping from the crumpled papers inside and splashed up onto the metal edges. He wipes off his mouth and there’s more ink on the back of his hand, dripping onto his clothes. He can taste the saltiness of it in his mouth-

He might have screamed - he didn’t remember. Someone was grabbing him, dragging him away from the floor...

__________________________________

Grant wakes up slowly, waiting a moment for his eyes to focus. There’s wooden boards composing the ceiling above him. Still in the studio, then.

“Where am I?” he manages to croak. His voice is sore and his whole body aches. There’s something soft under him. A cot, maybe. A hand is holding out a wet towel and he takes it, pressing it against his head as he lies back down.

“You’re in the infirmary,” a voice he doesn’t recognize explains. “Your secretary brought you down. You have a fever.”

A fever. That was all?

He closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.

__________________________________

Grant spends the next two days lying at home in a confused, feverous haze. He can’t tell if what he’s seeing are hallucinations or fever dreams, if he’s awake or asleep. One minute there would be ink dripping from the walls; in another there would be a strange looking demon in the corner of the room. The pan he had dragged in by the bed yielded no more ink, just water and stomach acid. You’re not crazy, he reminds himself, staring at his mostly-black hand. You’re just seeing things because of the fever. The sickness was comforting, in a weird way, just because it gave him an excuse.

By the third day the fever has broken, and he checks the thermometer just to be sure. It yields a normal temperature, but instead of getting up continues to lie in his bed, staring up at the moulding on the ceiling. Part of him feels disappointed that he didn’t die from the illness, and yet another part feels guilty for thinking that at all.

The very idea of going back to work is overwhelming - even the idea of taking a shower feels like too much right now. But this was unpaid sick time, and he couldn’t afford any more of it. Skip the shower, he reasons, managing to sit upright. He manages a quick change of clothes - an undershirt and a vest, but forsaking his usual tie and sleeve garters. He doesn’t dare look at himself in the mirror.

Grant barely makes eye contact with Carol, just mumbling an apology for scaring her as he slinks back to his office. He eyes the trashcan warily, but Wally must have taken out the garbage since then, as there’s a fresh bag in place of the old one. He sits down, straightening the papers on his desk. There wasn’t any ink to begin with, he scolds himself, shuffling through finance reports and several statements from the IRS. Something dark catches his eye and he starts moving papers aside, sliding the page out from underneath the stack.

It was the jet-black ink from his pen, certainly, and it’s his handwriting. He can even pick out a few familiar sounding words from the scratchy jumble of words - “taxes”, “48,128 short”, “time is money”. The pen was pressed down so hard in some areas that it had torn straight through the paper. But he didn’t write it. He didn’t remember writing it.

Grant abruptly crumples the piece of paper and throws it into the trash can, pulse pounding. He forces himself to take a few deep breaths. I must have written that when I was ill, he rationalizes, but he can’t shake the uneasy feeling settling around his shoulders.

He leafs through the rest of the papers with a sense of dread, but there’s nothing but bankruptcy forms.

__________________________________

Grant hadn’t noticed it with everything else going on, but his headache had dulled considerably when he was resting at home. Now it was back in full force, and the ticking of the clock only seems to aggravate it.

He glances at it to check the time, only to remember with a start that it had broken permanently when Joey had slammed the door earlier. He shakes his head, combing his fingers through his greasy hair. Didn’t matter. He was pretty sure it was after five, at least.

There was screaming, and it was so vivid it was hard for him not to run off to try to find the source of it. It’s not real, he reminds himself, turning to glare at the pipe in the wall. No, don’t look at it. Focus on the bankruptcy filing, but the words blur and become meaningless the more he looks at them.

“Hello?”

Grant almost writes off the voice as another hallucination, but it sounds vaguely familiar, and after a few minutes of grasping at thoughts he realizes it’s the voice of Sammy, their music director. He didn’t know him very well, but they had spoken a few times about budget issues regarding his department.

“Can we talk for a moment?”

Normally Sammy’s voice was nice sounding, smooth and calm. Now it feels like every word is pounding a nail into his skull. He winces, clutching his head with both hands.

“Now’s not a good time. Come back later. Please.” Grant’s aware of how pathetic he sounds, but right now he doesn’t care. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to hold a conversation, not in this state.

