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typingcorgi · 1 year

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can't quit you

rating: e (minors, please shoo. you will be blocked) word count: 4.1k+ pairing: joel miller x f!reader warnings: mention of age difference, tipsy sex, mutual pining, emotionally unavailable but totally fuckable joel, oral sex (f receiving), p in v, creampie, praise kink makes brain go brrr, taylor swift references if you squint, porn with plot, moody-ish joel, no use of y/n summary: joel miller isn't able to tell you what you mean to him, but he can show you. author's notes: this is probably the fic I'm most proud of (not that I've written very many) and if you read, i would absolutely love feedback, reblogs, or comments. tell me what you like! tell me what you hated (kindly pls lol). i am open to feedback and love praise can't you tell so enjoy reading your thoughts. now enjoy getting dicked down (respectfully) and thank you to @foli-vora for letting me pick your brain on some of the plot devices; truly appreciate it (:

Right now, you have two things on your mind: cheap whiskey and Joel Miller.

The former comes from the promise of your smuggler who’d agreed to deliver an unopened bottle of Rittenhouse in exchange for three or four cigarettes you’d hand-rolled that morning. Quality tobacco is a thing of the past, so you’re fine with offering up one lackluster product in exchange for another slightly less lackluster product. There’s a good chance the bottle will be half-empty by the time your visitor makes it to your meeting spot. No one is ever as good as their word anymore, and their word means virtually nothing.

You hold Joel Miller to his promises, though. He said he’d run out to barter for his own offering of supplies—he’s low on ammo for his shotgun, and he needs to find a good number of batteries for the two-way radios he’d stolen off a sleeper last night. He figures it might be a good insurance plan, a good backup just in case either of you split up in this next leg of the trip to Jackson. And while you don’t like the idea of him traveling alone—despite knowing he can very much take care of himself—you don’t fight him on it. He’s not wrong, and more significantly, if you try and argue with him, you’re probably going to be disappointed.

You used to bicker more when you thought he hated you; when you were the annoying neighbor and not the escort out of Boston and downstate. You fought like cats and dogs when you lived next door to him in those mangy apartments, never liking the way you looked at each other—like both of you knew the other had an ulterior motive to force yourself out of the QZ, and you picked up on it, tapped into this common secret you hadn’t planned on sharing with anyone else. And while the proverbial walls with which Joel shields himself are crumbling at a painfully sluggish pace, it’s something. You’ll take something over nothing.

You’re hiding out in the basement of an abandoned convenience store on what was probably a main street in this New York suburb. There isn’t much by way of furniture; just a couple of rust-ridden folding chairs, a worn green couch, empty, dusty shelves, and a sink that probably hasn’t run clean water in fifteen years. Small privacy windows along the top of the walls offer little by way of natural light, and the angle of its golden rays tells you that it’s time to go. Your connect is waiting for you on the street’s southern corner. Or at least, that’s where you planned to meet right before sundown.

Joel’s left you with his smaller, quicker shot, a semi-automatic that he usually entrusts you with while you’re apart. He doesn’t say it, but you can sort of tell that he doesn’t like leaving you. And it’s probably not personal because yes, while Joel Miller is slowly coming out of the shell he’s lived in for the last twenty years, it’s not as though he’s developed some sort of overt attachment to you. In a life like this, attachment is almost as dangerous as the Infected. There’s no room for him—or for you—to seek anything beyond a sort of temporary comfort with one another.

Get him to Jackson. That’s it. And then you’re on your own again on your route back home.

You switch the safety on the rifle, then keep it tucked in the front pocket of your jeans while you head up the dilapidated stairs and push open the cellar doors. The sunset meets you right in your eyes and you squint, and then the same thought you have at almost every beautiful encounter sweeps through your mind. Am I seeing another sunset tomorrow?

With any measure of hope, yes.

You close the cellar doors behind you, careful to avoid stepping on any overgrown grass along the cracked sidewalk toward the street corner. You’ve been unusually fortunate to not run into any runners or clickers today, but that streak would come to a dreadful end if you’d stepped on any patch of cordyceps fungus hidden along the green. They’d come charging at you in an instant, and if their overbearing strength didn’t kill you first, the brain parasite would. Eventually.

A quick death sounds better. You can’t fathom slowly losing your mind as many have. You can’t fathom losing the memory of Joel.

Fuck. You’ve really got it bad for him, you’re fucking thinking about him when you should be on guard, when you should be looking out for—

“Girl,” a voice calls out from behind you. You don’t know this smuggler that well; it’s not as though he has a voice you’d recognize. Your shoulders jump and you try to downplay it as you turn around, rifle now held in your dominant hand.

“Yeah,” you say, unimpressed with his greeting. You notice the edges of a paper bag crumpled in his strong grip, and as you eye him, you take out a tin-wrapped package of cigarettes, holding them out for him to take. He accepts your barter and unwraps the foil, inspecting each product to ensure you’re not ripping him off.

“Yeah,” he echoes, then hands you the paper bag. It’s heavy, containing the glass bottle that he’d promised, but right away, you can tell its contents aren’t completely full. You don’t mention it. Some things aren’t worth the energy. And you’re fairly confident you’d start feeling it after a swig or two, considering your last drink feels like ages ago.

When you return to the cellar, you’re alone again. Concern and disappointment flood your veins as you realize Joel hasn’t returned. Fuck, now would have been a good time for those fucking walkie-talkies. Hey, Joel, you dead? No? Great, get back here in one piece.

You dig around your pack for something to eat, eventually settling on something that you think was a protein bar at one point in time, but now just tastes of slightly sweet dust. It’s unappetizing. It’s all this end-of-world can offer you, and while getting good and drunk on an empty stomach sounds like it would be a fan-fucking-tastic idea, you can’t afford to slow down tomorrow. You can’t afford the hangover.

It feels like hours have passed within the span of minutes, and you take a swig of Rittenhouse before you hear a clang at the cellar door. FEDRA wouldn’t wait for you to open up—they’d just bust the door open without hesitation. Joel. Maybe. It could be him, or it could be your smuggler coming back to collect, realizing now your flimsy cigarettes weren’t worth the trade.

Your shotgun is again in hand—someone told you long ago that alcohol and firearms aren’t a wise mix, but that was probably before they realized the world was eventually going to end—and after carefully walking up the wooden stairs, you push open the door, gun ready to fire.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel mutters, lowering your aim away from the space between his tired eyes. “You really are ready for anythin’, aren’t you, honey?”

He says it almost sarcastically, like he doesn’t mean it. Like he’s teasing you in an aloof sort of way that only makes total sense for the Joel Miller. And you know he doesn’t intend for your stomach to twist like it does when he says it—honey, fuck, you could just melt onto the cold cement floor—but it does.

“In times like these, you have to be,” you offer, leading you both down the stairs.

You sink into the couch, finally able to exhale that long-awaited sigh of relief as it hits you: Joel is back, and from what you can tell, he’s unharmed. He’s alive. You don’t give yourself much time to relish in the silent celebration of it, though.

“How was it out there?” You ask. “Run into anything? Anyone?”

“Couple’a stalkers,” he replies, shrugging. “Shot ‘em before they could get close. Got the batteries for the radio, along with some other crap.”

Your smile is small but genuine. “That’s good. Anytime you don’t end up maimed or dead is a win in my book.”

He almost chuckles, and it makes your heart squeeze. “Yeah.”

—

The “other crap” Joel has brought back to you includes a used, but functional woolen blanket and a stash of beef jerky that’s likely way past its expiration date. “I don’t need you passin’ out from hunger,” he says as he hands one of the pieces to you. Your fingers brush and it feels fucking electric, but likely only to you, since you know Joel has shut himself off to any sort of emotional electricity long ago.

He sits next to you on the couch, and honestly, takes up a considerable amount of space. His legs are splayed open, his broad back resting on the cushion behind him, and the full extent of his intimidating size begins to sink into you. It’s not like you ever thought Joel Miller was small, but you’ve been with him long enough that sometimes you forget how he might appear to others: menacing. Threatening.

You’re passing off the whiskey bottle between you, taking swigs every couple of minutes to fill the silence that’s fallen between you. Your conversation started benign enough (if benign could be used to describe the next leg of your runaway route, now that FEDRA knows two of its civilians have escaped the Boston QZ), but then it’d taken a more personal turn. Suddenly you know a sliver more of Joel Miller’s past; you know he’d been separated from his brother since Outbreak Day. You learn he had a daughter.

“I’m sorry,” you say lamely. It doesn’t feel strong enough. I’m sorry is what you might have said had you accidentally closed the cellar door on Joel’s pinky finger. He doesn’t say anything back for a while. He just takes another swig of whiskey as he leans back into the couch, as though it fully catches the weight of his grief.

“Was a long time ago,” he says finally. “She would’a been close to your age by now. Maybe a little younger.”

You nod and immediately feel a little guilty. You’d somehow survived, against all odds, against losing your family—if not to the outbreak itself, to the violence it’d caused. Your family was collateral damage in a devastating blow. It could have been you instead of her—Joel would still have his daughter, and you’d be with your family in a place hopefully much better than this hell on earth.

“Still,” you try, still not feeling as though your words convey your true meaning. “I’m so sorry. Thank you for trusting me with that.”

Joel’s eyes flicker towards yours as if he’s only now realizing that’s what’s happening here: he’s trusting you. And whether it’s an effect of the whiskey, it’s something. Neither of you is full-on drunk, just loose enough to take the edge off, to put aside some of the overwhelming weight that comes with surviving the literal plague. It’s just enough to let some of the walls built between you begin to chip away, bit by bit.

You don’t leave him hanging out to dry, though. You can’t. Joel just exposed one of his deepest wounds, so the least you can do is mirror the gesture.

You tell him everything. You tell him about your life in New York, your escape out of before you’d barely begun to drive. You tell him about your family and the hit it took to your life to lose theirs. You tell him about your connection to the Fireflies (although you’re pretty sure he’d already picked up on that, considering your frequent interactions with Marlene and Kim). You tell him you’d needed a light to cling to in the everlasting darkness until you’d realized even the light was no good, even then, you’d come to accept the only risk worth taking was one that ensured your security and yours alone.

And now, as it happens, his, too.

He doesn’t say anything afterward. He doesn’t come out with a line like thank you for trusting me with that or anything gooey or empathetic. How you have the emotional space for such reactions is beyond even your understanding, so you understand why a complete stoic like Joel Miller just…sits there. Stoic, nodding his head a bit in an effort to communicate he hears you. He doesn’t say he’s sorry. Everyone is expected to live like this.

“You know,” you continue, the whiskey warming the blood swimming in your veins. “When you didn’t come back as quickly as I thought you would, I got worried.”

Joel exhales through his nose. “Yeah,” he replies. “What else is new.”

You turn your body to face him, legs crossed over one another as you adjust your seat. Your eyes widen with meaning. You’re like a kid with a secret to spill, a story to tell, and you’ll be damned if Joel Miller doesn’t hear it.

“I mean it,” you push. “I’d been thinking about you all damn day. You just come and go as you please, or at least, you think you do. You’ve only just started telling me where you plan on going, or how long you think it’ll take. And I stick by you despite it all. You know why?”

“Yeah, and why’s that?” Joel presses, but the sarcasm dripping from his voice signals that he doesn’t actually want to know. Wanting to know what you mean—and then actually knowing—translates to pain. And this sort of added pain, the one that comes from wanting too much, is just not something either of you can manage at a time like this.

Your pointer finger gestures between the two of you, and with a bolt of whiskey courage, you finally say what’s been plaguing your mind for months. “It’s you and me,” you admit. “That’s my whole world. I got nothing else worth saving or fighting for anymore. So when you leave, half of my world walks out on me. Half of my fucking reason for being here is just—”

He cuts you off, and you don’t fucking believe what’s happening. His kiss is harsh, biting, bordering on punishment for you to shut the fuck up and he knows yelling at you won’t work (when has it ever?) so he kisses you. He lunges for you, his broad palm and dirt-coated fingers covering your entire cheek, the pads of his fingers pressing slightly into the flesh of your face.

Stop.

He pulls back, and both of you are met with the heavy breathing of the other. Your eyes open, slow and dreamy. You wish you had something more articulate to say.

“What the fuck?”

He says nothing.

“No, really, Joel. What the fuck was that?”

He pulls back, observing you. The weight of his gaze is nearly paralyzing.

“Don’t make me say it,” he concedes. You lean back against the arm of the couch, waiting for something more satisfying.

“Had too much to drink,” he tells you, but you know for a damn fact that you’re the one that put most of that liquor away. You’d had a head start, after all, waiting for him to get back to you.

“Not buying it,” you argue, shaking your head. “Just admit to me that you feel something between us, too?” And there’s your index finger again, flicking between your two bodies, tracing a line over the invisible string that binds you to the other. “Admit to me that this isn’t just about getting to Jackson. That you need someone here with you, because you can’t carry the damn weight of the entire world on your shoulders anymore.”

He can’t tell you that. It’s as though the words simply don’t exist in the Joel Miller lexicon. Your gaze drops, casting downward at his thigh, though you’re not exactly looking at anything.

Finally, he says your name. It’s low and pleading. Stop.

He’s leaning into you again, and this time, you meet him halfway. It’s agonizing, the painfully short distance between your mouths before he kisses you again. He’s slow and hesitant this time, almost seeking permission for a kiss as biting as your first. Your tongue sweeps along the seam of his lips, and when he parts them, you kiss him like the world is ending.

You can’t fucking believe what’s happening. It’s as though you’ve manifested this moment within your dreams. On the nights you’ve fallen asleep alone, you’ve touched yourself thinking of this. You’ve played your own body like a harp, imagining every stroke and rub of your fingers belonged to him instead. Joel is kissing you, and you’re kissing him back. Joel’s hands are running up through your hair, and your hands are on his chest, bracing yourself for him to pull back when he inevitably realizes this is a bad fucking idea.

It doesn’t come. He pushes you down, a gentle press of his hand to guide your back along the couch. His lips move from yours toward your neck, his kiss a brand, declaring you as his for as long as he’ll have you.

For as long as you survive.

Your bodies dance between wanting to savor the moment and needing to feel the heat of the other. Joel’s fingers toy with the zipper of your jeans, eventually pulling them down your legs and discarding them toward the cement floor so he can better focus his energy on you. On pleasing you, of course, but maybe to also give into the desire he’s been repressing for so long.

“Joel,” you whisper. “Are you su—“

“Don’t,” he interrupts, and then his mouth is on your cunt.

It’s sudden and harsh, but fuck, your body needs this. Nothing about this man is subtle, and now you learn his sex isn’t either. His tongue traces patterns against your clit, eventually probing deeper to taste you from the inside. Maybe if you’d been a little more firm in your inhibitions, you’d tell him this was a bad idea. Maybe he wouldn’t be fucking you with his goddamn perfect mouth like this. But he is, and you’re here, beneath the twitching overhead light in this decayed basement until it flickers once, twice, and goes out.

You learn Joel is braver in the dark.

Your hands grip his hair while he eats you out. His fingers press so deeply against the flesh of your hips that you know it’ll bruise, but it’ll be a pleasant ache to remember a night like this. It’ll be proof that even for a moment, Joel Miller felt something for you, and he could show you even if he couldn’t tell you.

“Fuck, darlin’,” he mutters, pulling back to catch his breath. You crane your neck to glimpse at him. His lips and beard glimmer with evidence of your arousal, and he sighs into the flesh of your thigh. “Too—too old for this.”

“Fuck that.” You actually laugh at his unexpected comment. “Keep going.”

For a rare moment in your relationship, Joel listens to you. His head dips back between your legs, mouth returning to deliver your pleasure. He’s slower this time, but just as deliberate. His hands hold your legs apart to give his tongue the perfect space against your clit, and when you feel your body begin to crest in relief, you give a sharp inhale through your mouth.

“Joel, I’m—I’m going to—“

He doesn’t need to hear anymore. He drinks you in while you climax, your limbs tensing while stars explode behind your closed eyes.

You kiss him when you push yourself up, needing to taste your own lingering flavor—needing confirmation that all of this is real. Joel fucking Miller just ate you out in this dingy little basement, and you can’t be sure, but you think it’s because he might actually have developed some sort of feeling for you. Something beyond the need to run or hide or defend. And you reciprocate it, eagerly.

How inconvenient for you both.

He’s breathing heavily against your mouth, and you smile in the earnest afterglow.

“You’re really good at that,” you praise into your ear, and he offers something between a growl and a moan in response.

His jeans are dirty and stiff, but you’re just as impatient to pull them off his thick legs and experience him as he’s delighted in you—the weight of his body, the feel of his cock. You hold his length in your hands and immediately notice he’s fucking huge. You practically gasp at the realization, thankful that the dark room hides your growing blush.

You’re laying on your back, and Joel’s fingers slide against your entrance, priming you for his next move. He speaks again, and while you’d normally have a little internal celebration at any ounce of vulnerability he’d be willing to share with you, this time you immediately cut him off.

“You sure abou—“

“Never more about anything else,” you confess.

It’s all too damn much, the amount of immense sensation that comes from Joel teasing briefly with the head of his cock. He pushes into you, and it’s almost as if you can see the way his eyes roll back into his head. Your own body has to adjust to his size, and you bite your lower lip as you brace yourself through the sweet pain of his length filling you with all he has.

He groans against the warmth of your neck, eventually building up his slow thrusts to a rhythmic pace that causes your blood to dance.

“G—god damn it,” you choke out, your ankles hooked around each other along his spine.

In the darkness, you can make out the slight reflection of his tired eyes. His breathing turns ragged quickly and he hisses once or twice—whether out of pleasure or plain you can’t determine (especially because you’re certain you heard him grumble something about his damn knees while he slid out and pushed forward, but honestly, you’re so fucking spent that it’s hard to be sure).

“Feels good?” You ask, clenching your walls as he thrusts home.

He groans. “Uh-huh.”

He pulls you to sit up on his lap, and it’s only then he realizes you’re both still too damn clothed. He hurries to pull your white t-shirt overhead, then pushes your bra straps off your shoulders before managing to unhook the thing with both hands. Hs teeth nip and lips suck at your nipple while he fucks you, while you softly bounce on his damn cock, and shit, you want this night to last for fucking ever.

You’re fucking ecstatic. Your heart sings with the knowledge that you’ve managed to bring Joel pleasure, if only for tonight. Your body thrums like a guitar string plucked by his experienced fingers, and you pant against his lips, sweat forming along the hairline at your temples.

“I’m c—close,” you warn him. “I’m going to—”

“M—me too,” he stammers. “Let me feel you, honey. Just l–let go.”

And you do, you really fucking do. You feel his heat begin to spill inside you and it only intensifies the blinding orgasm Joel coaxes out of you. It reverberates within you, spanning from your fingertips down toward your toes, turning your spine to liquid.

He fucks into you slowly while you both come down, humming into your ear during the aftershocks.