“...Very well, then. I’ll be back later,” Sammy mutters. When Grant finally lifts his head, the room is empty.

Strange. He hadn’t even heard the door open.

__________________________________

“So we’re going to be keeping parts of the department, see? And if we’re keeping the animation department, we’ll need some sound to go with the cartoons.” Grant scratches at his hand, focusing on the papers before him. “We’ll need to downsize, though. Probably sell off some instruments as well…”

Jack leans back in the wooden chair, which creaks ominously under his weight. He takes a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow, revealing a rather obvious bald spot under his hat. “I guess. Never been very good at firing people though.”

“You’ll get used to it, don’t worry.”

Jack leans forward again, resting his chin on his hand. His eyes drift downward. “What happened to your hand?”

“My-?” Grant holds the appendage up, inspecting it under the dim fluorescent light. It was completely black now, like he had dipped it into ink and the skin had stained long after it was washed off. He stares at the cut on his hand, a reminder that this was yet another hallucination, that there was no ink.

And yet Jack was staring at him, normally cheerful face lined with concern. What was he looking at? The original puncture wound, which had long since scabbed over? The cut across his palm? Or maybe-

“I, uh, cut it. On some glass from one of the pipes,” he mumbles, hoping that was a decent enough explanation for whatever Jack was looking at.

Jack shifts his weight uncomfortably. “Sammy had stains like that all over his body,” he confides. “Then he went crazy and disappeared.”

“Yes, well, I’m not crazy, so-“ Grant stops mid-sentence, suddenly taking in what the lyricist was telling him. Sammy had disappeared months ago - that’s why he was talking to Jack about this in the first place, because he was filling in in Sammy’s absence. How had he forgotten that?

“What?”

“Sammy. Sammy was in my office last night, he…“ Grant stands up to look over Jack as if he expected to see Sammy still standing there, but there’s nothing except for the pipe.

Jack’s expression is somewhere between discomfort, concern, and fear. “Uh, no offense, but maybe you should consider taking some days off. I’m sure spending all day cooped up in here can’t be good for you.”

“He was here. He was here, I heard him-“ Grant looks around helplessly before slumping back down in his chair, holding his throbbing head. “He was here! You believe me, right? He was...”

__________________________________

The thing about rumors was that once they got started, there was no way to stop them. And after that meeting with Jack, there was all kinds of speculation being passed around that Grant caught in snippets and whispers in the halls. That he had gone crazy; that he had had a mental breakdown and that’s why he was out for a few days; even that he had rabies.

Perhaps the only thing worse than the rumors were the response people had towards them. Complaints and anger, that he could handle at this point. What he couldn’t handle was those complaints being replaced with sympathy or fear or sometimes both. People treated him as if he was fragile, like he would break if they said the wrong thing. Soft tones, simple wording, smiles from people who were supposed to be concerned for him but seemed to be more concerned of him. Grant hated that more than anything. He was not crazy, and he certainly wasn’t a child.

At their weekly department meeting, he puts everything into his performance. Dressing as best as he could, talking in fast tones and quickly and efficiently telling everyone what to do and how to do it. It was exhausting, but he was fairly certain he had convinced a good portion of the staff that he wasn’t crazy as they left the room.

“Nicely done, sir,” Carol greets, setting her ever-present clipboard down on the desk. Her appearance was impeccable as always, and it only made him look worse in comparison.

“You think so?”

“Better than your last few meetings have been, at least.”

“I’ll take it.” Grant rests his head on the desk, closing his eyes momentarily. “How many more meetings do I have today?”

There’s the sound of a paper flipping over as Carol checks something on her clipboard. “Six.”

Six meetings. He had only done one so far and he already felt like he was about to pass out; six was surely impossible. “Can you reschedule?”

She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You’ve already rescheduled most of them earlier this week, sir.”

Grant sits back up, struggling to get the desk back in focus. “I know, I know. Forget it. I’ll try to figure something out.”

Carol studies him for a moment with her sharp eyes. She was all business all the time - it was almost impossible for Grant to imagine what she was like outside of work. “With all due respect, why haven’t you quit yet? It’s obvious you can no longer function at work anymore.”

Quitting. God, how he had fantasized about the idea of barging into Joey’s office and handing him his resignation, savoring the look he’d imagine he’d have on his face as he told him off for all of the terrible decisions he had made as a CEO. The very thought of it made him feel better, at least for a fleeting moment.

“I have. It’s just...” he admits, then stops, not wanting to say any more.

“I take it that’s not an option?”

Grant remembers how proud his parents had been when they had heard what a high-end job he had snagged, how they had bragged about him to all of their family members. And he knows, deep down, that he simply will not be able to find another job as high-profile as this one, not like this.

But he can’t say that.

“I don’t think anyone will be eager to employ me after finding out the last company I managed financially went bankrupt,” he mutters, which isn’t a lie.

Grant sits in silence for a while, rolling his pen between his black fingers.

“I... I can hear things, sometimes,” he mumbles. He’s not really sure why he’s telling her this, other than the fact that she was there and listening and he felt like he needed to confide in someone. “It’s like the ink is... alive, or something. It wants me to be with it, I think, or a part of it-” He cuts himself off, burying his head in his hands. “Sorry. That doesn’t make any sense.”

There’s another uncomfortable bout of silence. Eventually Carol sits down on the edge of the desk, setting her clipboard in her lap. “Have you considered seeing a professional?”

She doesn’t say more than that, but he understands what she’s implying. “No, I can’t. If I told anyone else... they’d lock me away, I’m sure. I’ve heard of what goes on in those asylums of theirs; I wouldn’t make it out in one piece.”

“There’s no family members you can contact?”

He thinks about how disappointed his parents would be if they saw him like this, so tired and pathetic that he couldn’t even manage to do basic things like showering. He can picture the looks on their faces - his father’s stern look of disapproval, the disheartened look on his heartbroken mother’s face.

“No,” Grant mumbles.

She sighs, standing back up and straightening her pencil skirt. “I’ll try to clear your schedule for today.”

He nods, brushing his hair back. “Thank you.”

“And do try to at least eat something. You look thin.” With that she dismisses herself, leaving him alone in the room.

Grant stares at his pen, trying to remember the last time he had had a proper meal.

__________________________________

He was becoming increasingly good at avoiding people, slinking through the less-used halls and cutting through utility shafts to avoid the crowds. Now it’s inevitable that people see him as he shambles into the break room, and he does his best to avoid eye contact as he grabs a bag of nuts from the only non-bacon soup vending machine in the place. He fills a paper cup from the bathroom and finds a small secluded table tucked into the corner.

It couldn’t have been that long since I ate, or else I’d be dead by now, Grant rationalizes, but it feels like it’s been weeks since his last meal. Even when fasting he at least felt hungry; right now he feels nothing. In fact, the water seems downright repulsive, like a cup of lukewarm saliva. He tries to force himself to drink it, but a sudden convulsion causes him to gag and choke.

He straightens up, still coughing, and realizes that Thomas was watching him from the far table, with a look on his face that Grant couldn’t quite identify. As soon as they make eye contact Thomas looks away, quickly gathering his things from the table. But that one second is enough to know.

“Wait,” Grant manages to choke out between coughs. “Wait!” He abandons the table, scrambling after the mechanic as he darts around the corner of the hall. “What do you know about the ink! What-”

He stops short.

The hallway should have lead to the Art Department. Thomas should have been there. Instead he’s standing in an empty balcony in the center of a huge room with chains hanging from the ceiling. He brushes his fingers over the handrail in front of him, wondering if this was another hallucination, but it seems solid and cool to the touch.

Grant glances behind himself, realizing that the hallway leading into this room was completely different than the one he had just exited. Stop it, he insists to himself. Stop being crazy.

Cautiously he steps forward, walking around the perimeter of the balcony as he tries to get his bearings. There are no handrails in this section, just chains hanging down from the ceiling and descending into the darkness below. He leans dangerously close to the threshold of the wood, wondering what was so big and heavy to need that much support...

A loud grinding noise cuts through the air and he startles, stumbling back away from the edge at the last second. As the thing raises up, he notices the spicket first, then the pipes, then the ink flowing from it. The Ink Machine? He knew what it was - heck, he was the one who budgeted for all three versions of it - but he had no idea how huge this incarnation was. He leans closer, lost in thought. Why would Mister Drew spend that much money on something that just made ink? Joey’s spending may have been irresponsible and stupid, but he wasn’t irrational.