“That’s it, darlin’. Did so fuckin’ good.”

The praise alone is nearly enough to send you over another edge. You suddenly want to bury your head into the crook of Joel’s neck, hiding any evidence of vulnerable relief along your expression. But Joel doesn’t let you. Instead, he holds your chin between his thumb and the crook of his index finger, and kisses you through it.

Joel falls asleep on the couch in his jeans and an old t-shirt. He lets you wear his flannel (though he tries telling you it’s dirty and bloodstained, but mostly everything you own is, so you don’t care).

He falls asleep with you resting behind him, trusting you to hold him while you keep each other safe. He kisses the inside of your wrist, lips lingering at your pulse point.

When you wake in the morning, he’s already gone. And your heart would completely sink had you not realized one of the two-way radios standing upright on the shelf across from you, low static playing through its speaker. There’s a little red light next to its antenna.

You feel as though you can breathe again.

Padding across the basement floor, you grab the radio with both hands, press the call button, and speak into the receiver.

“Joel?”

#tlou fic #the last of us fic #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x you

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moonstruckme · 4 months

Note

Hello lovely!!

I very humbly request decorating the christmas tree with peter and for some mysterious reason he keeps finding reasons to kiss you

the holidays and peter, a perfect combo

-🔮

Hi gorgeous, thanks for requesting!!

tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader ♡ 982 words

“Peter.” You’re doing your best to sound firm, but it’s an impossible task to keep the laughter from your tone. “Be careful.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” Peter holds up the ornament he’s just knocked off the tree, placing it back in its spot. “I’ve got it, babe, don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to your stuff.”

“That one’s yours,” you remind him. “May got it for you last year, and she’ll totally know if you break it.”

Peter makes a sheepish face, but the facade breaks as soon as you laugh. He surges forward to kiss you, your smiles a mirror. He tastes like almonds.

“You’ve been eating my cookies,” you accuse.

“They’re really good when they’re warm.”

“Peter!” You try to push him off you, but he bands an arm around your waist, freakishly strong. You’re forced to make your complaint against his lips. “Those are for my coworkers.”

“I’ll leave enough for them.”

“What, like two each?”

“Maybe three. I might be feeling generous. Season of giving and all.”

You scoff, setting your hands on his chest to push him off. “You’re awful,” you say, no small amount of fondness seeping into your tone, “and I know exactly why.” You head for Peter’s ipod, sitting in a mug to amplify sound. “It’s this song, it makes you feral.”

Peter tracks your trajectory and chases after you, snagging you by your belt loop. “Whoa, whoa, let’s not be so hasty. This is the song of our city!”

You give him a deadpan look. The song of your city has been on repeat for nearly a half hour now. “We’re not celebrating Christmas in Harlem.”

“Queens is close enough!”

“Sorry.” You reach over, pressing skip despite Peter’s hold on you.

He groans, releasing you.

“Now can we get back on task?” You give your half-bare tree a pointed look. You’ve been trying to decorate for a couple of hours now, and your boyfriend (adhd personified, bless him) keeps getting sidetracked.

But Peter’s listening to the intro of the new song, a smile unfurling across his sweet face. He dances his way over to the tree, singing the lyrics.

Well, you think, at least he’s putting on ornaments.

You join, and for a minute, you’re wonderfully productive. You join in on the duet, picking your favorite ornaments out of the box Peter had hauled out of the back of your coat closet and placing them delicately on the tree. It hasn’t snowed yet in New York, but you’re feeling so giddy with holiday cheer you’re thinking of going to the corner store after this for hot chocolate mix.

When Peter whisks you away from the tree this time, you’re a bit more amenable to it, though you roll your eyes for show. He spins you across the living room, his hands warm around yours. He croons the lyrics to you, and you play along, batting your eyelashes up at him when he pulls you close to his chest.

“The neighbors might think,” you sing in an overly coy voice.

Peter’s overlaps with it at the end. “Baby, it’s bad out there.”

“Say, what’s in this drink?”

“No cab’s to be had out—whoa, this is kind of messed up, huh?” Your boyfriend’s eyebrows raise as he pays more attention to the lyrics. “Are they saying he roofied her?”

A laugh bubbles out of you. “You’ve never noticed?”

“Jesus.” Peter looks so shell-shocked you can’t help but run your hand along his stubble, a comforting touch for him and an indulgence for you as a bonus. He breaks from his reverie to smile down at you, kissing the tip of your nose. “Just for the record,” he says, dipping lower to capture your mouth, “that cider I made earlier was one hundred percent fruit, sweetheart. No alcohol here.”

“Mmm, guess you won’t be getting any then.”

“I don’t like what you’re implying.” You smile, and Peter kisses the corner of your mouth quickly. “I seem to do just fine without shady tactics.”

“I don’t know—” you start to tease him further, but then he nips at your bottom lip and it’s pretty difficult to carry on speaking from there.

Your hands have minds of their own, one gripping his shoulder while the other tunnels its fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. Peter all but sucks you in, devoting his attentions to your bottom lip while he pulls you closer by the waist. He gives the soft inside of your lip another gentle nibble, and the sound that escapes you is so humiliatingly needy that you force yourself to pull away.

“No,” you say, trying to catch your breath. Then, more firmly, “No. We’re never gonna finish decorating tonight if we keep…doing this.”

“We can finish tomorrow,” Peter suggests helpfully, one hand coasting up your back while he noses at your cheek.

“Peter,” you chide, laughing. “We’ve already put it off for too long. At this rate, the tree’s going to die before we get ornaments on it.”

Your boyfriend heaves a great sigh, pressing a final, consoling kiss to the skin beneath your eye before stepping away from you. “Alright, alright. We’ll get it done.”

“Thank you,” you say weakly, tucking some string lights more securely into the tree’s branches while Peter stoops over the box. You do your best to calm your heart rate and try to get back into the flow of decorating.

A second later, there’s a thwick, and you look up to see a green and red sprig webbed to the ceiling above your head.

You look over at Peter, who is also staring up at the mistletoe.

“What?” His brow wrinkles, and he looks between you and the ceiling with his palms tipped guilelessly upward. “How’d that get there? Damn, sweetheart, I really wanted to stay on task, but you know, rules are rules, so…”

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hussyknee · 1 year

Text

Red, White & Royal Blue: Collector's Edition Henry PoV bonus chapter by Casey Mcquiston.

(transcribed from the page pictures posted)

This is the coda to the end of the book, so don't read it if you haven't read the book first. Sadly, the Collector's Edition doesn't seem to be available on Kindle so. Arrrr matey.

Download link for file at the end.

....

HENRY

“I am not asking you to believe in it, or even to like it,” Henry says stonily. It’s been a long morning already. He is beginning to perspire. “I am simply asking you to show a modicum of respect.”

“To–to your quiche?”

“Yes. To my quiche.”

Bea puts down her tape gun and wipes her eyes. “Pez!”

“Yes?”

“Henry says he’s going to make us a quiche!”

Pez’s squawk of a laugh bounces down the stairs. “Pull the other one!”

“I make them all the time for Alex,” Henry insists. “They are perfectly edible.”

“So, when you promised us breakfast if we got up early to help you.” Bea says, “you meant that you were going to make us breakfast?”

“Yes!” Henry says hotly. “Stop laughing!”

“I’m sorry!” Bea says. “It’s only that...well, Henry, the last time you cooked breakfast for me, you were twelve and you put a sausage in the microwave until it exploded.”

“That was your idea! And it’s been ages since then! I’ve studied, all right? I’m quite good now. Those pictures I send the group chat aren’t just for show.”

“Oh, aren’t they?” Bea says rudely, as if his incredibly generous offer to cook her a shallot-and-thyme quiche with mushrooms from the farmer’s market means nothing at all. As if he’s lived in this house for five entire years without learning to use its kitchen.

Perhaps if their lives weren’t so chaotic, if Henry weren’t flying out of New York every time Bea had a spare moment to fly in, he could have proven this to her earlier. But Pez, who lives mostly in the city now and visits so frequently he’s earned his own Secret Service code name (Cardinal, since Henry is Bishop), should know better.

“Percy Okonjo,” Henry says as Pez joins them, “you were here last weekend when I made mince pie. You loved it.”

“Did I?” Pez wonders aloud, with an annoyingly Bea-like lilt.

“Look at this apron!” Henry gestures to himself and the navy blue apron he’s wearing. Alex gave it to him for his birthday last year. “Would a man who can’t make a quiche have an apron like this? It’s monogrammed.”

“You’re royalty, babes,” Pez points out. “Everything you own is monogrammed.”

From the pocket of his serious-home-cook apron, his phone buzzes. Reinforcements. The FaceTime connects, and Alex says, “Good morning, love of my li–”

“Alex,” Henry interrupts, “tell them about my quiches.”

Alex pushes up his sunglasses and frowns into the camera. He looks so lovely with his faded T-shirt and jean jacket and shaggy hair. Pure American heartthrob, might as well have a cowboy hat on. Henry never does tire of it.

“Sorry?”

“Bea and Pez don’t believe I can make a quiche.”

“What? Have they seen your apron?”

“That’s what I said!”

“Henry’s quiches are great!” Alex says loudly, to the kitchen at large. “I almost never find shells in them!”

That sets Bea and Pez off again. On the screen, Alex’s face crinkles into laughter.

“Thank you very much, Alex, you’ve been a tremendous help,” Henry groans. “How are things? Florist this morning, wasn’t it?”

“Just finishing up.” Alex says with a grin. “Final approvals done. Everything looks great.”

With only one week until moving day and two until the wedding, it made sense to divide and conquer. Henry agreed to stay in New York and finish packing up the brownstone with help from Bea and Pez, while Alex, June, and Nora are ticking off the last of their checklists in Texas.

“Of all the surprises that wedding planning has brought us,” Henry says, “your ability to micromanage floral arrangements has certainly been...one of them.”

“You know I love to curate a vibe,” Alex says.

“That you do,” Henry agrees. “Where are the girls?”

“Getting donuts,” Pez answers before Alex can. He holds up his phone, open to a photo of June blowing a kiss while Nora fellates an éclair.

“Donuts!” Bea says. “Now there’s an idea!”

They spend the rest of the day drowning in cardboard boxes and bin liners, packing everything but the furniture and the downstairs television. Pez reminds him once an hour that they could pay someone to do this, but Bea is stubborn, and Henry is reluctant to let anyone else wade into all the intimate trappings of his and Alex’s life. It was bad enough explaining the contents of the trick drawer in their dresser to Pez, much less some mover he’s never met.

When it’s done, Bea puts A Knight’s Tale on in the living room and promptly falls asleep on Pez’s lap. Pez passes out too, but Henry stays awake, because Heath Ledger deserves an audience. And because he knows if he doesn't wake Bea and move her to the guest bedroom, he'll have to hear about her back spasms in the morning.

David hops up beside him on the loveseat, and Henry strokes the top of his snout until his little body relaxes into Henry's side.

"Nervous old boy," Henry hums. It still does seem like the ultimate irony that the dog he adopted for emotional support has anxiety. David has grown more and more worried all week, as more and more of his home disappeared into boxes. "We won't leave you, I promise."

The brownstone has been a good house for them. Sturdy brick walls, neighbors that actually let them be. Henry has loved it more than he ever loved Kensington, or at least as much as he loved Kensington when his parents both lived there too. Some mornings, when he comes downstairs to find Alex with the coffeepot and the kettle already on, he feels the way he did when his family all slept under one roof. This roof is quite a bit smaller than that one, but the feeling isn't.

So, perhaps David hasn't got entirely the wrong idea. It is hard to let the place go. For the past month, Alex has kept asking Henry why he's staring, and the truth is that he's been committing to memory exactly how Alex looks in every room. How the bannister fits in his hand, the place on the foyer wall where he always braces himself to pull on his shoes.

Everything that's happened in the past five years has happened, at least in part, inside this house.

…

It's seven months after Alex's mother's second inauguration, and Henry is wishing he had never even heard the word "credenza." Then he wouldn't have to decide where to put one. Alex is arriving in half an hour to help him move it, but Henry still doesn't know where. Across from the fireplace, perhaps? But what if he wants to put a sofa there? Does he want a regular sofa, or a sectional? Should it go upstairs, in his study? Or should he leave room for bookcases?

He longs to be back on a beach, sipping something from a pineapple.

It’s been a long, glorious summer since Alex packed up his White House bedroom, called Henry, and asked, "Do you want to get the fuck off the continent?" They did Dubai first, then Lagos. Rio, for old time's sake. Buenos Aires, paper lanterns in moonlight and Alex flirting with the bartender for free drinks. June through August became a lovely blur: Alex asleep against his shoulder on the plane, Alex throwing his Portuguese phrase book out the window of a speeding car, sand in unmentionable places, Alex Alex Alex. Endless runways and half-arsed disguises, swimsuits that got smaller and smaller until they simply didn't wear them anymore. Falling in love, the sequel, with fresh suntans and all the time in the world.

And now here they are in Park Slope, where Alex is renting the second floor of a brownstone two blocks from Henry's.

It's practical, they agreed, to live in the same neighborhood before they live at the same address. They've scarcely gotten a chance to date the normal way yet– if it can be called "normal" when their combined security teams are headquartered in an empty apartment down the street. Still, Henry wants this to last.

They've sprinted headlong into everything so far, but now he wants move slowly, in delicious increments. He wants to savor nights, minutes, firsts, to covet them and then let them dissolve on his tongue, like the sugar cubes he snuck off his gran's filigreed tea trays when he was small. He wants a life.

He wants someone to tell him where to put this damned credenza.

It's a vintage Broyhill Brasilia piece, walnut with clever brass drawer pulls. June helped him pick it out when she was in town with meeting her editor, but she never gave him any advice on where it should go. He hasn't ever been allowed to decide where furniture should go before.

So, it’s...there, in the center of the empty living room, the first piece in the entire house.

“Maybe you could start with a rug or two,” says Alex from the foyer.

Henry turns to find him with his keys in one hand and a paper bag in the other, smiling in a beam of mid-morning light, and, ah. Yes. There it is. That sweet, sharp gasp of nerves. The half second when he forgets how to use his mouth. If he knows nothing else, at least one certainty remains, which is that seeing Alex Claremont-Diaz in the flesh will always do this to him.

Alex in a photo is handsome, but Alex in life is a symphony. He’s refracted light with a cherry cola chaser. He’s got a Fibonacci jawline and a troublemaker smile and thick forearms built for posing in doorways with his sleeves rolled and thumbing corks out of champagne bottles. The first time Henry ever told Pez about him, he said, “God, but he’s lethal.” It’s only worse once you get to know him.

“Weird place for a credenza,” Alex comments. He kisses Henry’s cheek, then passes him a warm bundle wrapped in parchment paper. “Hope you like sausage-egg-and-cheese.”

“I don’t know where to put it.”

“Sandwich goes in your mouth, typically.”

“The credenza.”

“Ohhh, right,” Alex says, pretending to have just caught on. He winks. Henry sighs theatrically but accepts a second kiss, on the lips this time. “Why don’t you just put it right here?”

He points to his left, where a blank wall stretches from the front door to the foot of the stairs. It does, upon closer inspection, appear to be the exact right size.

“Oh,” Henry says.

This is where they overlap. Where he ends and Alex begins. Great gooey puddle of feelings, meet course of action; endless burning energy, meet point of focus. Agonies, meet your most obvious, most natural, most inevitable conclusions. It’s frightening sometimes for a person like Henry, who has spent his entire life pedaling his agonies about like baguettes in a posh little bicycle basket. What is he to do with them now?

Yes," Henry concedes, "I suppose I could," and Alex laughs.

...

It's the summer of 2022. Henry has opened his third shelter, and Alex has just finished bulldozing his first year at NYU Law.

A few boxes of books still wait at Alex's place, but otherwise, he lives in Henry's brownstone now. Their brownstone. A UT pennant beside a Chelsea scarf on the living room wall. A fridge full of Topo Chico and Bulmers. Two pairs of shoes by the front door, brown Barker derbies and Reebok trainers. Nobody could mistake it for anyone else's.

It's their first Chore Sunday (Alex's idea), and Henry has put the last of the laundry in the dryer. He's in the kitchen doorway, watching Alex unload the dishwasher.

Alex once told Henry the type of man he's typically attracted to: tall, broad-shouldered, pretty eyes, a little haunted. Bit of attitude and a smile that makes you curious. For Henry, it's never been so simple. He liked boys in his classes because they bothered with the assigned readings and fancied one of Philip's awful Eton friends because he could sail and smelled of cinnamon. The only thing all his Oxford boys had in common was that they didn't know how to speak to him. He's never had a type, and he's always been sure Alex was singular, anyway. Alex is unlike anyone he's ever met before or since.

But here, now, watching Alex bend to remove a salad bowl from the bottom rack, he is confronted with the hard truth. All those boys did, actually, share one trait.

"Are you gonna help me with this," Alex says without even an investigatory glance over his shoulder, "or are you just gonna keep staring at my ass?"

...

It’s Christmas 2022, their first since Alex officially moved in, and Henry is going to make a yule log if it kills him.

Perhaps he’s been too ambitious. He’s rather new to all. Growing up, he was rarely permitted in the kitchens, and he concentrated his uni diet on fast food and takeaway. He can make toast and boil an egg, and he’s got a deft hand with the coffee percolator and a gin swizzle from time to time. He knows about food– the finest foods, actually, he’s yet to meet an Englishman who can select a better brie– but he never learned to cook, until recently.

Recently, as in when Alex became too fanatically involved in his second-year coursework to remember to feed himself.

It began with force-feeding Alex a bacon butty twice a week. Henry’s arms suffered little constellations of grease burns, but bacon was easy. And those faded, so they didn’t deter him for long. Curiosity piqued, he taught himself the basics of pasta, how one can simmer almost anything with garlic and onion and butter and it will taste good over noodles. It bolstered his confidence enough to truly commit, and now, between hours at the shelters and video calls with his mum, he watches tutorial after tutorial on how to brown butter and roast chicken. Only half of what he makes turns out the color it’s meant to, but he loves it.

He loves walking to the market on the corner and hunting down specific ingredients from the family recipes June sends him. In fact, it’s become such a regular pastime that the paparazzi have cottoned on, which is why his mother finally forced his security team to hire an actual body double. Now some bloke named Angus with his height and build and nearly the same face goes on diversionary strolls while Henry peruses jarred chilies.

With all his independent studying, he was certain he could manage a dessert. He wanted to do something impressive, since they’ve convinced their families to let them host Christmas dinner. Only, his sponge has gone all wrong, and if he’s learned anything from Bake Off, he knows it’s not meant to have cracked in five places when he tried to roll it up. Paul Hollywood would have him pilloried.

“Think you might’ve left it in too long?” Oscar asks from across the kitchen island. He’s wearing his white elephant prize, a sweatshirt airbrushed with the slogan YOU CAN’T SPELL CONSTITUTION WITHOUT TITS. Inexplicably, Henry’s own mother brought that one. “Lookin’ kinda dry there.”

“I appreciate that you are trying to be helpful,” Henry enunciates, “but if you say one more word I may start crying, and then we’ll both lose some respect for me.”

Later, when Pez has persuaded him to “call it, mate, put it out of its misery,” he carries his disgraced platter of ganache and cake and marzipan out into the living room and lets everyone go at it with spoons. The house feels full to bursting, and not just because of the Christmas crackers. There are all three of Alex’s parents, Henry’s mum, June and Nora, Bea and Pez, Shaan and Zahra on speakerphone, occasionally an awkward Philip and Martha via FaceTime, and, because he had nowhere else to go for the holiday, Angus.

(“I don’t like him,” Alex muttered when Henry suggested inviting his own body double to Christmas dinner.

“Why not?”

“Because he looks exactly like you, but I find him deeply unattractive, and that freaks me out.”)

Ellen tells everyone the story of the year Alex got his first real bike for Christmas and knocked out his two front teeth by Boxing Day, which prompts Catherine to recite eight-year-old Henry’s letter to Father Christmas, in which he requested a leather-bound journal and a holiday to East Wittering so he could gaze at the sea. Bea pushes Henry behind the upright piano, and he takes requests for an hour. It only ends when Pez rewrites half the lyrics to “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” to be about his own lactose intolerance. No one wants to follow “tidings of Lactaid and soy.”

After the third round of mulled wine, when Alex’s parents have called their drivers and his mum has retired to the guest room, June and Nora find themselves under the mistletoe. Everyone whoops and whistles until Nora finally pulls June in by her Christmas-light necklace and kisses her to a round of applause. June's cheeks turn red, but she looks pleased as anything.

"I can't believe it took this long for y'all to finally kiss." Alex says, to which Pez bursts into laughter. "What?"

"Alex," he says fondly. He drains his glass and pecks Alex on the forehead. "You gorgeous, stupid little turnip."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Pez just shakes his head and strolls off to the kitchen.

"Wait," Alex says.

He frowns, like he does when he's trying to recall something incredibly minute and specific from his torts textbook. Then, suddenly, a light goes on, and his own mug is clunking on the lamp table, and he's running off after Pez.

"Pez, what's that supposed to mean?"

...

It's late morning the summer before Alex's last year of law school, 2023, and Alex is the first word out of Henry's mouth.

Truthfully, that's how he begins most mornings. On a Monday morning five time zones away, "Alex" pitched low to the screen of his phone. On a Friday when Alex's early lecture is cancelled, "Alex" in F major, muffled in the pillow as his body moves and the day stretches out before them. Half three the night before an exam, a hoarse "Alex," followed by, "turn the bloody light off and come to bed."

This morning, it's because David is barking at the door. A rainstorm is brewing, and if jet lag didn't have Henry dead under the bedclothes, the gray gloom would. Alex was the one who surfaced from sleep half an hour ago and blearily ordered three entire pancake breakfasts from some 24-hour diner a few neighborhoods over. He should have to get up and answer the door.

“Alex.” Henry mumbles, turning over.

Alex has got the quilt tugged up so high he’s only a shock of wild curls on white linens.

“Nnnghh,” Alex groans from the depths.

“Breakfast is here,” Henry says. The doorbell helpfully rings again. David howls.

Alex’s face appears, pouting. There’s a crease from the pillow down one of his cheekbones, a comet’s tail in a constellation of freckles. “Can you get it?”

Henry rolls his eyes but smiles. Inevitable.

He drags himself out of bed and pulls on the joggers and hoodie from last night’s flight. It’s not until he feels the breeze on his ankles as he descends the stairs that he realizes they’re Alex’s, not his.

On their doorstep, a pink-haired delivery girl is looking bored under her bicycle helmet.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Henry says. He fishes a crumpled bill out of Alex’s pocket. “For your trouble.”

The girl pulls a face.

“Got any real money?” she asks. Her accent reminds him a bit of Alex’s mum.

He blinks down at her hand, which is holding a twenty-pound note. “Ah. Sorry again. Er.” He snatches his wallet out of the bowl on the credenza and gives her all the American dollars he has.

“She’s gone, Davey,” Henry says afterward to David, who’s now fretfully circling the living room. “You’ve protected us from another fearsome home invader. Well done.”

He lets David out into the back garden to do his business, then carries the food upstairs. Shockingly, Alex is awake and propped up against the headboard.

“I’m getting too old for red-eye flights,” Alex says, rubbing his eyes.

“Love, you’re twenty-five,” Henry reminds him. He deposits the bag on the nightstand, and Alex wastes no time tearing through the plastic and tucking in to his breakfast. “And I’m older than you.”

“Yes, you are. But like... I get why we have to go to Philip’s kids’ christenings. The cousins, though?” He sets to work smothering his pancakes in syrup. “I mean, at least my cousins would stack their baptisms. One and done, baby.”

Henry opens his mouth, prepared to answer with one of a thousand things. That the tabloids will have even more of a field day than usual if he stops doing his chores, that there will always be a church dedication or a swan upping or an appointment for a top hat fitting, that he’ll always be obligated to have one foot in London and one day they’ll have to choose where to settle down. It’s far from the first time they’ve had this conversation.

But then Alex shovels a massive bite of pancakes into his mouth and says, “Anyway, I love you. Do you wanna have June and Nora over tomorrow? We can play Mario Party again. I wanna see them get in a fistfight. Oh, and my dad’s in town next week, and he said to tell you he’s bringing that book you asked about–”

And that’s when Henry knows: He doesn’t ever want to go back.

...

It’s the end of spring 2024, and Henry is not eavesdropping, per se. He excused himself to answer a call from Shaan, which really could not be avoided. Shaan has taken to his new life as a househusband with predictable aplomb, and most of his calls these days involve Henry getting to talk to a baby who is clearly destined to become prime minister. He simply can’t send that to voicemail.

It’s the first time they’ve had room in the schedule for his mother to visit since Alex accepted his law job, which Henry understands very little about but has been assured is the most strategic next step for Alex’s career long game. When Henry left the room, Alex was still trying to explain it to Catherine. It all sounds terribly prestigious.

He is just returning to the sitting room with a fresh pot of tea when he hears his name from around the corner.

“–and the next morning Henry and Arthur vanished,” his mother is saying, “and when Uncle Algie called, I told him that Henry couldn’t go on the annual pheasant hunt because he was violently ill, but actually Arthur had taken him to Rome for two weeks on the set of that go on ridiculous car heist film he was working on, the one with, oh, what’s his name–“

“Jason Statham,” Alex says promptly, through wheezing laughter.

“That’s the one!”

“Loved that movie,” Alex says. “I can’t believe Henry got to be on set.”

“It was all Arthur’s idea, but he was right to do it. Uncle Algie is a dreadful bore, and Henry despises his son. Guilford. Did you meet Guilford at the wedding?”

“Henry made sure I avoided it.”

“Yes, that’s for the best,” Catherine says daintily. “He has matured into an absolute dickhead.”

Henry wishes he was in the room to see the way Alex sputters out, “Oh my God.” Alex always forgets that Catherine went to uni and married a commoner from Sheffield.

And then Alex sighs and says, “When Henry and I get married–”

Henry manages to recover the teapot before he drops it.

It’s not a surprise to hear Alex mention marriage. They’ve been sorting it out for years: political logistics and Alex’s child-of-divorce anxiety and a thousand questions about a royal wedding neither of them actually wants to have. He’s already bought an engagement ring, even, and judging by how tetchy Alex gets whenever Henry tries to put his underwear away for him, he’s not the only one.

But it is the first time he’s heard Alex mention it to his mother. He dropped it so casually, so matter-of-factly, as if he’s been talking to her about marrying Henry for years. Henry supposes it’s possible he has been. Is this why Alex had tea with her in London last month and told Henry he wasn’t invited? Have they been conspiring?

They’re discussing hypothetical guest lists now, which cousins secretly hate one another and who wore an inappropriately large fascinator to whose birthday tea, but Henry isn’t listening anymore. He’s thinking of a cafe table in Rome, his dad waving over a second round of gelato.

In his memory, he’s nine years old, and his father is saying, Whoever you marry, Henry, make sure they think your mum is a laugh, because she is. She really is.

He clears his throat and finally rounds the corner. “Tea, anyone?”

...

It’s 2024, and nobody knows they’re engaged.

Granted, they’ve only been engaged for about three hours, but Henry is curious to see how long they can go. It feels nice to keep a secret that doesn’t have to be a secret. It’s more that they’re keeping it like a pet, or something especially beautiful from the garden that they’ve coaxed into a jar.

A record is spinning on the turntable, one of Alex’s, maybe the Joni Mitchell he borrowed from Bea. They’ve shoved their phones under the couch cushions and ordered a pizza the size of the moon, and now they’re sitting in the center of the living room floor, demolishing it. They kiss, then eat more pizza, then get distracted kissing again. Henry licks a streak of pepperoni grease from Alex’s forearm, which is a fantasy he didn’t know he had until he’s living it. They tangle up on the rug, and Henry decides he’ll take Alex sailing next weekend, or even out to the edge of the river, just to see him against a horizon.

Four-nearly-five years in, the main thing he’s learned is that Alex is a world without end. All Henry wants is to go on with him forever. To keep finding new favorite parts, to keep turning things over and studying their soft bellies and finding the best bits.

So, he will.

...

It snows on New Year’s Eve 2024. Alex looks out the window and shrugs off his coat.

The Young America Gala may be no longer, but Nora, June, and Pez aren’t to be stopped from throwing a New Year’s party, especially now that Pez has gotten his own part-time flat in the city. They’re the three fates of New York City’s holiday social circuit: birth (June, managing invitations), life (Pez, topless), and death (Nora, also topless).

“What if,” Alex says, turning to Henry on the foot of the stairs, “we don’t go to the party?”

“Nora will murder me,” Henry says. “She told me she’s not afraid to do that now that I’ve given up my title.”

“Murder is still a crime even if you’re not officially a prince.”

“Yes, but she said, quote,” he puts on his best American accent, “They can’t put me in the Tower anymore. Who’s gonna arrest me now? Mr. Bean?”

“Why don’t we just send Angus? It’s dark. Maybe she won’t notice.”

“Where’s your double, then?”

“We live in New York, I’m sure I can find a male model somewhere.”

“As always, sounding the very bass string of humility.”

“Is that fucking Shakespeare?”

“Henry IV.”

“I’m gonna give you a wedgie, you fucking nerd.”

In the end, it doesn’t take much to convince Henry to stay in. Lately, it never does. Alex texts June a flimsy excuse, and they toe off their shoes and relax out of their button-downs.

Henry does have to admit he’s exhausted, in the way that one only can be on the last day of the year, when every other day of the year piles way up behind it. It’s been a big one: Alex’s first law job, the endless press about Henry’s decision to surrender his title, the engagement, Bea’s wedding, the incident with the croquet mallets and the Dutch ambassador at Bea's wedding.

Sometimes Alex jokes that they squeezed it all into one calendar year because no headline can stick if there's another next week, but it's only half a joke. They've been bone-tired for months.

"I'm surprised you're the one who wants to stay home," Henry says. "I remember a young lothario who lived to ruin people's lives on New Year's Eve."

"Ruin?" Alex says. "That's not how I remember it."

"It certainly felt that way at the time."

They drift to the kitchen, past all the traces of the year. The dried flowers, the new scuffs on the floorboards. The box of bound manuscripts of Henry's first finished poetry-ish short-fiction-ish essay-ish collection. The holiday cards from senators and diplomats and old Texas friends, topped off with Alex's favorite of Rafael Luna and his astonishingly fit partner in matching Christmas jumpers. Henry would think Raf had been forced into it if it hadn't come with a case of beer and a note of thanks for letting him stay over the last time he visited Alex and had one too many tequila shots at drag bingo.

Alex withdraws a bottle of Clicquot from the refrigerator and says, "We're not washed, are we?"

“We're aging," Henry points out.

"That's right," Alex says, eyes immediately sparking at the opportunity. Henry preemptively sighs. "You're almost thirty."

"Almost twenty-eight is not almost thirty."

"It basically is. You're old. You'll be thirty a whole year before me. You'll be popping antacids and I'll be in the club, popping my p-"

"You're not even in the club now."

"I could be, I'm just choosing not to, because I don't want to deal with the snow. That's not aging, it's growth."

He slides Henry a glass of champagne and adds, "It's probably time for us to start talking about what's on your Do Before Thirty list, huh?"

Henry takes the glass and chooses going with Alex's bit over pointing out that he's entering his late twenties, not dying.

“I’ve done quite well on that front so far, actually,” he says. “Wrote a book. Started a nonprofit. Engaged to the love of my life.”

“Involved in an international sex scandal.”

“Shook the hands of all five Spice Girls.”

“Best dressed at the Met Gala.”

“Cried in the Water Lilies room at the MOMA.”

“Grew your hair out, then cut it all off.“

“Taught myself to make beef Wellington.”

“That one’s, uh, still in progress,” Alex hedges. Henry gives him an affronted look. “But, yeah! Definitely. And you got really good at scones.”

“That I did.”

“Right,” Alex agrees. “So what’s left? Streaking? Dropping acid? Having sex on our kitchen island?”

Henry takes a moment with that one.

“Having sex on our kitchen island?”

When the clock strikes the new year, the house is quiet. The timer on the light over the front stoop clicks off. The champagne bottle rests between two glasses on the edge of the sink, spent and sticky around the rim, a single soggy strawberry at the bottom of each flute. Miles out from their apartment, fireworks fight the snow over the East River, but in their kitchen in Park Slope, the only sounds are the two of them.

Henry, almost twenty-eight, presses his warm body to the cool marble and gets his midnight kiss.

...

“Do you know what today is?” Alex asks on a lukewarm September.

It’s 2025. He’s in the doorway of Henry’s study, where Henry has been all evening, answering emails.

“Hm? No.”

When Alex doesn’t immediately fill the silence, Henry looks up from his laptop screen.

“What is it?”

“Five years since the story broke,” Alex says.

It takes a moment for him to realize what story Alex means; there have been so many of them. But of course, he means that gigantic, terrible one. The one that changed their lives forever.

“Oh,” Henry says. He closes his laptop, leaning back in his chair and away from it. “Well. Hated that.”

“Yeah,” Alex agrees. “Zero out of ten. Would not do again.”

His tone is light and casual, but when he folds his arms across his chest, Henry can see his glasses in the front pocket of his flannel. It’s been months and months since the last time Alex didn’t feel confident enough to wear them.

For his part, Henry can remember much of that day, but not all of it. He remembers stirring sugar into his morning tea when Shaan walked in wearing an expression Henry had never seen before. He remembers Pez arriving like the cavalry in Gucci slippers, hustling Henry away from his handlers with the same graceful disdain he used to direct at Eton classmates who stared at them too much. He remembers Bea finding them in the music parlor and refusing to hear Henry’s apology, and he remembers Alex’s call and Alex’s arrival.

The funny part, though, is he can’t remember anything between Bea and Alex. He knows that Philip was involved, and there were stories on every news channel, and he spoke to his mother at some point. But the space in his memory where those hours belong is simply blank. His psychiatrist says it’s post-traumatic stress disorder, and Henry is inclined to agree, considering the two of them spent the entire following year recalibrating Henry’s anxiety and depression medication around the event.

Those hours will always be gone. There are things he will never get back.

Most of the time, though, when he thinks of that day, the second worst thing that's ever happened to him, he thinks of Alex's hand in his under a Buckingham Palace table. He remembers, clear as a bell, Alex's voice telling him they would survive it together. It happened to Alex too. It wasn't what they would have chosen, but it was what they received, and they've done their absolute bloody best with it.

He rises from his desk, crosses to the doorway, and gathers Alex up against his chest. Their size difference isn't that pronounced—Henry is taller but lean, Alex shorter but sturdy—but in moments like this, he's thankful for the way Alex's cheek perfectly aligns with the crook of his neck. He's grateful for how effortless it is to slip a kiss to Alex's temple.

Neither of them says anything else. It's all been said a thousand times, in speeches and through official statements and in the dark when it's only the two of them. It's enough to stand here in the center of the house, in the quiet, and let it hold their weight.

...

At the end of 2025, Henry has a bad day.

There's nothing specific that causes it. The days just happen like this sometimes, even with all the therapy and medication and supportive partnership and fulfilling creative projects in the world. There are other people, he supposes, who don't spend their lives waiting for the next bad day. He's had every bloody luxury but that one.

Alex comes home from work to find him curled up on the armchair in the study, staring out the window at the light-polluted night sky over the row of brownstones across the street.

“What are you doing?" Alex asks him.

"Looking for Orion," Henry deadpans.

Alex kneels on the rug in his tailored suit pants and rolled-up sleeves and rests his cheek on Henry's knee, the way he often does when Henry's in a mood. Henry's fingers slide into his curls. They've grown a bit longer in the past few months. Lately. Alex looks quite like he did when they met, except for the glasses and the stubble dusting his jaw.

“I’m tired of big law, “ Alex confesses. It would appear he’s in a mood too. “I know it’s only been a year and a half, but...I kind of hate it.”

Henry contemplates that, along with the dark circles around Alex’s eyes.

“You don’t have to do it, you know.” Henry tells him.

Alex looks at him like he did in that hotel room in Paris the first time they woke up together, like the only thing he knows for sure about what he’s being offered is that he wants it completely. It’s an intimidating look to receive, but it’s only ever improved Henry’s life in the end.

He kisses Henry’s knuckle, just below his ring.

“I have some ideas.”

...

In February 2026, a flu sweeps through Park Slope. Neither Alex nor Henry can agree on who gave it to whom first– Henry knows it was Alex, since he’s been up late consulting with his mum about a voting rights bill in Texas, and his immune system always suffers when he gets upset about Texas—but regardless, they’re trapped in the brownstone together for a week. At least Alex doesn’t have to work through his illness the way he usually does, since he resigned from his job last month.

Somewhere around day five, Henry realizes it’s the longest consecutive amount of time they’ve both been home in years. They always seem to be leaving or returning: rushing off to appearances, climbing out of security caravans in half-undone suits, meeting Cash at the curb at three in the morning with bags over their shoulders. It’s nice, in a way, to get reacquainted with this home they’ve built together.

While Alex naps, Henry paces the entire floorplan.

The first floor, with its long living room and the original beams and mantelpiece, which Henry had restored before he moved in, because he always has been precious about the history of things. Then the kitchen and the deep blue cabinets and the wide back window over the knotty pine dining table handed down from Alex's dad. Upstairs, on the second floor, the guest bedroom with all of his mum's preferred hand creams in the attached washroom and the sitting room with the shelf of swan figurines Pez started collecting years ago in a dramatic fit of June-related yearning. One more flight up to the top floor, with his study and Alex's office and the hall with their photo from Shaan and Zahra's wedding and, at the far end, their bedroom.