A cold sensation pulls Grant out of his thoughts, and when he looks down he sees that everything is covered in a strange black pattern, like spider webs. He runs his hand over the pattern on his clothes, but the darkness merely covers his fingers instead, like it was a shadow. No, no. Not now...

Grant takes a moment to breathe, willing the illusion away as he works his way back towards the hallway, dragging his hand against the walls to guide himself. The room seems to be getting progressively darker, and he can feel the hair on his neck standing up. Something was wrong-

He turns around.

It takes him a moment to realize there’s something standing on the other end of the balcony. Its body is emancipated, and so black it blends straight into the darkness, making only a few details visible - its face, its bowtie, the glove on its right hand. It looked like Bendy in a twisted way, like a terrible caricature.

It turns towards him blindly and starts slowly limping forward, one of its legs sticking to the floor and pulling away in long, gooey stands. Ink drips from it and puddles around the floor as it moves, the shadows on the walls seemingly following it. Run, Grant thinks to himself, knowing that he could outpace the creature easily. Instead he just stands there, paralyzed. He can feel something urging him towards the demon, the same strange draw he felt towards the pipe in his office. It was calling to him, and he couldn’t move-

Grant slumps down on his knees in a helpless panic as the creature approaches, getting close enough that he could see the drops of ink running down its skeletal figure. It tilts its head, its drawn-on smile vibrating, as if it were studying him. Slowly, it reaches a disturbingly human hand down towards him, sliding the ice-cold appendage under his head as he struggles to breathe. It curls its fingers, hooking its hand under his chin.

It turns its head again and taps his head up, once, like he was a child who had just said something amusing. It takes a step back, smile still vibrating, and walks directly through the wall beside him, the shadows vanishing with it.

Grant doesn’t remember how he found his way out of the department, or if anyone tried to stop him. All he remembers is running, running, running...

__________________________________

He had spent the weekend lying in bed, trying to lull himself to sleep, even though sleep just brought more nightmares of the strange demon creature. If he wasn’t asleep, he was crying; if he wasn’t crying, he was debating on overdosing on the pills in the medicine cabinet. The only real thing that stopped him was remembering that he had had the foresight to hide those pills on the top shelf when his depression had been less severe, where he would need a stepstool to get to them, and it was too exhausting to even think about fetching it from the garage.

And it was while he was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling with red-rimmed eyes, that he finally decided he had to quit. He simply wouldn’t survive otherwise.

The plan had sounded good in his mind - he would go into work on Monday, pack up his things, leave Joey a resignation notice, and check himself in somewhere to get help. It was only now, hitting the down button on the elevator, that he realizes that he couldn’t handle going back to work again.

As Grant steps onto the elevator, he notices the look the other occupant is giving him. Lacie, he realizes, one of the Bendyland workers. They had gone out drinking a few times before. Now she’s inspecting him with those sharp eyes of hers, taking a cigarette out of her mouth with gloves that were stained with either grease or ink.

You look terrible, he scolds himself, slinking into the corner of the elevator. When he was doing well mentally, he was an incredibly well-kept person - suit vests, ties, even taking the time to comb his mustache - because as far as he was concerned one’s appearance was as important to the job as their performance. Now he’s still wearing the same clothes he had been wearing on Friday, unbathed and unkept. Lacie continues to study him, as if she was debating on saying something, but the elevator screeches to a stop and she exits with commenting.

Carol doesn’t look the slightest bit surprised when Grant tells her that he’s quitting, nor does she seem bothered by him practically begging her to cancel his meetings for today. She just nods, her black curls bouncing, and he suspects she had already known this was coming for a while now.

Within the first half an hour of work he realized what a mistake this plan had been, and by the end of the first hour his head was pounding with another migraine. The walls swim dangerously around him as he pulls the cassette recorder from his desk drawer and sets it on his desk. Joey had distributed them around the entire office, claiming that they should use them to “express their feelings”, whatever the hell that meant.

Grant had only recorded one tape before, but now it seemed appropriate to do another, as surely a recording of his resignation would be better than a letter. He turns on the tape and tries to speak, but the words get lost among a sea of noise and screaming and he can’t remember what he needed to say or why he was saying it. He slams his hand down on the stop button and jerks around towards the pipe, which sits motionless in the wall.