The bedroom is his favorite part of the house, and not only for the obvious reasons, no matter how much Alex tries to imply otherwise with suggestive eyebrows. He loves the high ceiling and the chipped plaster medallion of roses at the center. They picked out the bed together, and every morning that he wakes up in it, he gets to turn over and see Alex's loose pens and glasses wipes scattered atop the dresser and know that this, his life, is still real. Perhaps he likes the room best because it feels separated from every other part of the house, lifted up and bundled in, which is the first time he's ever been safe in a tower.

Most importantly, of all three levels of bay windows jutting from the redbrick front of the brownstone, only the one in the bedroom has a seat. They've filled it with velvet pillows and mossy green cushions, and once or twice a year, on one of their vanishingly rare slow days, Alex will climb in and fall asleep.

That's where he finds Alex when he eases into the room with a mug of soup in each hand. He recognizes the quilt wrapped around him: they slept under it in Alex's childhood twin bed the night Ellen won her second term, and then Alex crammed it into his suitcase and brought it back to Washington.

He stirs as Henry sets the mugs down on the dresser.

“Thanks,” he says in a hoarse voice.

Henry nudges in beside him, gingerly removing Alex's glasses from beneath his elbow before they get crushed.

"You know," Henry says, "I chose this house for the bay windows."

Alex blinks at him, fully awake now. "Really?"

"I thought you might like them. You always talked about the one you grew up with. Hoped they might make the place feel like home."

Alex smiles. "They do."

Henry looks at him in his quilt, sleep-mussed and flushed from fever and overdue for a shave, and he remembers that night in the yellow house in Austin. Before Alex led them back to his old bedroom, he peeled up the cushion in the living room window seat and showed Henry pages of elementary school scribbles still hidden there. And he told Henry that he thought once of hiding a picture there too, if only he'd had the nerve to tear it out of his sister's magazine.

Love, Henry has found, has a way of growing backward. You fall in love with a person in the present, and then every person you've ever been gets to fall in love with every past version of them. A sleep-deprived Georgetown freshman falls in love with an Oxford sophomore who's testing out undoing the top button of his shirts sometimes. A ruddy-cheeked teenager with his nose in a book loves a backtalking lacrosse captain. A boy comes home from school with perfect marks and sees a picture in a magazine, and the boy from the picture pauses on a palace staircase.

The crux of it is, he loves every version of Alex to ever sleep under that quilt. Everything else is mostly set dressing

"I'm having a thought," Henry says.

"Congratulations," Alex deadpans automatically. Then, "Tell me."

"This life we have here," Henry says. "This house. It's good, yeah?"

"Yeah, of course it is."

"But we could have a good life somewhere else too."

Alex frowns. "Like where?"

"Somewhere... farther from everything, maybe? Somewhere we could slow down, and things could be quieter, and you could do the work you want to do. I think I could use some time away from it all, honestly. Maybe I wouldn't even have to have a body double anymore."

Alex considers that for a long moment. They both know where Henry means, even if he doesn't say it. Besides New York and DC, and London on its best days, there's really only one place Alex would seriously consider living. They've joked about it before, but Henry's always thought it might be nice to spend a few years somewhere completely different than he's used to. A place where he could see the stars.

At long last, Alex sniffs and says, "You're gonna fire Angus? He was just starting to grow on me.”

...

“If you don't wake Bea up, you're gonna have to hear about her back spasms in the morning,” says a voice that is most certainly not Heath Ledger's.

Henry startles awake to find Alex leaning over his shoulder from behind the loveseat, curls everywhere. The room is dark, and the end credits are rolling.

"You're not home until tomorrow," Henry mumbles.

"Moved up my flight," Alex says. He's so close to Henry's face, he's gone a bit cross-eyed. His lips bounce off the tip of Henry's nose. "I missed you."

It's only been a few days, but the truth is Henry missed him too. He supposes he should be used to empty beds and time differences by now, especially when they began that way, but he suspects he'll never stop waiting at the door. You know what will be the best part of getting married?" Henry asks Alex.

"The line dancing."

"The way I won't have to miss you nearly as often."

Alex softens, then maneuvers himself over the armrest until he's draped across Henry's lap. David climbs on top of him and curls up on Alex's left buttock.

Letting go of the house has been hard, but this particular decision was easy, once they finally said it out loud. A gradual, careful withdrawal from public life, at least for a few years. They’ve given so much of themselves to the world and had the privilege of feeling a legacy take shape beneath them, but they need rest too.

It was June who convinced them, actually. Even now, there are certain things only June can say to Alex. Early in the spring, when she was finally transitioning out of her speechwriting job for Raf, she called Alex from Colorado and told him she was moving to New York to be closer to Nora and Pez, and she wanted to sublet the brownstone. When Alex pointed out that he was still living in it, she said, "We both know you've been looking at farmhouses in Austin for six months, it's time to shit or get off the pot."

(Henry loves his particular collection of Americans. They truly do say what's on their minds.)

The new house is beautiful. Henry's only seen it in person once, but the previous owner was a reclusive tech executive with shockingly good taste, so Architectural Digest featured it last year. He's had the article open in a tab on his phone for two months, and he scrolls through all those perfectly lit photos twice a day, getting high on possibilities. Lazy mornings in the wide sunroom, midnight dives in the lake. It's easy to imagine Alex mellowing into a brisket-smoking, tamale-rolling Texas dad out there, and it's just as easy to imagine them basking under cedar trees until their mid-thirties and then deciding they're ready for another round. The wonderful thing is, they can take their time either way.

It isn't a full release from their obligations, but it is the next step after formally relinquishing his title. More boundaries, more of their own rules about what they will and won't do. No royal wedding, but a private ceremony at the lake house and a honeymoon unpacking boxes. A job for Alex at a smaller firm where he can finally get his hands in the earth. A quieter life.

"You're right," Alex says. "You know what else is gonna be awesome about married-people life? We can have actual, real-life date nights. Just imagine it: free refills and bottomless chips and salsa."

"Oh, I've got another one," Henry says. “You can finally show me how to navigate an H-E-B."

“Baby, don’t talk dirty to me in front of company.”

“Please,” says a groggy voice from the couch.

“Hi, Bea.”

“Time’s it?”

“One in the morning.”

“Ugh.”

Grumbling and tugging a blanket around herself, Bea wakes Pez and the two of them head off to wash up before bed. The odds of Pez returning to the couch for the night or availing himself of their bed so that Alex has to sleep on the couch are just about even, based on six years of Pez falling asleep at their house. It’s a comfort to know that when they leave the brownstone and June moves in, Pez will still be making himself at home in it.

Downstairs, surrounded by boxes, Alex crawls out of Henry’s lap and slides a large shopping bag out from behind the loveseat. “I brought you something.” Alex says.

Inside the bag is a box made of the sort of heavy cardboard that augurs something expensive. He imagines Alex hurling his patched-up rough-ridden leather duffle into the overhead compartment of the airplane and then sliding this bag under the seat so carefully that there’s not even a crease in the paper.

He takes the lid off the box and unwraps layers of tissue paper to reveal a hat. A cowboy hat. It’s made of gorgeous, thick felt, with a cattleman crown and a satin lining. A nearly identical one has hung in Alex’s office since he moved in, though Alex’s is midnight black and this one is a warm, pale sand. Where Alex’s hatband has a small gold buckle, this one has a silver pin in the shape of an English rose.

“It’s a Stetson,” Alex says. When Henry looks up at him, his cheeks have darkened faintly. “I know it’s not really your thing, but you ride horses, and it’s kind of a big deal where I’m from to get your first Stetson, so I wanted to be the one to give it to you since you’re about to be an honorary Texan. You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want–“

“I love it,” Henry interrupts.

Alex pauses, then breaks out in a grin. “You do? I was afraid you’d think it was a joke.”

“It’s the least ridiculous hat I’ve ever been given,” Henry tells him. “It didn’t even come with a matching tailcoat.”

“Nah, but maybe we can get you some Wranglers,” Alex says.

“Some chaps, perhaps.”

“I just told you not to talk dirty to me.”

Henry laughs and kisses him over the open box, thinking of the next year of their lives. Sunday morning fry-ups, swimming holes, a wedding cake that doesn’t wind up on the floor. Tomorrow he needs to ask if Alex checked on the bakery while he was in Austin, and if they have any more packing tape, and whether Amy’s daughter has gotten her flower girl dress yet.

Tonight, though, Alex is home a day early, and the house is making all its soft, familiar night-time sounds around them. No one sees in through the windows. No one comes in through the gate.

“Henry,” says Alex.

“Alex,” says Henry.

“You and me,” Alex says.

“You and me,” Henry agrees.

End.

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foxaftershocks · 10 days

Text

A Chance Encounter (Lars Pinfield x f!Reader)

Synopsis: A run in with an ex was not something you wanted.

Words: 2.5k

This is kind of an extension of my other fic Ghost Boy. It uses the same reader character with Lars.

“I don’t see why I have to do this.”

Lars grumbling wasn’t new, but it was making you need to hide your smile. Your fingers tightened around his, pressing your face into his shoulder, letting him lead you through the street.

“It’s just drinks with some of the others,” you said, “we can’t live in the lab.”

“We could go home,” he muttered.

You laughed then, muffled in the material of his jacket. You knew Lars wasn’t the most social person, but the offence he’d taken at the thought of grabbing a drink with some of the people from the lab was a step too far. You loved your nerd, even when he made it clear he didn’t see the need to talk to other people.

“One drink,” you said, “you can manage that, right?”

“I guess,” he replied.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

He looked down at you, perking up enough for more giggles to tumble over your lips. His expression softened and he pulled his hand out of yours, sliding his arm around your shoulders. Whenever he showed you affection you melted, just a little bit, enough to fold yourself against him.

“I’ll get a reward?” he asked, bending towards you, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Only if you behave, ghost boy” you shot back.

His lips pressed to your temple, a soft rumble in his chest reminding you how much you revelled in his joy. Your arm curled around his waist, finding its way under his coat, seeking out his warmth.

The bar was loud when you arrived and you knew Lars would be complaining about it. You took his hand again, tugging him through the crowd. His hand tightened in yours and you looked back over your shoulder at him. It wasn’t frustration on his face, but a level of anxiety you weren’t used to with him. You paused, ignoring the complaint from the person behind the two of you.

“Are you okay?” you asked.

“Fine,” he replied through gritted teeth.

“Lars.” You cupped his cheek, forcing him to look at you, “talk to me.”

“Not a big fan of crowds,” he said, eyes darting around the bar.

“You should have said something. We don’t have to stay if you’re uncomfortable,” you said.

“It’s only one drink, right?” he asked, finally looking at you.

“We don’t have to,” you replied.

“One drink should be alright,” he said.

You reached up onto your tip toes to press your lips to his. His arm slid around your waist automatically, the way it always did when you were close enough.

“Why don’t you find the others and I’ll get us that drink,” you suggested, pushing back from him.

It was easy to track his movement through the crowd with his height as you moved in the opposite direction towards the bar. You shuffled through the crowd, squeezing through what gaps you could find. Pushing your way to the front, you caught the eye of the bartender. He held up a finger, finishing one transaction before sauntering over to you.

“Hey, could get a glass of the shiraz and a rum and coke?” you wrested, raising your voice to be heard over the noise.

He flashed you a charming grin and a nod. You lent against the bar, one elbow resting on the slightly sticky surface, eyes scanning over the crowd to find where Lars had ended up. Tucked away in one corner, you could see him, blond head bowed as an uproarious laugh went through the group from work.

“Well fancy seeing you here.”

Your head snapped around, a face swooping into view. A startlingly familiar face. You found yourself rearing back, not enjoying the surprise.

“Liam,” you breathed.

His stupid smiling face was blocking your view of Lars and the begins of panic fluttered in your stomach. The years you’d spent getting this man out of your life came flashing through your mind. He wasn’t awful, he could just be kind go a dick, and so wrapped up in a lot of your social circles. You’d even ended on amicable terms. But then you’d moved to New York to untangle yourself from him. And now he was here.

“I was going to tell you I was in town but then I thought surprising you would be so much more fun,” he said, leaning on the bar in front of you.

Yeah, he hadn’t quite gotten the memo that you guys weren’t friends anymore. Over a year without talking and now he thought he could surprise you.

“How’d you… how’d you know where to find me?” you asked, pressing a hand to your stomach, hoping something would begin to make sense again.

“I didn’t. This was a surprise. I was going to go find the Ghostbusters tomorrow and ask them to help,” he said, “I’ve been watching your videos. They’re really good.”

“Thanks,” you replied faintly.

“Are you here with them now?” he asked, still smiling at you like you’d just made all his dreams come true by existing.

“No, not the Ghostbusters. Just some people from the lab,” you said.

“Cool, cool. Hey, come join me. We can catch up. How’ve you been? We all miss you back home. No one’s really heard from you in ages,” he said all in one breath, making your head spin.

“I wish I could but I’m here with people,” you said.

“Just tell them you want to catch up with an old friend.” His eyes swept over your body, “you look great.”

You did your best to suppress the disgust the feeling his appreciative gaze made you feel. Your whole body rejected it and you found it hard to believe you’d ever once enjoyed it. Biting back a scathing response, you looked away, trying to catch the eye of the bartender.

“So what have you been up to?” he asked, stealing back your attention.

“Oh, you know,” you said, “working. Enjoying the city. Going to bars.”

“So are you seeing anyone?” he asked, eyes sweeping over your body again.

Two glasses were placed down in front of you, your order finally arriving. You flashed a smile at the bartender, tapping your phone to pay for it.

“Well, it was nice running into you,” you said, picking up both glasses, “but I have to get back to my friends.”

“Stay for one drink,” he pleaded.

“I really can’t. I’m here with people,” you said.

“I’ve missed you.”

The guilt. He was always so good at wielding guilt to get what he wanted. You paused, the familiar feelings making you falter. His puppy dog eyes only made it worse.

“Everything okay?”

You blinked, reminded of where you were and what you were doing. A soft hand landed on your waist, pulling you back against a body that made you feel electric. You lent into Lars, glad for his steadying force.

“Hi,” Liam said, the surprise evident on his face. He’d never been good at hiding his emotions. Not from you.

“Who’s this, love?” he asked.

“Oh uh.” You never could have prepared for this moment, “Lars, this is Liam. Liam, this is my boyfriend, Lars.”

You turned, passing the glass of wine over to Lars, looking up into his face. He was staring at the other man, expression hardening. It wasn’t often he looked like that, that expression usually reserved for Gary when he was messing about in the lab.

Or you when you asked him to film a video with you.

“We’re just catching up,” Liam said, “we’re old friends. She’s probably told you all about me.”

“I can’t say that she has,” your boyfriend replied.

His hand slipped down until it was resting on your hip, almost possessive as he held you. Liam’s eyes slipped down to it, disappointment and hurt flashing over his face before he tried to school his features. And yet those damned puppy dog eyes remained.

“So she never told you we used to date?” he asked.

“I did tell you about him,” you said, snatching Lars’ attention, “he’s that ex from my college days. Remember? Caused a lot of fights?”

“Oh, he’s that one,” he said.

His fingers tightened on your hip and you had to wonder what was going through his mind. Glancing to the side, Liam had taken a step towards you, fingers clenched at his side. The look on his face was confusion and heartbreak mingled together and you weren’t sure you had the energy to deal with him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

“Liam, we haven’t spoken in over a year. I didn’t think I had to tell you anything about my life. We don’t talk,” you said.

His shoulders slumped under your words and guilt was claiming its way up your throat and the need to apologise was growing and the pressure was building and-

Lars’ lips pressed to your temple, breaking you out of the spiral you were finding yourself in. You blinked, turning away from him, into the safety offered by your boyfriend’s arms.

“Can we talk?” Liam asked, his hand landing on your shoulder.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Lars said, his voice hard.

“Please?” That soft voice always used to be your undoing.

You squeezed your eyes shut before you turned back to him.

“We have nothing to talk about, Liam. We’re not friends. We don’t have a place in each others lives. It’s better if you just leave it be,” you said to him, vocalising how you’d been feeling for so long.

“But I still care about you,” he said, sounding lost.

“And I’m sorry for that. But someone who cares for me wouldn’t hurt the people I care about the way you did. They wouldn’t lie to me the way you did. They wouldn’t treat me with the disrespect you did.” It all came out of you in a rush, “you liked the idea of me than the reality. You liked that I made you look so good. You liked using me as free therapy.”

The expression on his face was like you’d slapped him.

“You’re my best friend,” he said, “I thought… I thought there was still a chance for us.”

“And I think you have your answer,” Lars snapped.

Liam finally looked away from you, something ugly marring his face when he saw Lars. His arm slid around your body, holding you close, glaring at the other man. If you weren’t careful it would turn into a tug of war with you playing the part of the rope.

“I’ve moved on,” you said, before a proper fight broke out, “you should too. Find someone else to be your best friend because I quit.”

You turned, one hand on Lars chest pushing him back, feeling proud of yourself. You didn’t always stand up for yourself so when you did, it felt like a big deal.

“Yeah? Well everyone back home only ever says what a bitch you are,” he called to your retreating back, “I was the only one who ever stood up for you. Guess I can stop doing that now since you’ve proven you’re exactly what they all say. A stuck up back stabbing bitch.”

Lars shoved past you, pushing the glass of wine into your hand. You blinked and his fist was up, slamming into the side of Liam’s face. You gasped before dropping the glasses back onto the bar and forcing your way between the two men. Both hands on Lars’ chest, you shoved him back.

“Lars,” you said, not sure if you were angry or proud of him.

“Don’t you talk about her like that,” he snarled, pointing at the man over your shoulder.

“What the fuck?” Liam demanded.

“We should get out of here,” you said to Lars.

“Please do,” the bartender said.

“Come on, ghost boy, let’s just go home.”

You were so aware of the people watching, phones turned in your direction. He pulled his glare away from Liam, looking down at you. His jaw was clenched and you knew his anger was simmering, so close to popping.

“Alright.”

He slung his arm around your shoulders and you led him out of the bar, not even bothering to spare a glance back at your ex and his bruised ego.

You let him stew in his anger for a few blocks. The way he was muttering under his breath was familiar and yet usually he didn’t resort to punching people. Eventually, you had to break the silence.

“So much for one drink,” you said.

“I can’t believe you dated that guy,” he said.

“I know. I made some bad choices in my youth,” you replied.

“How dare he say those things about you?” he growled.

“I know, ghost boy, but you can’t go round punching people who say shit about me. Otherwise you’re going to have to track down a lot of commenters from our social media,” you said, “plus, you tried to get me fires so…”

“I think I’ve more than made up for that,” he said.

You stopped him in the street, forcing him to look at you. His jaw was working and you could feel how the anger was still coursing through him. You shoved him against the wall of the closest building, hands resting on his chest keeping him there.

“Thank you for sticking up for my honour. Honestly, ghost boy, no one’s ever done that for me before. But I can’t have you getting arrested for assault. Assholes like that aren’t worth it,” you said.

“He thought he still had a chance with you,” was all he said.

“And he was wrong,” you said.

“He better be,” he muttered.

You shoved him again. His hands settled on your hip, pulling you closer to keep you from doing it again.

“That was such a stupid thing to do, ghost boy,” you said, head falling forward until it rested against his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said, lips brushing your temple.

“But also kind of hot,” you admitted.

A surprised laugh fell from his lips and you looked up at him, squinting in the face of your own hypocrisy.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” you said, “but also you are so getting your reward.”

“That sends a very confusing message,” he said.

“I don’t care.”

Pushing up onto tiptoes, you pressed your lips to his, sinking into his warmth. The hands on your hips tightened, hauling you against his body. Your tongue licked into his mouth and you kissed him deeper until the wolf whistling started.

“Home?” you murmured against his lips.

“I want my reward,” he replied.

“C’mon then, ghost boy.”

Threading your fingers through his, you tugged him in the direction of your home, ready to give him the reward he definitely deserved.

#lars pinfield x reader #lars pinfield imagine #lars pinfield

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valeriianz · 1 year

Text

Hob doesn’t know why he agreed to go out on New Year’s Eve. The bar is packed shoulder-to-shoulder, it’s impossible to get a drink, and Hob keeps losing his friend group.

Despite feeling turned around, ears straining for the sound of someone calling his name, he’s determined to at least get one drink before the end of the night, pushing past strangers with ridiculous sunglasses– indoors– and 2023 hats. He’s waiting patiently behind a group of women, getting a loud whiff of their perfume as they spin around and yell past him, asking what their friends want to drink.

“I’m not going to survive this,” Hob says to himself, trying to catch one of the bartender’s attention.

“Nor will I.” A deep, dark voice speaks just next to him.

Hob looks over and nearly swallows his own tongue. A tall man, dressed in all black, is staring back at him, his eyes reflecting the flashing lights in the otherwise dark room. His skin is pale, from what Hob can see, down his long neck and incredibly sharp jawline.

“Oh?” Hob affects his best smile, sure it looks just as manic as he’s feeling, suddenly. “Your friends drag you out to watch the ball drop, too?”

Hob sees the gorgeous man chuckle, but doesn’t hear it. Only guesses by the way his lips part and his eyes shine.

“Yes, actually,” he leans over to speak properly in Hob’s ear, instead of continuing to shout over the music and sea of voices. “And I would love to ditch them.”

His breath hits Hob’s ear like a caress, soft and warm, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end.

“That’s not very nice,” Hob says, turning to also speak against the stranger’s ear, his nose brushing the shell of it, grinning to himself.

The man turns again, and Hob tilts his head with it, giving him his ear once more to speak in. The stranger’s shaggy dark hair brushes his cheek and Hob feels his legs wobble. He doesn’t know if it’s the energy in the room, their involuntary closeness, or how Hob can smell his skin, like the early morning air after a rainstorm, like the salty spray of the sea, but he is positively buzzing like a live wire from it.

Especially as those lips, a blush of pink against marble white skin, brush against his earlobe, his rich voice rumbling and nearly making Hob vibrate.

“I’m not a nice man.”

Hob swallows, his heart deciding then to try out for a marathon and running laps along his rib cage. He peeks sideways and finds incredibly blue eyes staring back at him.

He doesn’t know what to say. But the instant attraction between them lights Hob up. He’s not one for picking up strangers in bars, at least not since he was in college, but on the busiest night of the year? In New York City? Crammed in a room with probably a hundred people over legal capacity? Yeah, Hob could bend a little. He could bend a lot for Mr. Dark and Mysterious.

“Why would you say that?”

Hob watches the man’s lips twitch into a tiny smirk, and it only makes Hob’s smile grow. He’d forgotten how much fun it was to flirt with a complete stranger.

“I’ve been watching you for a while,” he murmurs against Hob’s ear, nearly making his eyes flutter shut. “I was going to offer to buy you a drink… unless you’d like to escape with me.”

“That’s very tempting…” Hob feels his insides twist pleasantly at the look the man gives him.

“You’re very tempting.”

Fuck, who was this guy?

They’re staring at each other, allowing people to brush past them, losing their spot by the bar, but Hob doesn’t notice. Doesn’t even feel the crowd around him anymore. Only finding himself lost in a sea of blue, with pupils dilated so wide in the darkened room, Hob almost feels like he’s falling into an abyss. Maybe he is. Maybe this guy is a siren out of water, coming here specifically to drag Hob down, to test his resolve.

And Hob would gladly go, would happily follow him. He’s just opened his mouth, about to ask this stranger’s name, when he feels a sharp tug at his arm.

“There you are, Hobsie!” One of his friends– Hob can’t be bothered to remember which one, is pulling him backwards. “Forget the drinks, we gotta get down into the square now if we’re to beat the crowds!”

The connection is broken. Hob’s jaw works uselessly, trying to protest, trying to call out, but his feet stumble along, allowing himself to be yanked back into the crowd. His eyes sweep above the dozens of heads and finds his stranger’s gaze one last time, staring at him with a mix of frustration and longing, and Hob feels regret screaming through his veins.

—-----------

The crowd outside is a hundred times worse, thousands of people in the street, streamers and balloons polluting the sky, but at least the air is clean and the lights are bright, giving the illusion of daytime, rather than minutes to midnight.

Hob doesn’t even pretend to pay attention, no longer indulging his friends but scanning the crowd instead, hopelessly looking for a mop of inky black hair and translucent skin that could reflect the artificial lights of the neon signs around them. He’s been out here for hours now, the layers of sweater, coat, boots and beanie doing nothing now to ward off the chill that begins to penetrate his bones.

A hopelessness washes over Hob, making him sigh deeply, knocking his head back to stare at the starless black sky. If two people were to ever meet twice on the same night, in Times Square, it’d be pure luck… or divine intervention.

He looks forward again, at the sparkly ball that seems miles away, so much smaller in person, hung high in the air. Hob’s eyes drift once more along the sea of hats and children perched on shoulders, the screams and shouts of excitement as the minutes tick down to midnight.

Then he sees him. Or, Hob thinks it’s him. A single dark head, hair sticking up, one of the few in the massive crowd without a hat on. Hob holds his breath, eyes narrowed in on that ink blot, waiting for some kind of confirmation, his memory of the stranger already quickly fading from his brain, the sensory deprivation of the packed bar messing with his recollection.

Hob gasps as the head turns, revealing a profile that has his heart skip. Sharp nose, small lips, long eyelashes that Hob can somehow see from here.

Without thinking, Hob dives into the crowd, abandoning his friends who shout after him.

“Wait, where are you going!”

Hob pushes past the impenetrable wall of people, grunting as he went and keeping his eyes focused on his stranger, feeling crazy. Feeling absolutely insane for doing this. Parents yell at him and drunken party people try to catch Hob but he persists, stumbling and not even saying ‘excuse me’ or apologizing for the feet he’s stepping on.

“Fuck,” Hob grouses. It barely feels like he’s made progress, especially as an announcement rings out that there is only 60 seconds til midnight, and everyone is cheering and taking out their phones as the ball begins its slow descent.

People have already begun chanting at the 50 second mark, and Hob’s brain is scrambling. He’s catching up to the man from the bar, his back still turned to Hob and– he has a brief, worrying thought that he might be mistaken. That this isn’t the strange, gorgeous man who’d found him in that overloaded room.

Forty seconds and Hob feels sweat trailing down his neck, closing in on a black coat with the collar turned up, hiding the pale column of his neck.

Thirty seconds and Hob inhales deeply as he’s finally found himself directly behind a shadow made real, an outline filled in with black paint. Hob reaches out, grabbing him by the elbow.

“Hey!”

Hob holds his breath as the man turns, and feels his face light up as the stranger from the bar sets his eyes upon him once more. His expression goes from deeply annoyed to genuine shock, his brows shooting up into his hairline and his lips parting comically.

Hob feels like laughing. The stranger’s eyes are so much more expressive, out here where the lights are bright enough to read by.

Luck, or divine intervention. Hob feels a thrill rush though his body at the way the man studies him, like he never thought he’d see Hob again. And, well, that’d make two of them.

Ten seconds, and everyone around them is shouting the countdown.

The man’s lips move, speaking, but Hob can’t hear him.

“What?!”

With a small grin he moves in closer, like in the bar, lips brushing Hob’s ear.

“I said ‘holy shit’.”

Hob laughs. “Does your offer still stand?”

The man pulls back, nearly nose-to-nose with Hob as the people around them chant the final five seconds.

As an answer, Hob feels cold hands surround his face, thumbs swiping under his eyes as long, bony fingers slip into his hair, under his beanie, knocking it askew. Hob feels his breath stolen away as the man crowds further into his space, and all Hob can do in response is raise his own arms, wrapping them around the man’s middle, firmer than he’d guessed, and pulling him flush against him.

They don’t even make it to one before Hob’s eyes slip shut and he feels warm, chapped lips collide against his own.

The explosion of streamers and cries of “Happy New Year!” reflect the way fireworks shoot off inside of Hob, his body lighting up from the inside as thin lips move against his own, pressing hard and insistent.

Hob’s lips part as he feels the man’s tongue swipe along the seam, tearing a moan from his throat and pulling him impossibly closer. Hob works his jaw to keep up with the man’s vigorous kissing, nearly letting it overcome him, almost wanting him to. The man kisses Hob like they aren’t surrounded by a mass of people, bodies still pushing and pulling them, rocking the pair back and forth, holding onto each other like a lifeline. He kisses Hob like he’ll never see him again, and maybe they won’t. Maybe this is a chance meeting, maybe they should make this last, and fuck Hob– he was in so much trouble.

He feels his lungs begin to burn, the man’s hands on his face, in his hair, igniting him in the best of ways, but he’s starting to get dizzy. He whines a protest, but doesn’t pull back, doesn’t think he can, with the possessive way the stranger has him locked in his embrace.

But finally, the man breaks away, allowing Hob to take a deep gulp of air, before he’s going back in, making Hob groan, especially as his hands move again, gripping his hair and attacking his mouth with renewed vigor.

Fuck, Hob was absolutely fucked.

His own hands move, slipping up the man’s chest, his neck, and getting a handful of his hair as well, pulling hard and forcing a choked off, salacious noise to erupt from the stranger’s lips. Hob’s managed to remove the assault on his mouth, panting roughly, and shuddering at the dark way those blue eyes are staring at Hob, challenging and completely turned on.

They take a moment to breathe, Hob’s hand still in dark hair, soft as silk, while his stranger’s hands have moved to his shoulders, waiting.

Hob loosens his hold and the man leans back in, brushing their noses and breathing each other’s air.

“What’s your name?” Hob asks, breathless and his nerves singing. The noise of people are louder than ever around them, but Hob knows the man hears him, and is hyper focused on him as well, ears straining for the answer.

“Dream,” comes the most erotic response Hob has ever heard in his life. “Yours?”

“Hob.”

Dream smiles, gorgeous, evocative, stunning Hob further.

“Hob,” Dream repeats, licking his lips. Hob feels all his blood rush south, his gaze instantly transfixed to the sight, which only makes Dream’s smile transform into a smirk.

“It’s nice to officially meet.”

Hob laughs, but it sounds broken, desperate.

“Likewise.”

#dreamling #dream x hob #STRANGERS TO LOVERS AHHH #HAPPY NEW YEAR #i wrote this in one sitting and now im RUNNING TO WORK #will probably post an edited version to Ao3 tonight #my writing

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imababblekat · 1 year

Text

Not A Webs Chance

Prompt: The boys are at it again in guessing who the mysterious, friendly neighborhood Spider Hero of New York could be. With a joking comment, the minds of each ninja begin to wonder if it is perhaps you under the mask!”

Notes:

(s/p) = spider persona name)

~xXx~ “All I’m saying is it’s kind of nice to have some of the heat off our shells for once.”, Leo defended, raising his arms from the back of the couch. The leader terrapin and his brothers sat in April’s and yours shared living room, the small old square tv in the center casting the news of events from a few hours prior. The headline “Super Market Robbery Put To A Quick Halt” streamed across the bottom of a recorded video of New Yorkers friendly (s/p) swinging off screen. “I miss kicking bad guy butt, but you do have a point bro.”, Mikey agreed, finishing off another pizza slice. “When’s the last time we got to finish a whole pizza in one sitting?!” “You mean all of us or just you? Cuz I can tell ya the answer to that real quick.”, Raph jested, his younger brother ignoring him in favor of grabbing another slice. Shaking off a slice offered by Donnie, Leo cheekily smirked at Raph. “You’re still just mad at the fact they totally whipped your behind when we first met.” Raph, grumbling, jabbed a digit towards the his brother. “Yeah, well I didn’t exactly see ya win the fight either. In fact, if I remember correctly they had ya danglin’ by Mikey’s nun-chucks.” With a dreamy sigh, ignoring the heat rising between both brothers, Mikey spoke through a mouth full of cheese. “That was so hot how they did it, too~.” Finishing his own slice and returning to a gadget in hand, Donnie let out a light chuckle. “You say that but you don’t even know them.” “Don’t you know actions speak louder than words?!”, Mikey swooned across Leo’s lap, the later shoving him of with an eye roll. “Besides, I already know who they are anyways.” At this, all turtles stopped what they were doing, sharply turning to the youngest with curiosity brimming in their eyes. Was this it? Were the boys finally going to find out who the mystery person behind the mask was after all this time of fighting crime side by side? “You saw their face?!”, all boys shouted in unison, leaning in towards the orange bandanna turtle. With a big smile, and kicking his feet up onto the coffee table, Mikey replied. “Nope!” All brothers deadpanned, but before any could retort back, Mikey continued. “Don’t need to. I finally figured out who they are.” Leo chuckled incredulously, sitting back once more. “We already went over this Mikey. It’s not April.” “Or Master Shredder.”, came Donnie’s chime in. “Or that one guy runnin around’n a rat costume.”, added Raph. Mikey shook his head with a mildly irritated groan at his brothers mentions of his past theories to (s/p)’s true identity. “Just hear me out! I know I’ve got it this time!” Each ninja turtle listened doubtfully but motioned for Mikey to go on. “It’s clearly the cute delivery person. Why else would they leave me an extra slice of triple cheese, deluxe pepperoni?”, he smiled wide, making a mind blowing motion with his hands. “Uhm, because they didn’t want to waste any food at the end of the night? You’d be surprised how much humans throw out at closing.”, Donnie expressed knowledgeably. Falling back defeatedly into the sofa with crossed arms, Mikey huffed. “Well since you’re such a genius, who do you think it is, Don?” Donnie thought for a moment, adjusting his glasses. “The odds of us guessing who it is, or if we even know the person in such a heavily populated city is statistically extremely low.” Mikey rolled his head back with a loud groan and Leo laughed. “Come on, Don. You gotta guess someone. Anyone.” Donnie’s face scrunched up as he truly tried, Leo and Mikey throwing out more theories on who they thought the mystery person could be. Slightly frustrated, the leaner brother nodded his head towards Raphael. “Why don’t you guys ask Raph? He always seems to have something smart to say.” Playing with the toothpick between his teeth, Raph chuckled before throwing a thumb back to the kitchen. “Obviously, it’s that dork.” All eyes turned towards the human in the kitchen, the smell of cinnamon rolls in the oven wafting around them. Even though Raphael had been 100% joking around, the cogs in each of the four brothers brains began to turn as they gazed at none other than you. You, who stood in the kitchen with disheveled hair and wrinkly pajamas after waking from what was supposed to be a thirty minute nap turned six, were the only person neither of the ninja brothers had ever thought to consider. However, now watching as you carefully studied an oven mitt, they started to notice things they hadn’t before. You were about the right height and size as (s/p). Thinking back to certain moments, the brothers also realized how some of the things you both would say sounded similar. Heck, in some sense, even your voices sounded somewhat the same. It also seemed to be quite the coincidence that whenever their spidery friend swung off after defeating some baddies, you would show up moments later. Could it be? Could you truly be the person that occupied the ninja turtles minds with your spectacular crime fighting powers and personality?! Just as lightbulbs in the brothers minds were about to go off, they had all witnessed you toss the oven mitt in the air and try to, very unsuccessfully, karate jab your hand into said mitt, only for it to fall splat to the tiled floor. “Eeeyeeeeah, scratch that. I like Mikey’s rat costume guy betta.”, Raph spoke turning back around with his brothers. “Oh come on! You’re never gonna let that go, huh?!”, Mikey exasperated as another round of argumentative theories sprung up between the four. Too lost in each others reasonings for why or why not (s/p) could be this or that person, the four brothers missed you accidentally webbing your oven mitt to the ceiling in a re-attempt at earliers action, a panicked look quickly finding place on your face as you rushed to get it free.

~xXx~

#bayverse tmnt x reader #bayverse tmnt #bayverse raphael x reader #bayverse leonardo x reader #bayverse michelangelo x reader #bayverse donatello x reader #tmnt x reader #aged up tmnt #tmnt spiderman au #spiderman reader #imababblekat’s writing

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goosewriting · 2 years

Text

Baby 🥺 (rottmnt Leo x reader)

summary: a turtle baby suddenly appears in the kitchen, and he looks suspiciously a lot like Leo

relationship: Rise!Leo x GN reader (established)

warnings: fluff!, vague mention of childbirth

word count: 2.5k

A/N: inspired by this post by @jasontoddisbest !! listen there’s some real gems in there, if someone out there writes them or sees them written, please tag me! i’d love to read the others :’) excuse any mistakes,, i wrote this at 2am sfdsdff

More “Baby 🥺” versions: Leo (you’re here) | Raph | Donnie | Mikey

(english is not my first language. constructive criticism and grammar corrections are very appreciated!)

— — —

It had been a little over a year since the turtles had defeated the Krang. New York was slowly but surely recovering, as were you all.

Your boyfriend, Leo, was the one with the most nightmares since then. He would wake up in a cold sweat, often screaming in his sleep. You were by his side, trying to support and comfort him to the best of your abilities.

It was a lazy Saturday afternoon, just like any other. You were kicking Leo’s butt at Smash Bros, much to his annoyance. You were both sat on the floor in front of the screen, as he took a pillow from the sofa to throw at you. It landed in your face with an ‘oomph!’, blocking your view, and that’s when Leo did his move, winning the round.

“Hey, that’s cheating!” you cried out, pouting at him. Leo gasped in mock offense.

“Puh-lease.” he set down the controller and grinned mischievously at you. “You wanna know what real cheating is?” He crawled closer.

“Leonardo. Don’t you dare” you said, pointing an accusing finger at him, knowing exactly what he was about to do.

“Oh I very much dare!” he laughed, climbing on top of you and tickling your sides. You laughed and huffed, slightly slapping his arms and begging him to stop.