“STOP IT!” Grant screams, even though he knows that the ink isn’t alive and that that’s crazy and everything he’s doing is crazy. He slumps down onto the floor, tears running down his face as he holds himself, as if he would fall apart into a million little pieces if he didn’t. “Stop it,” he begs. “Stop it. I don’t know what you want from me.”

The silence in the room is almost deafened by the noise in his head, but slowly he can make out a voice, a whisper, urging him to come closer. He can feel it, the need to be closer to it, to be a part of it. He shakily rises to his feet and stumbles forward, pressing his blackened hand against the cold glass.

The relief is instant - the overwhelming call of the ink is gone, the migraine suddenly subsided, and he understands that this is where he needs to be. He squeezes himself into the little cavity beside the pipe, curling up and resting his head against the glass. The noise is deafening, he can hear thoughts that aren’t his or maybe they were, but none of that matters anymore.

Grant drifts in and out of consciousness, struggling to keep some bearing on reality. He thinks he can hear the clock ticking but he has no idea what time it is, and it feels like it’s been days already but maybe it’s only been a few minutes.

He slowly comes to again and realizes that someone is standing there, trying to pull him out of the crevice. He struggles blindly against their grip. No! I need to be here! he wants to insist, but he can’t find the words. The figures shushes him softly and he hazily remembers how Carol had found him during his fever. Was he sick again?

He goes limp and the figure drags him out across the floor, propping him up against the wall. They roll up his sleeve and he can see that his entire lower arm had turned black, spreading out from his palm. His hand had tiny drops of ink clinging to the outside of it, and the veins above the area were dark. He wonders in a haze if the rest of his body was turning black as well.

“There, there, my sheep,” someone whispers, and some confused part of his brain recognizes Sammy’s voice again. His skin is icy to the touch as he puts a hand on the back of Grant’s neck, pressing something against his lips.

“Drink this,” Sammy insists, and he does so. The liquid is thick, salty tasting, and it burns his mouth slightly. He struggles to sit up, suddenly feeling a bit more lucid.

“Sammy...?” he manages to ask. The music director is covered in ink - it’s coating his entire body, dripping onto the floor, puddling around the Bendy mask he was wearing. Sammy merely shushes him again, wrapping his arms around his torso and dragging him to his feet.

“Can you stand?” he asks, and Grant nods, leaning against him for support. Sammy would bring him to the infirmary. He would be fine...

They walk slowly, Grant struggling to keep track of the hallways they were passing through. Some of them were familiar, some of them weren’t, some seem to lead to areas that logically they couldn’t connect to,

Finally they walk into a large open room, almost completely barren except for a few massive pipes running along the ceiling. Sammy guides him over to a nearby support beam and carefully pushes the other man away from him.

“Where-?” Grant mumbles, struggling to think, to processes what was going on. Something was wrong. They were supposed to go to the infirmary, weren’t they? Why were they here? He grabs at Sammy’s shoulder, only to recoil in disgust as his hand sinks into it, like he had just plunged it into a jar of molasses.

In one swift movement Sammy twists around behind the accountant, grabbing his hands and pulling them behind his back. Grant utters a protest and manages to pull free for a moment, but his movements are confused and uncoordinated and he merely ends up collapsing onto the floor.

“Easy, little sheep,” Sammy soothes, picking him up and dragging him over to the support beam, Grant struggling weakly as his hands are forcibly tied behind his back, then again against the pole. “Soon you will be in the hands of our Lord.”

Sammy seems to disappear for a few moments, and when he returns there’s a new voice with him.

“...It won’t work anyway! And I don’t need another corpse on my hands!” Joey, that was Joey’s voice. Why was he here?

“He's already infected. We need to sacrifice him now, so our Lord can save his soul-”

“Damn it Sammy, stop talking like a lunatic!” Joey snaps. Grant can hear him pacing, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath his feet. After a few moments the noise gets louder as Joey approaches, kneeling and cupping the other man’s chin with his hand as he forces him to look up.

“Grant, look at me,” he demands. Grant opens his eyes slowly, struggling to get Joey’s face to come into focus through the haze. It was hard to breathe, like his lungs were filled with water, and he was so tired...