“I’m sorry I can’t hear you over me winning fair and square” he teased you, tickling you harder.

“Alright! Alright, y-you win, plEAse stoP” you breathed hard between laughs, tears on the side of your eyes. Leo climbed off triumphantly and pulled you up, bringing you to his chest in a hug instead. You hugged him back, trying to calm your breathing.

“Why do you have to be such a sore loser” you mumbled into his chest with a grin, and he was just about to retort when you heard weird zapping sounds, followed by a thump and the soft cry of surprise.

“Did- did you hear that?” you pulled back and asked Leo.

“Yeah, it came from the kitchen. Go get my sword.” he said in a low voice and sneaked to where the sound had come from.

You were scanning the room looking for his weapon, wondering where he even left it. In his room maybe? Just as you stood up, you heard Leo go “aaw~”, so you guessed it wasn’t a threat anymore. With every step you took you could hear Leo cooing.

“It’s okay little man, no need to cry” the turtle said with a voice you’d use to talk to a dog, or a small child maybe.

You entered the kitchen with a confused look, and before you was Leo crouching on the floor, picking up a little turtle toddler. A turtle tot.

“Look at this, Y/n!” he said, standing back up to his feet, with the turtle in his arms. “There was a weird portal thing, that just zapped closed, and it looks like this little guy fell through.”

“Aw, he looks a lot like you, actually!” you commented, seeing how the little turtle also had red markings around his eyes, but these were more circles rather than half moons.

“I think he hit his head” Leo said, gently rubbing the toddler’s forehead. The toddler looked like he was doing his best not to cry, but when he saw you approach, something in his face changed and he let go, crying, and stretching out his little arms towards you.

“Aw, poor thing” you said and picked him up into your arms. “There, there” Once the kid hugged you and clung onto your shirt, it calmed down immediately. You patted softly onto the shell.

“Wow, looks like he feels safe with you” Leo said, and then grinned. “Well, he’s smart to like you, if he’s anything like me.” You just playfully rolled your eyes.

“We gotta figure out where he came from; I’m sure his parents must be looking for him” you pointed out, starting to look around the kitchen for clues.

As you were both checking behind some boxes, you heard Donnie’s voice from the hall.

“Guys, guys! There was some weird energy spike just now, did you see anything-“ he stopped in his tracks when he entered the kitchen. The little turtle in your arms turned around to give the purple-clad turtle a quizzical look. Donnie looked at Leo, then at the little one, then at you, and his face seemed to go through all stages of grief before deciding that yes, he indeed should at least try to figure out what was going on and why you had a little turtle in your arms, instead of ‘nope’-ing himself out of the situation.

“Y/n. Why do you hold a turtle child that looks suspiciously familiar” Donnie said in a flat voice.

You both were explaining what happened, when Raph came into the room. He squealed in glee, cooing at the baby, and even carried it off to play while you three tried to make sense of everything. The little turtle didn’t seem intimidated by Raph in the least. Even Mikey joined in on them playing. The little man was having the time of his life.

Back in the kitchen, Leo, Donnie and you sat at the table.

“So you’re saying the portal was yellow, just like the one Mikey used to… get you back?” Donnie asked.

“M-Maybe? I’m not sure” Leo said, holding his head. “It was very quick, I just saw some zappy lights, is all.” You stroked his back in an attempt to comfort him. Thinking back to that night wasn’t easy for anyone.

“Donnie” you started. “Are you suggesting that it’s not where the baby came from but from when?”

“That is exactly what I’m suggesting.” He sighed. “There goes the space-time continuum, again.”

“Well, we have to figure out a way to get it back, right?” you asked. “I mean, his family must be worried sick, and he’s stuck here with us, poor thing.”

“Uhm, excuse you?” Leo said with a smile. “For having just left your timeline, I can’t imagine anything better than being stuck here with us.”

“Right, right” you laughed. “Then I guess we’ll make his stay as enjoyable as possible. Meanwhile Donnie will figure out something, right? He always does.”

You gave him a thumbs-up and took Leo by his hand, guiding him out of the kitchen.

Donnie groaned, but made his way to the lab. Maybe he’d find a way to backtrack where the turtle came from. Getting an idea on where to start, he came back to the living room where all of you were playing, hiding something behind his back.

“Will you hold the child for a second? I need to do something real quick.”

“That sounds awfully suspicious” you said, squinting at Donnie, and standing between him and the kid. “Whatchu got there?” You nodded at his hidden hand.

“I just need to take a quick blood sample, to know where or when he’s from. It’s just a small prick, really.” Donnie showed you what he was holding; it looked like a pen. Since it wasn’t a full on syringe, and it could help the baby, you decided to allow him to pass you.

Getting a cookie from the kitchen, you picked up the little turtle, Donnie making quick work of getting a blood sample. When he felt the prick, the baby squealed and cried, but you managed to calm him down quickly, offering him the cookie, which he gladly took, sniffling.

You and the guys spent the majority of the afternoon just playing with the kid, taking turns to watch it. Even Splinter joined in, as his heart melted at the sight of the little turtle tot, reminding him of his own sons when they were little.

Donnie ran some tests to see if there were any hints on substances present in the blood that could tell him a specific location of the baby’s origin, as well as a couple other tests.

When his computer beeped, signalling a test had successfully finished running, he looked up from his desk to check the result. He pressed a couple buttons on the tech pad on his wrist, taking a sip of his mug while he waited for the text to appear. When he saw it though, he spat his drink all over his work station.

“You can’t be serious right now…” he muttered, checking the results again. Yup, they were unequivocally true.

He stopped and considered for a moment what to do, if it was wise to tell the others or not, but then he just thought ‘Screw it, the timeline is already messed up anyways’, and he called you and Leo over.

Upon hearing your name being called, you left the little turtle on a pile of cushions you had placed on the floor as a makeshift bed for him. He had just fallen asleep. As had Mikey and Raph, who lied not very far on the floor, surrounded by cookie crumbles and empty milk cartons.

Giving the little turtle one last glance over your shoulder, you and Leo made your way to the lab. Donnie was standing leaning back against his desk, both hands before his face, with the fingertips touching.

“So, what’s up?” you asked him, coming to a halt in front of him, Leo next to you.

Donnie didn’t say anything, just looked at you, then at Leo, and sighed. Leo and you shared a confused look.

“There’s no easy way to say this so I’ll just say it as it is.” Donnie paused. “And the problem here isn’t that it’s something hard per se to say, it’s just weird-“

“Just tell us, Donnie” Leo interrupted.

Once again he looked at you both, and it was starting to scare you a bit. What he was about to tell you, was it that bad? Was the little turtle really sick or something?

“I ran some blood tests, comparing it to your samples, and as it turns out: the little turtle in our living room is you two’s biological child.” Donnie said in one go. “Of the future.”

“We have a kid?” Leo asked in disbelief.

“You have my blood samples?” you questioned.

Leo turned to look at you, with a giant smile on his face, his gaze softening. With the look he was giving you, the blood acquired without your consent was quickly forgotten.

“We have a kid!” Leo repeated, picking you up and swirling you around. You squealed in surprise, hanging on for dear life.

As he came to a halt, he just held you, looking at you with the most lovestruck face you had seen him make yet.

Somewhere in your brain you started to question the mechanics of the whole thing though. Were the chromosomes even compatible? Was he actually born or did one of you lay… an egg? Do turtles lay eggs?

You shook your head to get rid of the images in your head, deciding to focus on the fact that Leo was just as ecstatic as you at the thought of having a kid with you. After all, he’s the one you want to spend the rest of your life and maybe have a family with. Except that that last “maybe” just transformed into a “definitely”.

Seeing that you weren’t answering, Leo pulled back a bit to look at you.

“I mean, it’s okay if it’s not something you want. It’s just- I’ve been trying to envision this for quite a while now. And having him just there in our living room, it’s surreal-“ Leo was starting to ramble, and you shut him up with a kiss.

“It’s okay, Leo” you held his face, resting your forehead on his. “It is what I want, just… not now. There’s a lot we need to figure out before we can even think about going there.”

“Right… I love you so much, Y/n” he whispered.

“I love you too, Leo” you replied just as quietly. Leo kissed you once more, and pulled back, turning to where Donnie had been.

“So, do you know how to send him back-“ he asked into the empty lab, because Donnie had been long gone.

Seeing that he wasn’t in the room anymore, Leo grabbed your hand and you both went back to the living room. Approaching the turtle tot, you kneeled down on each side and just watched it peacefully snoozing.

You gently stroked over his little cheek, and his tiny hand came to curl around your index finger. He looked so content.

Glancing back up to Leo, you found him fondly looking at the little turtle. You had never seen him make an expression like that, and for some reason, it moved you at your core. You could feel tears pricking at the back of your eyes, and you blinked repeatedly, trying to get rid of them.

Just as you were about to ask him what kinda future he had envisioned, there was that zappy sound again.

Looking to your left, a bright yellow light started expanding, and stepping through it came none other than an older version of Mikey. You just sat there, unable to find the words.

Leo must have felt the same, because he opened his mouth but nothing came out. This Mikey looked around for a bit, and sighed in relief when he saw the baby. Silently making his way over as not to wake up your time’s Mikey and Raph, he sneaked to where you were, and picked up the little turtle, careful not to startle him awake.

“Sorry, I swear I looked away for one second and he was gone!” Mikey whispered with a sheepish smile.

“Remind me never to let you babysit our kid again” you softly laughed.

Leo’s heart skipped a beat at ‘our kid’.

“Ah, so you know…” Mikey said. “Well, you were bound to find out at some point anyways.” He tiptoed back to the portal, saluting you both.

“Oh and by the way” he said over his shoulders with a wink. “It’s not just one!” And with that he was gone again, the light disappearing with a zap.

You blushed furiously at his comment, going stiff. You looked at Leo, who had also a bit more colour on his cheeks.

“We should totally start looking up baby names” he finally said after a moment, scooting closer to you and slinging his arm over your shoulder.

“Nuh-uh” you responded, nuzzling into his side. “You’re forgetting a step there, dear” you jokingly brought up your left hand to his eye level and wiggled your left ring finger. You felt him tense up slightly at that.

You had only meant to joke, but realising what you just implied, you looked up at him to take it back. Before you could talk however, he held your hand and kissed your knuckles.

“I know. I can’t wait to make you my spouse” he mumbled into your skin.

“So… where’s the child?” Donnie asked, having appeared behind you out of thin air, with a fresh mug of his drink in his hands.

“Back where he belongs” Leo said, giving you a smug grin. You just sat there, avoiding both their eyes, blush going from the tip of your ears to your neck.

#goose feathers #rottmnt #save rottmnt #rottmnt leo x reader #tmnt x reader #tmnt 2018 #rottmnt leo #jasontoddisbest #the turtle baby saga

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dangerrah · 1 month

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SCP 035

70% ler | 30% lee

As a ler:

Okay first off, he’s MEAN. Don’t expect mercy from him.

The pink goop that leaks from his mask basically acts like a smaller, non sentient 999, wherever it lands it delivers a buzzing, ticklish sensation.

When possessing a victim, he won’t kill them. It basically puts whoever he’s possessing into a ‘dreamscape’, tickling them for as long as he pleases.

Whereas in the real world, he’ll chase down victims to either use tentacles to get the job done, or get his hands dirty and tickle them himself.

Heres a twist, unlike his canon counterpart, the mask acts like a face hugger. If he’s quick enough, he can take it off and either put it onto someone else, or throw it and hope it latches them.

He only really shows mercy if a victim is at a disadvantage, injured leg/arm, or is one of the new staff members.

Doesn’t pick favorite lees staff wise, bros hands are rated E for everyone. But has a favorite anomaly, which is 049. (Though thats not to say the doctor wont get revenge. He always does.)

LOVES doing baby talk, or teasing wherever a lee is ticklish at.

“Oh, what do you mean ‘don’t tickle there’, right here? Thats where you’re talking about, right?”

As a lee

First off, spot wise, it shares across his vessels as long as he’s possessing. The spot being behind the knees.

Curls desperately upon contact, ends up looking like a spring recoiling.

Teases don’t tend affect him, unless you’re teasing him about broadcasting his current state to everyone on staff. THEN you’ll get him flustered lol

Curses you out the whole time, promising revenge, all that jazz.

Light tickles ABSOLUTELY annihilate him. Cannot stand it for a second!

Surprisingly, his neck is a relatively good spot too. Raspberries there are pretty effective.

His laughter can kinda range, wheezy at the start before slowly going to a deep cackle.

If you’re feeling extra mean afterwards, taking a picture of him is a helluva way to knock him down a peg! (He’s got a pretty big ego after all.)

Extra info!

He was found in an old theater within New York on a old clown doll that would apparently, at random, move around and or start giggling at odd hours.

Unlike most anomalies, he doesn’t really need to “eat” laughter like them, it’s more or less a way to boost his energy that sleeping doesn’t fully boost.

Has a love hate relationship with 049, when he isn’t viewing him as an annoyance, he views him as a close friend!

Though as mentioned, he doesn’t have a favorite lee, he does have preferences! He LOVES targeting the more hard shelled doctors, or the more egotistical ones that need knocked down a peg. (Ironic)

Can possess dolls, just prefers not too due to little hands and minimum maneuverability.

#sfw #tickle art #sfw interaction only #tickle fic #tickle fluff #sfw tickling community #tword content #tword blog #tword community #scp tickle

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biscuitblinkeu · 4 months

Text

Oddly Entranced [3]

Park Chaeyoung x Fem!reader

Word Count: 2352

ToSumUp: The king begins to put his plan in action. You take Rosie shopping.

A/N: I’m pretty excited to write the next chapter. Meant to post this yesterday. Was gonna write more to ACTUALLY end the chapter but I’ll save it for next ig

“…The surface. A place called New York.”

“The human word,” he stated, face settling into a mask of indifference, anger simmering beneath the surface. There was a low growl in his tone as he spoke, “She’s well aware the human world is forbidden— everyone knows that! I set specific rules and expect them to be followed.”

“Yes, humans are trouble. I’ve tried to tell that girl…”

There’s a silence, pain crossing the king's face for a moment. He’s realized no amount of threatening will stop that curiosity brewing in Rosé’s mind. No matter how many times he destroys her human-made trinkets or forbids her to observe the humans, she would not listen. She was too much like her mother. He wouldn’t allow it. He would just have to lock her up— no, he’d destroy her faith in humans. Trust could easily be broken, and he would get through to her one way or another.

The King settled back down on his throne, shoulders sagged, fingers rubbing his temples. “Bring me my daughters— all three of them. Rosé must be brought home at once.”

“Yes, sir.” The crab made a move to go.

“Wait,” he commanded, making the crab face him again. “Find out where she is and what she’s doing in this…New York. Contact the Shak’s sea magicians if you must, we need Rosé on surveillance.”

“Right away, my king.” Sebastian side-stepped his way out of the sea cave to do as he’s told. He had a bad feeling about this, but he only wished Rosé the best— he wanted her to be safe. He was loyal to Rosé, having been her attendant since childhood, however, if the king commands him he will do as he’s told…

Jennie, temporarily residing in the Atlantic Ocean, was the easiest to find for Sebastian. She was humming a tune as the maid behind her held up a pearl necklace, the mirror allowing her to see. She nodded in approval.

Sebastian stopped at the doorway to her quarters. “Jennie, the king requests your attendance.”

Surprised, a smile appears on her face. “Sebastian!” She swims to him, maroon-colored tail flicking powerfully. “Father wants to see me?” The feline-featured woman repeated. “Very well. But…” She picks the blue crab by a claw, holding him in front of her face. “Is your shell changing color? I remember it being brighter; are you perhaps stressed, Bastian?”

Sebastian gasps, and Jennie lets him sink to the sea floor. “My shell? What about my shell, now? Oh! It’s really changed color; I’ve got to be stressed.”

The princess frowned. “You poor thing, what’s going on?”

“You know your sister’s been running circles around me— that crazy girl. I’m getting too old for this. She’s why the king needs to speak w’you and your sisters.”

Even though he didn’t say which sister, recognition crossed Jennie’s face, and her smile faded slightly as worry flooded her mind; she knew her sister was a bit eccentric, fascinated with humans. She knew her father and Rosé didn’t get along because of it. “Rosé? What has she done now?”

Nothing bad, she hoped.

“Well,” the blue crab hesitated. Sebastian looked at the maids, who were trying awfully hard to not eavesdrop, then at Jennie again. “I…I’ll let the king tell you, it’s not my place to speak.”

“I see,” Jennie nodded. She turned around, expression apologetic. “Thank you, ladies. You’re dismissed.”

The maids left with slight dips of their head, then the two left to see the king.

“Did you ever find out where she lives?” Isa asked, leaning over your cubicle wall, her lanyard dangling over the side. The two of you had convinced your manager to put your workspaces next to each other, claiming you worked harder when you were in close proximity.

You stopped typing and pushed away from the desk, cracking your knuckles. Isa watched you stretch patiently.

You shook your head at her. “I…I still don’t know. She always has this look in her eyes, as though the world and everything in it is so beautiful and new— like she’s seeing all of it for the first time. It just doesn’t make sense,” you murmured. “And when I ask I can’t get any answers because she doesn’t speak— or write.”

Isa sighed. “Maybe something happened to her? Like, I don’t know… memory loss? Trauma? Abuse? She seems like a sweet person.”

You frowned at the thought, thinking about where you first met her. “Yeah, maybe. I hope not, though.”

“So, you’re okay with being at work and leaving her alone at your apartment?”

You thought about it. Are you okay with it? Somewhat. You worried she’ll get into things even though you tried to baby-proof your apartment. You hoped she was able to find the breakfast you made her and the snacks you left out. You wouldn't be so worried if you had just woken her up before you left early in the morning, but thought better of it since she stayed up late watching Netflix. You made sure to explain that for a period of the day she would be left alone— to which she blinked and nodded at, so you assumed she understood— and that you would come back.

You shrugged. “She’ll be okay.”

Hopefully.

You entered your apartment and locked the door behind you, bending over to take off your shoes. Surprisingly, you didn’t hear the television playing, nor anything else for that matter. You wondered if Rosie was sleeping in the guest room, or perhaps left.

A moment later you heard the quick padding of feet against the floorboards, then a flash of blonde hair entered your vision before you were being pressed into something soft and warm. “Wha…?” You felt heat creep up your neck as arms wrapped around you.

(You didn’t understand why your hair and body products smelled so much better on her). “Uhm, Rosie?” You tried to pull back, away from the intoxicating smell of vanilla, but she held you tighter, burying her face in your neck. Her grip was tight, almost as though she were afraid you would slip away from her.

Oh.

A feeling of regret prickled your heart, and instantly, you knew you should’ve been clearer on when you were going to come home. There was a chance she was distracted when you told her, or that she genuinely didn’t know what and where your work was, and it made her think you left and were never going to come back. The latter doesn’t seem so far-fetched, considering that awed look she has in her eyes most of the time.