He gives up and closes them again as Joey removes his hand, mumbling something under his breath. The other man stands back up and is quiet for a few moments, the only noise in the room coming from a persistently dripping pipe.

“Do it quickly,” Joey snaps at Sammy as he leaves the room. “You know how I feel about this.”

Grant can feel someone tugging at the rope around his wrists, loosening it. “What’s going on?” he manages to choke out. Words seemed almost impossible to form, the sentences breaking apart in his mind and falling from his lips in confused jumbles. Confusion gives way to fear as he struggles against the ropes again, but he only manages to fall sideways, hands still bound.

“Don’t be afraid, little sheep,” Sammy whispers, grabbing him by the shirt collar. “It will all be over soon enough.” He drags him a short distance across the floor, then forces him to sit upright in a kneeling position. There’s a screeching noise behind him that stabs into his mind, sharp and painful.

In front of him is a vast black area, expanding endlessly outward, and it takes Grant a moment to realize that it’s not the floor that’s black, but rather a huge empty space that’s been completely flooded with ink. Looking up reveals the cause - a shattered pipe, dripping ink into the basin rhythmically.

Something slams into the floor behind him with a heavy crash and a burst of steam, and he manages to turn around enough to see the Ink Machine, lowered so it was sitting on the floor. It’s on now, and the noise it’s making is awful, like the machine itself was screaming.

Sammy grabs him from the back, forcing him to lean forward, and as he does so he catches a glimpse of some sort of strange symbol on the floor beneath him. The ink is less than a foot away from his face now - it’s impossibly black, blacker than anything he had ever seen before. The only movement on the surface is a few small ripples created by the tears rolling down his face, which are lost instantly in the black void. He wants to struggle but he can’t, not with the ink beckoning to him.

“Sheep sheep sheep, it’s time for sleep,” Sammy whispers, shoving him into the abyss.

The ink is ice cold, and the shock of it makes Grant involuntarily gasp, his last bit of air escaping from his mouth and disappearing up into the void. He can feel the ink getting into his lungs, into his throat, but he can’t struggle and it’s not because of the ropes binding him. His lungs burn, everything burns, and it was dark, darker than he would have thought possible.

He stops feeling the burning sensation after a moment, and then he stops feeling anything. He just keeps sinking, deeper and deeper...

__________________________________

It was cold. Cold and wet.

Someone was grabbing him, pulling him away from the wetness, and he squeaks in protest. It wasn’t fair! He wanted to go back to sleep!

He can hear the person speaking, but he can’t make out all of the words. Something about asking if he was awake. Of course he was awake! They just woke him up, didn’t they?

“Edgar?” they try again. He burrows his way into their lap where it’s warm and tries to look around, but he doesn’t have eyes yet. Whoever it was sounded nice, friendly, but there was a strange edge to the way they speak that he can’t place. He knew that voice, yet he didn’t.

The ink making up his body suddenly spasms, twists. All Edgar can do is squeak in pain as the ink contorts, warping itself into a different shape. His limbs stretch out, refining themselves into fingers, forming into bone and flesh. He stares, transfixed. Hands. He hadn’t had hands before, had he?

His thoughts are abruptly cut off as the figure swears, shoving him off of his lap. He hisses angrily, wheeling around to face them. Part of his face burns, and he can see now in blurry black-and-white. In front of him is a massive machine, spilling gallons upon gallons of ink onto the floor from its spicket. In front of that is the man, who steps back away from him, recoiling in disgust.

“Damn it, I knew it wouldn’t work,” he mutters under his breath, and Edgar recognizes the man as Joey, except that wasn’t possible. He didn’t know this person, did he?

Joey squats down on the floor, suddenly cheerful, holding out his hand in front of him. “Why don’t you come here?” His voice is friendly, but his face is not. Edgar backs away, dragging himself on his half-formed legs.

“Grant, come here.” The cheerfulness is gone now.

Edgar puts his hands over his head, which was pounding with a stabbing pain. He can’t think straight. Grant. That was his name, wasn’t it? No, he was Edgar, he had always been-

The pain reaches its peak as his head abruptly rips open along the top, forming teeth and a tongue. The human scream that spills from it isn’t his. He claws at the new mouth frantically, ink spilling into the floor. No, no, this was wrong-

“I said COME HERE, DAMN IT!” Joey storms forward, reaching a hand out to grab him.