Hesitantly, your hand came up to her hair, petting it. Her grip tightened on your coat, and she finally looked up. Your hand paused when you noticed there were tears in her eyes, a subtle frown playing on her lips.

She panicked when she woke up and realized you weren’t home, chest constricting at the thought she’d be all alone in this world again. She tugged on your shirt, her eyes conveying questions. Where were you? Where did you go? Why did you leave?

Oh, God. You felt even worse.

“I’m so sorry I took so long to come back, the roads were bad and— well, you were probably waiting awhile, weren’t you? You don’t have to cry, I’ll always come back.” You said, then wondered if it was something you could keep true. Nonetheless, you didn’t take it back.

Rosie blinked at you, her lips settling in a thin line. Her hands flexed on your shirt, and she raised a brow, non-verbally asking “promise?”.

You smiled. “I promise, and, if for any reason I have to leave longer, I’ll tell you beforehand— and sometimes you can come with me, okay?”

Rosie nodded slowly, releasing her grip on you. She waited till you took your coat off and followed you into the living room, seemingly wanting to be in your presence.

You were relieved to see the omelet you made her was eaten— the snacks weren’t touched however. You put the plate in the sink, stealing a quick glance at Rosie. She was hugging the couch pillow, looking at you.

“Hey, want to go out? I know it’s usually the time you take a nap, so if you don’t want to, that's fine. I just thought you might want to get out of the apartment for a little,” you rambled.

Rosie perked up, lips tugging up into a small smile as she nodded. It would be nice to see more of this world.

That was all you needed to confirm her agreement. “All right, we’ll go.” She scrambled down from her spot on the couch, already heading to the door.

You eyed her legs, then shook your head with an amused laugh. “If you want to go you’ll have to wear pants, I don’t want you getting sick.”

She froze, already halfway across the room. Slowly, her gaze shifted towards yours, to her legs, and then her lips parted. Her mouth opened and closed - like she was forming words, yet couldn’t get the sound out, before she nodded dejectedly. Okay…

You stepped towards her, putting your hands on her shoulders to steer her to your bedroom. “It’s only for a few hours. Once we finish our activities, we can come back and you can take them off, all right?”

She huffed, and you took it as a yes. She sat on your bed as you dug through your drawers, pulling out a gray sweatshirt with matching sweatpants, and socks with avocados on them.

When you held them up, her nose wrinkled, so with a laugh you turned around with socks with a few cats on them. She had no negative reaction so you left it.

“Here, you can wear these. It’s still cold out because it keeps raining, so these will keep you warm.” You laid them on the bed next to her. “Oh! I have hair ties, just if you wanna put your hair up…” you rummaged through your dresser for them. You turned around with a white scrunchy and a regular, black hair tie as options, only to go still in surprise.

She already started to pull her shirt off above her head and you held your hands up, frantically telling her to stop. “It’s not good for you to change in front of me— even though you may be comfortable with it— we don’t really know each other well, and it’s a little embarrassing. You’re…” Oh, she’s beautiful. But you wouldn’t say it to her face and make things weird. That glimpse of her toned stomach caught your attention, and you bit your lip nervously as a warmth crept up onto your cheeks. God, you really are hopeless, aren’t you? (Pretty people are your weakness) Stop staring already.

“Look, I’ll be out in the living room, just come out when you’re done, kay?” After a singular nod from her, you closed the door behind you and left her to get dressed.

Rosie stared at the door for a few more moments after you left, a blush appearing on her own cheeks. She made you flustered just then, didn’t she? A grin pulled at her lips. She didn’t know humans were so expressive.

About 10 minutes later she entered the living room. You looked up from your phone, smiling softly at her. Although she looked adorable in your clothes, it was clear you needed to get her some of her own. She had a taller figure than you and though the sweatpants looked baggy on you, they were fitted for her.

She held the scrunchie and a brush up to you, looking at you expectingly. You laughed lightly, nodding at her, and brushed her hair into a neat ponytail. Then, clad in puffer coats, you left your apartment.

The streets, wet and filled with noise, were something you were used to. Rosie, however, would flinch every once in a while because of a car honk or yell from a bypasser. She stayed almost pressed against your side, wide, curious eyes taking in the scene before her.

You let out a puff of air, breath turning into fog, as you contemplated on where to go shopping. New York had no shortage of places to eat or shop, it was just hard to choose which.

You spotted a clothing store and headed there.

“You can pick out anything you like,” you told her. It’s a bold statement, things were getting expensive— but you prepared for this. It’s not the first time. “I’d like you to have some shirts, shorts, and underwear.”

The first time you went broke after taking a homeless mom and her child out shopping, you cried. (They were happy— broke people— tears, of course). Since then, you’ve had a card specifically reserved for your “adoptions,” Issa calls it. She thinks you're crazy because you have a card you voluntarily put money on for other people.

So if Rosie wanted to buy a third of the store…you would potentially have enough.

She blinked at you. Anything?

The first piece of clothing she picked up was a navy blue shirt, cropped. Then, a few hoodies with designs on them, and three pairs of shorts. Some baggy jeans, tops, a pair of shoes, etc.

You couldn’t help but notice that after each item she picked up, she would glance at you. You wondered what she was thinking.

“Is this all you want?” You asked. The total amount of items was way less than what you expected.

She nodded, looking bashful. It’s more than enough. Thank you.

“Okay, then.” You headed to the register, putting her stuff on the counter for the two workers to scan.

“Will this be all?”

“Yes,” you answered, pulling your card out.

“Do you have a rewards card with…” He trailed off, looking at Rosie. “Us?” You saw his face turn red and he kept stealing glances at her as he scanned. The girl next to him was staring too.

You shook your head, you might’ve stared like that too if you had met under different circumstances.

Would you like to continue?

#biscuitblinkeu #blackpink x reader #fanfic #blackpink #fem reader #rosé x reader #rosé x fem!reader #park chaeyoung x reader #park chaeyoung x fem!reader #the little mermaid.biscuit

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daylo-hun · 10 months

Note

Hobie doing his best attempt at a none marriage proposal, proposal

sorry this took so long!! and i kinda lost the plot wit this one but 🤷🏾‍♀️

☆

Staring into the blinding lights of New York had somehow made Miles’s senses even more sensitive. The soft breeze is warm tonight, just in time for summer. The crumbling concrete rooftop of the building he sat upon was particularly rough. And the hot flush on his cheeks was a reminder that Hobie had made his seat next to him.

They had finished up swinging around, sneaking out after Miles’s parents were in a deep sleep, and decided to have some fun on their own. Quick flirtations and quips were thrown back and forth and were seared in Miles’s mind as he replayed them over and over again in his mind. A chuckle came out at the thought of a particular advance made from Hobie

“What’s so funny luv?” Hobie asked, a small grin appearing on his stained lips.

“Nothin, it’s just… earlier you said that my eyes were perfectly brown like a hazelnut, and it reminded me how much I’ve been craving a damn Ferrero Rocher lately”

Hobie smiled “What’s a Ferrero Rochay’? S’ that like a candy?”

Miles’s eyes widened, “You’ve never heard of a Ferrero Rocher?! They’re so good man, like my top candy ever. There’s a crumbly shell of chocolate topped with like these nuts that surrounds this hazelnut spread. And it’s creamy and rich and chocolatey and so good. I’d right an essay about them if I wanted.” He felt his mouth water at the thought of it, his eyes starry with imagination.

The punk paused “Ay, hope you’re describin’ me like that when I’m not by your side. You gave a whole lil speech right then” Hobie teased with a laugh.

Miles rolled his eyes as he chuckled and gave a weak punch to Hobie’s shoulder.

“Ok bro. Sorry I like chocolate and you can’t appreciate that”

“Nah, I do ‘preciate it. It’s cute when you talk like that, puttin’ your private school education to use.”

Miles huffed an amused exhale. When Hobie said stuff like that, so boldly and outright, it made Miles love him even more. Maybe it was because he liked the confirmation of Hobie’s words, it made him secure in himself. He turned slightly to steal a glance at the other.

Sparks created when their eyes met, love and admiration for the other as they stared.

Hobie looked at Miles like he was taking him apart, studying every feature on his face. The other made quick glances at Hobie’s lips, noting his dark lipstick. Miles was the first one to look away with a shy smile on his face.

Hobie broke the silence once again.

“You’ve been drawin’? Last time I was here, you said you’d show me your piecebook”

Miles was taken back, and a little embarrassed. If anyone looked in his piecebook they’d find multiple doodles of Hobie, so many in fact that even extreme stalkers would be stunned.

“Uh…yeah. You could say that. Been sketchin’ some new designs that I wanna paint on a few buildings” He shrugged, reframing from looking at the other.

Hobie hummed in acknowledgment. “I wanna go ‘round and paint wit ya one day. You gotta show me your favorite spots. Think it’d be proper fun, ‘specially wit your talents”

“Sure, I got a few places in mind already” Miles said as he continued to stare at the lights below. He could still feel his cheeks burning at the boy that sat next to him. Hobie just seemed to never let up.

He could feel Hobie staring at him.

“Miles, look at me luv” Hobie’s voice was close to a whisper, tone as gentle as his movements as he slowly reached a hand over to Miles’s face.

Miles let Hobie’s hand control his head as he turned, trusting the other with him.

“Sorry, I just-You’re a damn flirt machine man, and I can’t handle all this praise in the span of like 5 minutes” Miles chuckled, still looking to the side, so obviously avoiding eye contact with the other.

Hobie’s hands were massive compared to Miles’s face, holding the mass carefully like a newborn baby.

They stared at each other once again, before Hobie spoke, once again.

“Miles, I really like you. And… fuck, this is gonna be a long one, don’t get mad at me if I mess up” Hobie chuckled.

Miles felt his breath hitch.

“…I want to stay by your side for a very very long time Miles. I want to praise you endlessly in the span of seconds. I want to hear you rant about an endless slew of random things, like your piecebook or your favorite chocolates”

“I want to stay by your side long enough until our monikers are on each building and corner of New York and then some. I want to see a piece of us, together, wherever we look-A reminder that we’re together in all this shit. I want to be with you for a long while, Miles Morales. Will you stay by my side, for a long while.”

Hobie stared into Miles’s eyes. Miles’s stared into Hobie’s eyes.

“Hobie, I-“ Miles didn’t know what to say truthfully. He has so much admiration and love and respect and suprise for Hobie in this moment that he couldn’t truthfully put it into words. So he put it into action.

Miles leaned forward, face inches away from Hobie before he closed the gap. Lips met and Miles had never felt more at peace. They moved in sync as they let their love for each other communicate.

He loved this, physical intimacy that can’t be denied or not justified. He liked having this conformation that someone understood and loved him. And that was Hobie.

Hobie’s lips were soft, yet chapped and cold, yet warm and plump. Maybe he was just romanticizing his first kiss, but this was the best kiss he’s ever experienced.

They parted, unfortunately for the both of them and stared at each other. A beat skipped in Hobie’s heart when he heard Miles speak.

“I’ll stay by your side. For as long as possible, for as long as we’re together, I’ll stay with you forever, Hobie” A genuine smile displayed on Miles’s face.

He loved him so much.

#miles morales #spider punk #hobie brown #hobart brown #sony spiderverse #across the spiderverse #spiderverse #punkflower #flowerpunk #miles x hobie #miles spiderman #ship: miles/hobie #hobie x miles #spiderman into the spiderverse

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jerzwriter · 8 months

Text

Take Me Out

Trystan Thorne x Carolina Rose

In my HC, Carolina was born & raised in the Bronx, and to her, the New York Yankees are a religion. This commission by the magnificent @/artbyainna was inspired by my fic A Celebration, and since some wanted to know how Carolina behaved at the game, the drabble below the break provides some insight. I hope you enjoy it.

Book: Crimes of Passion (Post Book 1, Pre 2)

Pairing: Trystan Thorne x F!MC

Rating: Teen

Words: 1,011

Summary: When Trystan has the opportunity to see Carolina in her element, he just has to steal her away for a moment alone.

A/N: Participating in @choicesmonthlychallenge from the April Challenge: Just want to be with you, sunset, kiss also participating in @choicesflashfics prompt is bolded below.

~~~~

Carolina couldn’t contain her laughter. She hadn’t felt this way since she was a teenager, perhaps not even then. The wind whipped through her hair as she clutched Trystan’s hand, willingly running behind him as he circled the stadium’s ramps, exuding such confidence you would have guessed he knew where he was going.

“Trystan!” She yelled breathlessly. “You’ve never been here before! Do you know where you’re going?”

“Yes, down,” he answered matter of factly.

“And why exactly are you going down?”

She collided into his back, nearly toppling them to the floor, when he suddenly stopped and turned to her with a devilish smirk.

“Carolina Rose, if I was going down... you’d know it.”

“You jerk,” she laughed, playfully pounding her fist against his chest. “I swear you act like a teenage boy!”

“It’s part of my charm,” he winked. “Here,” he pointed to the entrance of a relatively empty section of the stadium. “That’s where we’re going!”

“Why? Our seats are better than that, and besides, we left Luke and Ruby behind.”

“Yes, we did,” he acknowledged as he leaned against the concrete partition separating them from the field. “I like them very much... but if I didn’t get you alone for a few minutes... I was afraid that I would die.”

Carolina’s lips twisted, a playful gleam in her eye. “You thought you would die?”

“Absolutely,” he looped his arm around her waist and pulled her near. “Do you see the effect you have on me?”

“Really? So, tell me... what put a healthy man like yourself in critical condition? Was it the way I curse the umpires out every three seconds? Or how I put that old man in his place when he dared to question if Jeter held the team’s post-season hits record?”

“Neither of those,” he smiled.

“So it was the way I surreptitiously threw peanut shells at the Boston fans passing us?”

“No. Though, I’ll admit, that was impressive.”

“Was it when I jumped up and down like a lunatic when Judge hit a home run?”

“No,” his eyes roamed over her body, momentarily pausing at her chest. “Though I must admit, I rather enjoyed that part.”

“So what was it,” she snuggled under his arm. “What made being alone with me a life or death issue?”

“Seeing you in your element. Watching you be unabashedly yourself without a worry about anything, just Carolina, having the time of her life at a Yankee game. It was enchanting... in a gauche sort of way, but enchanting nevertheless.”

“Really?” she chuckled. “And to think I considered toning it down. I know I can get pretty crazy and I didn’t want to scare you away.”

“Please, I’m from Drakovia. It would take much more than that to frighten me away. Besides, don’t ever change any part of yourself for anyone, especially me. I’m crazy about you just the way you are.”

At a loss for words, Carolina was spared when a roar from the crowd turned their heads back toward the field, or at least Carolina’s head turned. Trystan wanted to be interested in the game, but how? Given the choice of watching a multi-million dollar team play ball or watching her... his answer would always be the same. Carolina…every single time.

He brushed a stray hair behind her ear and marveled over her. He knew this game was important to her, and it linked her to her father, who shared the same passion. Knowing another stadium’s tragic role in her life, he was happy to know she could still enjoy this. She blushed when she caught him staring at her far too seriously.

“What?” She smiled.

“Nothing. I just love seeing you happy. You used to come to games with your father, no?”

“Oh, yes!” She beamed. “Whenever we could! As a teen, he didn’t have the money to come, so he got a job selling popcorn in the stands just to watch them play. By the time I came along, he could spring for tickets, only the cheap seats, but that didn’t matter to me. I have the best memories here. That’s why I always wear his jersey when I come.”

Trystan spun her around and looked at the number 23 on the back of her jersey and the name written above it.

“Mattingly. Was he your father’s favorite?”

“Sure was! Donnie Baseball! Dad was crushed he never got a World Series ring.”

“Is he your favorite player too?”

“Oh, no. I love him, but,” she patted the number 2 on Trystan’s back, “Derek Jeter is my favorite.”

“And why is that?”

“Are you kidding? He’s a legend! Besides...growing up, I had the biggest crush on him... the man was freaking hot.”

“Oh, really?” Trystan simpered. “Now I understand why you gave me his jersey to wear. Although I’m sure I look even more attractive in it.”

“Mmmm, I dunno,” she shook her head playfully. “I’d need you to put on the cap to make a fair assessment, and since you refused....”

“And mess up this hair? My true crowing glory! I think not, Carolina.”

“You’re too much,” she laughed, running her fingers through his impressive mane. “Thank you for bringing me here tonight, Trystan. It means a lot to me. But the sun’s setting, and as much as I adore this time alone with you, we probably should get back to Luke and Ruby. We’re trying to keep us a secret for now, after all.”

“I suppose,” he shrugged, “just one thing before we do.”

“What’s that?”

Without a word, he pulled her into a lingering, tender kiss, causing them to momentarily forget they were surrounded by thousands of people. Yankee Stadium feels downright desolate when you’re kissing the right person.

“There,” he smiled as he pulled away. “Now I can cross kissing a gorgeous detective at Yankee Stadium off my bucket list.”

“Oh, that was on your bucket list?” she chuckled.

“Don’t judge my bucket list, Carolina. I have my kinks; you have yours.”

~~~~~

I totally HC that they were blissfully unaware that they got caught on the "kiss cam." Luke and Ruby saw it all, and Ruby dropped her popcorn as it happened. With their suspicions confirmed, they had a quick debate over teasing them as soon as they returned or playing stupid. They decided on the latter... for now. 😏

@choicesficwriterscreations @choicesbookclub

Tagging others separately

#choices fanfic #choices fanart #crimes of passion #crimes of passion 2 #playchoices #playchoices fanfic #choices the stories you play #trystan thorne #trystan thorne x mc #trystan x carolina #choices fic writers creations #cfwc fics of the week #cfwc art of the week

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imagines--galore · 11 months

Note

Hi. I’m taking a big step to come out of my shy shell, and ask for a TASM x Reader request from you. I’ve never done this before, but I’d like to share my idea with you, if you’re ok with it.

“A sick TASM 2 Spidey battling a fever and sneeze exploding head cold, while swinging on patrol. He winds up on the fire escape of a surprised F reader, whose soft spot for Spider-Man results in her growing close to her hero. A lot of fluff & SFW romance, some PTSD Gwen angst concerns, and a bit of hurt/comfort moments when she first cares for him during their first meeting.”

Pairing: TASM Peter Parker x Reader Rating || Genres || Warnings: T. Romance. Angst. Fluff. Just a bit of PTSD but nothing too drastic. A/N: I hope I did your request justice! Thank you for sending it in!

You had begun to think your balcony was cursed. There had been occasions in the past, when you would open the door leading out to said balcony, only to find some injured animal taking shelter there.

The very first time that happened, you found a pigeon. The poor thing had a broken wing and it looked so pitiful that you carefully scooped it up and brought it inside. You took it to a nearby walk-in pet clinic. It took a couple of weeks, but pretty soon the bird was starting to show signs of flying and one day it flew out your window.

And though you had been sad to see it go, you were happy it was healthy now.