He doesn’t have fangs anymore, but he remembers how to bite. There’s a metallic taste that fills his head and a sickening cracking noise as his teeth clamp down on Joey’s hand. He screams, recoling, then draws his foot back and drives it into Edgar’s side. The spider releases his grip as he skids backwards over the wooden floorboards, squeaking in pain.

“SAMMY!” Joey barks, clutching his injured hand and backing away from the inky figure on the ground. Edgar slowly lifts his head, looking behind him. Some sort of inky mass is rising from the sea of black in front of them, as if the ink itself were trying to escape onto shore. Slowly it refines into a masked figure, who lays another mass of ink on the ground gently. They slowly move whatever the thing on the ground was into a horizontal position, ignoring Joey completely.

“Sammy!” Joey snaps again, voice tinged with pain and rage. “Lock that... abomination up somewhere!”

The masked figure raises his head for a moment, studying Edgar through cardboard eyes before looking back down again. “Whatever form he takes, it is our Lord’s decision, is it not? It is not our place to go against His will.”

Sammy lifts some part of the mass up, and as the ink drips down Edgar can make out a hand. Sammy gently draws it across the figure’s chest, then does the same with its other arm. Edgar perks up. Someone dead? Some of his best friends were skeletons. Maybe they would want to play with him.

Edgar glances back at Joey, wondering if he would try to grab him again. Insead the man takes a few steps back, face contorted in revolusion, and Edgar realizes that he was scared of him, scared of his own creation.

He cautiously drags himself across the floor, unable to stand fully on his half-formed limbs. Unlike Joey, the masked figure doesn’t seem to fear him at all. “It’s okay, little sheep,” he murmurs, moving aside so Edgar can get close. “You can look.”

Edgar nudges the body once with his hand, then pushes against it with both limbs, trying to get it to wake up. But it remains motionless, save for the ink slowly dripping away and puddling down around it.

“This body was poisoned,” Sammy explains. The corpse’s mouth is still wide open, black even on the inside, and Sammy slowly pushes it shut. “You would have ended up like me. Trapped in the abyss, lost... But through the grace of our Lord, you were saved. Your soul was still there, so He graced you with a new body, a new form. You should feel very blessed... do you understand?”

He didn’t, not really.

Edgar stares at the corpse, transfixed. Something stirs in the corner of his mind, except he’s pretty sure it’s not his memory. He remembers it being cold, noisy, hard to breathe. He was drowning-

A body. A dead body.

His body.

Both minds scream and claw at themselves in a panic, trying to get the ink off as it once again writhes and reforms. A searing pain shoots through the left side of their face, and half of the world is suddenly in color. Another throat and mouth form, this time in the correct spot, and they nearly choke on the excess ink. They manage to stand up as another limb forces its way out of their side, transforming into a gloved hand.

Get to the office, call for help...

Edgar isn’t sure why this is so important to his other mind, but he can feel his other self’s desperation as clearly as if it was his own. He rises to their newly formed legs unsteadily, his entire body aching. He looks around, half expecting Joey to still be standing there, but the room is empty save for Sammy and the Machine.

They stumble out of the room as quickly as they can, Sammy making no attempt to stop them. The winding hallways are strange and foreign to Edgar, but Grant navigates through them effortlessly, sometimes walking bipedally and sometimes scampering on all of their limbs. The halls swim around them dangerously, dripping ink - even their own body drips and leaves trails of it through the halls. They drag themselves through the doorway, eyeing the pipe on the wall uneasily, but the ink no longer calls to them. It no longer needed to.

Tape player. Use the tape player, call for help...

He grabs at his chair and uses it to pull themselves upward, blindly hitting buttons as another convulsion overtakes them. Grant tries to speak, but the noise catches in their first throat and comes out as nothing but a whimper. He starts tearing at the stitches over his mouth in a panic, a third limb starting to form out of their right side.

He thrashes around blindly in pain, unable to scream, knocking something off the desk and shattering it. Edgar is scared, crying, but the noise comes out as a strangled snarl. Ink separates from their back and starts to split down the middle to form two separate limbs, then stops. Grant struggles to stay lucid, to stop transforming, but he can’t do either.

Help, he tries again, but something is blocking one of their throats and he can only whimper again, gasping for breath. They clutch the table for support as the ink solidifies, forming flesh and bone, forcing them to cough up the thick ink that had been choking them. There’s excess ink dripping off of them, in their lungs, breathing for them. Edgar slumps forward onto the table, gasping for breath, mashing buttons on the recorder until it finally turns off. They lay there for a long time, Edgar crying, Grant in shock.

They start to write.

Over the walls, the floor, using the ink dripping off of their body. They write everything they can’t say, covering every inch of the surface, writing until their fingers are bleeding ink and they’re too tired to move. They write until the walls are as inky and black as they are.

It takes Edgar a long time to realize he’s screaming, and then he realizes that it’s his other mind screaming, the noise dying in their first mouth and coming out a nothing but a muffled whine. It hurt their throat a little, but Edgar just lies on the floor, not daring to move.

He stays there for a very long time, waiting patiently until the horror his other mind feels numbs back into shock, until the screaming quiets and then stops. He gets up slowly, cautiously, making sure the movement wouldn’t cause them to start screaming again. Their whole body aches, but he forces himself to move forward, slipping out the door.

This room gave them headaches.

__________________________________

Edgar was pretty sure that something was wrong with his other mind.

He doesn’t ask, of course, because Charley and Barley got annoyed with him if he asked too many questions. It was just a suspicion he had.

For one, his other mind had very confused thoughts, ones that didn’t make any sense to Edgar. Most of them were repeated, over and over; he couldn’t always remember if they were real or were just dreams. Sometimes he didn’t think at all, which was scary for both of them. On the other hand if he thought too much he’d send them both into a panic attack, so Edgar tried to distract him if he started thinking sad things again.

He pounces on a can of bacon soup, which he had been using as a toy for a few days now, because even though they were hungry Grant had refused to let him eat it. It springs out from under his hands and goes flying into the far wall, smacking Charley in the process. Edgar lets out a garbled giggle in delight, snatching the can from a distance before Charley has a chance to take it from him. Charley snarls, smacking his hand with his pipe in a rather un-Charley-like way.

Edgar had seen that kind of thing happen with his friends a lot. Suddenly they wouldn’t be his friends anymore and he’d have to wait patiently for them to wake back up, which wasn’t easy as he hated waiting. His other mind almost never forced him to do anything he didn’t want to, unless they were in danger or he felt Edgar was doing something foolish. Edgar suspected he was simply too tired to fight back.

He didn’t know much about his other half. He had learned from his memories that his name was Grant, and that he used to work here. He also liked numbers - he counted every day, keeping track of the minutes and hours as they passed, even though Edgar suspected he had lost count several times already. He wasn’t really sure why it was so important to his other mind anyway.

He tosses the can above his head with their mechanical arm, which ricochets off a rafter in the ceiling and clatters to the ground in front of him, and he stares at it, feeling inexplicably sad. His other mind was sad all the time - sometimes if Edgar was happy Grant would feel it, but sometimes if Grant was sad it would seep into Edgar’s feelings and make him sad too. And sometimes they’d even stare thoughts - he can hear him now in the corner of his mind. He was so tired. He needed to lie down, needed to rest...

Edgar stares at the can in front of him. It didn’t seem very fun anymore.

He picks it up carefully and sets it on one of the nearby hallway shelves, where hopefully it would be safe until he was ready to play again. He picks out a spot on a couch to lie down on, burying his head under his arms. His head hurts, which it does sometimes if he lets Grant think for too long, and he scratches at his second mouth unhappily before curling up to sleep.

Maybe Grant would want to play tomorrow. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so sad then.

Maybe.

#bendy and the ink machine #batim #grant cohen #sammy lawrence #joey drew #jack fain #lacie benton #bendy #butcher gang #thomas connor #tw: suicide #tw: self harm #tw: body horror #tw: unreality #outdesign posts things #outdesign attempts to write #when in reality this started out as a mental freeform fic and it turned out that most of the stuff in it ended up in DCTL anyway #like the ink being 'alive' and driving people crazy and infecting them was all in this before DCTL

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