After that pigeon you found several other birds on your balcony. Once you had even found a cat with a broken paw. Another time a cat licking over newborn kittens. The latter of which had allowed you to adopt one of the kittens as your own. It had actually been the runt of the litter, and your tender heart didn't want it to die, so you had fed it yourself, taking care of it until it became strong enough.

You named her Coral.

Birds and cats, that was the extent of injured creatures you found on your balcony.

So one night, when you opened the door to let in a little fresh New York air, and found an unresponsive figure laying there, you very nearly screamed out loud.

To top it off, it was Spiderman.

Yes the Spiderman.

On your balcony.

You instantly checked the costumed figure over for any signs of bleeding. You couldn't very well check for injuries with the way the suit covered everything.

Well not everything.

It seemed, before passing out, Spiderman had the sense to remove his mask. Your eyes widened as you saw his face in the fairy lights you had strewn across the balcony railing.

He was young, and if you were to judge correctly, he looked to be about your age. He was breathing rather rapidly, and you couldn't help but feel a bubble of concern rise within your chest as you knelt down next to him. You whispered his name, your hand slowly coming to rest against his forehead. A startled gasp left your lips once you felt just how hot his skin was.

Immediately you felt your instincts kick in. Wrapping an arm around his waist, and guiding his to wrap around your shoulders, you managed to lift him up and half-dragged him inside your room. Thank goodness your balcony was adjacent to your room.

During your little trip, he barely stirred, and you could feel the heat from his fever against your own body, causing you to frown in concern. As you laid him down on your bed, he was hit with a coughing fit, one that had him curling up on his side as each cough seemed to wreck his entire body. All you could do was thump his back lightly, trying your best to reassure him somehow.

Once the cough subsided, you quickly poured him a glass of water. He seemed to have gained some consciousness, as he gulped down the water greedily when you pressed the glass to his lips. His eyes were still closed, and sweat had begun to line his skin as he fell back against your soft pillows once more.

His breathing was deep, and you couldn't help but feel dread settle into your stomach as you quickly grabbed the thermometer gun from your bathroom cabinet and took his temperature.

He was running a rather high fever, and from the way he breathed through his mouth rather then his nose, told you that perhaps he had a cold as well. You just hoped it was nothing more then that. If it was anything serious, how would you get him to a doctor. You couldn't just walk into a clinic with a boy in a Spiderman costume and ask to see the doctor.

Besides, you doubted he would want anyone to know who he was.

So you decided to tackle this situation yourself.

With newfound determination, you quickly went into your kitchen and within minutes you were whipping up some chicken noodle soup. You always bought the ones that came in cups and only needed some hot water. You didn't have time to make one from scratch. You also grabbed some medicine for fever and cold from your bathroom cupboard and made your way back to your surprise patient.

Setting the tray down, you leaned over the still figure. You wish you knew his name, as you gently shook his shoulder and whispered.

"Hey, I brought you some soup and medicine. You should eat something." You urged softly. Thankfully, he stirred, mumbling something under his breath as his eyelids flickered. You had made sure to only keep the light of the lamp on, so it was a little dark in the room.

"Gwen?" He mumbled, even that one word slurring slightly as he tried his best to sit up. "You're here."

Gwen? Who was she? His girlfriend maybe? Whatever, if he thought she was Gwen, maybe she could get him to sit up and eat. And though you didn't like lying, you knew it was necessary. So you smiled softly at him and nodded. "Yeah! I'm here. Come on, sit up for me and eat."

He barely had any strength to do that himself, but you helped him sit up, propping multiple pillows behind him as you did. He barely opened his eyes once, making you wander if perhaps his eyes felt hot and heavy because of the fever. He sniffed, confirming your suspicion of him having a cold.

Since he made no move to pick up the soup bowl, you settled the tray onto your lap, and slowly began to spoon the broth into his waiting mouth. You couldn't help but let your eyes wander over his face as you fed him. He was handsome, in an adorable kind of way. His brown hair stuck out in all directions, but that was probably because he had been wearing the mask for a long time. During the entire feeding session, he did not say anything, but he did manage to finish the whole bowl, making you wander just how hungry he had been.

Once done, he let his head fall back against the pillows. "So tired." He whispered hoarsely. You nodded. "Thats alright, you can go to sleep once you've had some medicine." You quickly held the two pills out for him to take. A covered hand slowly took the pills, placing them inside his mouth which he then chased down by drinking an entire glass of water.

Satisfied you made to pick up the dirty dishes when his hand darted out to grasp your wrist. You let out a gasp of surprise, eyes dropping to his hand, before lifting to meet his near desperate gaze.

"Stay." He whispered in such a broken tone that you couldn't help but feel your own heart ache for the poor thing.

Nodding, you set the dishes back down. "I'll stay." You promised, your wrist sliding out of his hand only so you could wrap both your hands around his, holding it between your palms as you sat down on the bed next to him. He gave a sleepily smile, eyes already closing as the medicine began to kick in.

Once he was asleep, you couldn't find it in your heart to leave, so you fell asleep right beside him, propped up against the headboard, something that you would come to regret the next morning.

————————–

ACHOO!

A loud sneeze was what startled you awake the next morning. Instantly your back protested from where it had been against the wooden headboard the entire night. You blinked in the light of the morning sun as it streamed through your still open balcony. It was another blustery autumn day, which meant lots of wind.

Which could not be good for your patient.

Events from last night flooded your brain and you quickly stood up to check on your patient. Who seemed to have woken himself up by sneezing. You quickly shut the balcony door, cutting off the cold air. Once his little sneezing fit was over, Spiderman managed to blink away whatever sleep was left in his eyes and assessed the room around him.

You watched as his gaze darted from one object to the next, before finally finding your still figure next to the balcony door. Giving a sheepish grin you gave a little wave. "Hi."

The hero lifted a hand to his head, rubbing his temples. "Is this a dream? Am I dreaming?" He asked, his voice still nasally. It seemed he was still fighting his cold. You gave a sympathetic smile as you shook your head. "No, not a dream. I found you passed out on my balcony. You had a high fever and I brought you in." Reaching out you pressed your hand against his forehead. "Well your fever is down from what it was last night."

Your gaze met his, and you quickly realized just how blatantly you were touching him. Without his permission. Your eyes met his, the surprise of the situation clearly written across his face. A horrified look overcame your features as you quickly pulled your hand back. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry! I shouldn't have....." Your eyes dropped to the temperature gun, which you quickly lifted and aimed at his forehead. "Your fever has gone down, guess the medicines worked."

With a groan, he moved to stand up, but it seemed he wasn't steady on his feet, as he seemed to stumble would've fallen if you hadn't reached out to catch him. "Easy. Easy." You whispered in a soothing voice, helping him sit back down. "You still have a fever, and I'm sure that cold isn't helping with your head." Your eyes assessed his face for a few brief seconds before you looked away.

"I know this is not the most ideal situation, but I won't mind if you stay here and recover. And if you do stay here, it will help put my mind at ease as well. Otherwise I'd probably end up chewing my fingernails off with worry." You admitted with an awkward laugh. Spiderman continued to stare at you with those big brown eyes. You could feel a blush starting to creep along your skin as you nervously fidgeted in place.

"H-how about I fix us some breakfast? And I can get you a change of clothes if you'd like Spiderman?" You continued to babble, moving to the dresser that stood against a wall. You were sure you had a couple baggy shirts and a pair of sweatpants that would fit him.

"Peter."

You spun around, eyes wide, the shock and surprise clearly written on your face as you stared at him. He offered you a small smile from where he sat on the bed. "My name is Peter."

Slowly, a bright yet shy smile pulled at your lips as you gave a small nod. "I'm Y/n." You quickly introduced yourself. There was a moment of silence, where the two of you simply looked at one another, before you cleared your throat and turned retrieved the appropriate clothes.

"Here, you get changed, while I make breakfast. Just try to move slowly." You advised as you held the clothes out for him to take. "Fresh towels are in the cupboard beside the sink. And if you need any help, just yell for me alright?"

His lips parted, as if he were about to say something. But whatever it was got lost along the way, as a loud sneeze echoed in the room, prompting you to give a sympathetic laugh and hand him a tissue.

"Bless you." With that you stepped out of the room to make the hero some breakfast.

————————–

Spiderman, Peter, stayed at your place for a couple days. Once the fever had gone down, the sneezing had increased tenfold, and you had to make two runs to the store at the corner of the street to get some more tissues. Peter had been extremely apologetic about making you work, but you waved him off.

"You keep the entire city safe and barely get a thank you, I think I can buy a couple rolls of tissues for you." You had teased him, prompting a grin to pull at his lips.

The first day he mostly spent resting and sleeping, recovering from the toll the fever had taken on his body. On the second day he was well enough to sit up and speak to you.

He explained how he had started to feel dizzy while swinging near your apartment building and knowing he was about to faint, he had swung down on your balcony, before passing out.

"Well lucky for you I'm used to having injured or sick strays come across my balcony. You aren't the first one I've brought in to help. Though you are the first person, and hopefully my last." He had laughed at that, before asking you to relay the past patients you had had over the months you had lived at the apartment.

The two of you had talked almost non-stop and it was at your insistence that he rest that he got a few hours of sleep during midday.

'You know its been a long time since I spoke to someone like this." He said on the third night of his stay. He was looking much better, and had even managed a shower earlier. "Don't tell me you don't have any friends." You teased, setting down a fresh cup of hot tea and handing one to him. He took it with a smile and shrugged.

"I do, but I'm not that close with them. Honestly, I was only ever close to one person." He admitted, looking down at the liquid in the cup. "Who?" You asked, settling at the foot of the bed as Coral curled up into your lap.

Peter cleared his throat before taking a small sip of his tea. "Her name was Gwen." Your eyes widened and you gave a nod. "Yeah, you did mention her once or twice when I was bringing you inside. And when I was feeding you the soup." Suddenly, the use of past tense registered in your brain and you frowned.

"Wait, was?" You asked, a feeling of dread settling in your stomach at what he would say next.

Where there had been laughter just moments ago, there was now a deep soul-aching sorrow as he met your gaze and gave a small sad smile. "She died. A couple years ago." He admitted with a catch in his voice.

"Oh." You couldn't help reach out and grasp his hand, giving it a squeeze. "I'm so sorry Peter." You whispered. He looked back up at you, and this time neither of you looked away for a long time.

————————–

He left after five days.

No goodbye, no seeing him off. Just a small post it note that said he would visit soon.

You kept the note on the shade of your bedside lamp, to remind yourself that what had happened wasn't a dream.

————————–

Since that day, Peter had dropped by your apartment many times. His place was just a couple blocks away from your own, but he would mostly drop by after patrolling the city. The two of you would sit on the balcony, share a beverage and talk.

It became such a regular occurrence that you actually bought a couple of recliners and installed a cute awning above the balcony so the two of you could have some shade if it ever rained. And you added some potted flowers as well. It was all very picturesque and magical, and you had blushed with pleasure when Peter had commented on it.

The one time he came back with a bleeding lip, bruised cheekbone and a cut on his forehead, you added a first aid kit to your list of necessities as well. You had patched him up and when he jokingly said you should kiss it better, you caught yourself by surprise when you actually leaned in and quickly kissed his cheek.

The two of you could barely stop smiling and blushing as you sat side by side, simply basking in one another's presence. At one point you felt his fingers brush against your own, and you allowed him to take your hand and interlock your fingers together.

————————–

A few months after first meeting Peter, you were anxiously pacing the small balcony. According to the news Spiderman had to face off against a rather deadly villain, and from the reports it didn't seem good. You were worried out of your mind, and had sent Peter a message to come to the balcony if he could once he was done dealing with the villain.

Finally feeling tired, you allowed your body to drop into one of the recliners, your eyelids heavy with sleep. And despite your best efforts to keep them open, you slowly began to drift off.

The brush of a hand against your cheek startled you awake, and your eyes blinked open to stare up at the injured yet smiling figure of Peter Parker. "Hey Nightingale." He greeted, using the nickname he had given you on account of your always taking care of him. He had actually named you after a famous nurse.

You let out a sound of utter relief as you jumped from your seat and wrapped your arms around him. And as you embraced him, you couldn't help yourself as you pressed your lips against his. He caught you as if he had been expecting you, matching the enthusiasm of your kiss, which was the epitome of sweet, gentle yet deep, charged with every ounce of emotion the two of you felt.

And though you would later tell him off for worrying you like that, and he would apologize and hug you while wiping away your tears, for now the two of you were utterly content.

#tasm! peter parker x y/n #tasm! pater x reader #tasm! peter parker x reader #tasm!peter x y/n #peter parker x reader tasm #the amazing spiderman

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shadowbends · 1 year

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DEEP DISH!! ROTTMNT FANFIC RECS (OVER 15,000 WORDS)

It’s me again, folks. Do you enjoy good fanfic? We’re reaching the end of the line, but I’m here to hook you up! Whether you’re new to the fandom and diving into the ROTTMNT fic scene for the first time, or a veteran looking for content you might have missed, my hope for this project is to point you to something you’ll enjoy!

This rec list is the last of three and focuses on longfic in the fandom, with a word count reaching anywhere over 15,000 words. You’ll find a variety of fic here, from novellas to full-blown novels—some complete, but many still ongoing! Though it may be heresy on the streets of New York, this is the list you want when you’re craving something really thick to sink your teeth into: a sit-down experience exploding with flavor. Don’t have time for that, actually? Then consider checking out my previous rec lists as well!

NEW YORK STYLE, BABY!! ROTTMNT FANFIC RECS (UNDER 5,000 WORDS)

STUFFED CRUST!! ROTTMNT FANFIC RECS (BETWEEN 5,000 AND 15,000 WORDS)

DEEP DISH!! ROTTMNT FANFIC RECS (OVER 15,000 WORDS) — You’re here!

If you enjoy any of these fics, make sure to reblog and spread the love! Don’t forget to check out the other works by these authors; many of them have written multiple wonderful stories not featured here that are just as good. Additionally, consider leaving the authors a comment! I’m not always the best at that myself, but fic writers work hard and deserve all the love in the world.

With all of that said, it’s time for the recs. Let’s dig in!

Quick note: On previous lists, I separated the recs by the general time period they took place in. I’m not going to that here, largely because—uh. Well. Nearly all of them are post-movie! This fandom’s sure been active in the last couple of months, huh? Given that, I’ll be sorting them by a broader method, but yes. If you’ve not seen the movie, this is your warning that spoilers abound in the recs below.

➤ ➤ ➤ CANON COMPLIANT

The Aftermath by Starrcrossrose

57,262 words, 9/? chapters (last updated 11/03/2022)

Character Focus: Everyone (Leo-centric)

Genre: Angst, Family Drama, Hurt/Comfort

It would’ve been easier to say what he was feeling, but he honestly didn’t know how. He wasn’t sure why, either. He knew his brothers would understand and comfort him and be there if he wanted them to be. Hell, Donnie’s surprise sleepover and everyone showing up for it in the living room had been proof of that.

Yet he still couldn’t do it. He’d tried to talk to Donnie and the pain on his brother’s face had been enough to make him never want to speak about things ever again. He didn’t want them to hurt the way he did; he wanted them to be okay and normal and happy.

You know they aren’t happy. Why do you keep pretending to be fine when the others aren’t either?

Leo squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face into his knees as he pulled himself into an even tighter ball. He wanted to go into his shell as much as possible, but at the same time, a searing energy was making his legs feel like he could run or swim for miles. He could just go and go and go until he collapsed.

Maybe… maybe that'll help.

Set a few months after the movie, Leo struggles with the long recovery time needed for his injuries to heal, both physical and mental. Unable to talk about it, he turns to unhealthy coping methods instead. The rest of the family is doing no better from the fallout of the invasion, however, with each of their own stresses mounting the longer things go unaddressed. That is until Chapter 8, when things come to a head...

There are a lot of post-movie recovery fics out there, each one unique. The Aftermath’s hallmark has to be in its slowburn foreshadowing, and excellent character writing. Throughout many chapters, we get a glimpse into the heads of just about every beloved character the series has to offer, including April and Casey Jr. Little clues to what’s going to go wrong are set up early on, but just like the characters, I was blind to how serious of a turn things were about to take until the problem finally reared its head. This fic does a good job of showing how important it is to talk to one another, even if it’s hard.

Aftershocks by Katiemonz, McBethins, octolingkiera, theashemarie, and this_kills_the_man

153,543 words, 12/15 chapters (last updated 11/06/2022)

Character Focus: Everyone

Genre: Family Drama, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

“Good game,” Leo said to Donnie, smiling at Mikey in the same sly way as before.

“Thank you, Leonardo, but as I’ve said Uno is—”

“But you still lost,” Leo continued. He swept the cards up and began to straighten them for another shuffle.

“Second place is hardly—”

“Honorary title,” Leo cut in again. “Mikey won, so we owe him.”

“Owe him what? I have—”

“Keep your money, Don. In this game we’re dealing in secrets.”

“Secrets.”

“Yeah, specifically what’s up in that brilliant, big head of yours after all that Krang shit. C’mon. You owe him one secret.”

Picking up from the end of the invasion but spanning the weeks after, the day’s been won, but no one came out of the Krang’s attack completely unscathed. There’s a lot of trauma to unpack here—unfortunately, talking about it is the last thing just about anyone in the family wants to do.

Another recovery fic, Aftershocks is unique for being a story told from five perspectives (the boys and April), as written by five different authors. As the brothers avoid each other, each arc’s events end up having quite the different take depending on whose POV you’re currently following, even in moments where the same scene is being retold. Truly an ensemble fic that focuses on everyone’s trauma, I’ve especially enjoyed that April was included. As the longest fic on this list, Aftershocks is heavy on introspection and exposition, but the characterization always manages to shine through in the details. I especially love the scene I quoted above; “Trauma Uno” is totally a concept I could see the boys coming up with.

A Tale of Spirits by unorthodoxx

47,202 words, 6/? chapters (last updated 11/06/2022)

Character Focus: Ensemble

Genre: Adventure, Fantasy, Crossover

"I need to find my brothers," Raph mumbles. "That's if they're even here."

"And then head back to the spirit world."

"It's not the spirit world!"

"Right," Toph grins. "This so-called 'other dimension' without benders."

"There are no benders in my world."

Toph reaches and places a hand on scaled skin. Huge muscles twitch under her palm and the spirit stops. "No benders?"

"Yes!"

She nods. "Like the spirit world."

Raph throws his arms up with a scream and Toph cackles.

For a crossover, this fic requires quite a bit of investment in the second fandom to follow; you’ll want to have seen all of ATLA Season 1, and potentially even Season 2 if you want to keep track of what’s going on, especially for moments when episodes are retold, but with the turtles added in. Additionally, the POV is solely with the ATLA characters. Is this fic worth recommending despite that? Abso-freaking-lutely. This might be one of the most creative crossovers I’ve seen in any fandom, and I’m absolutely hooked.

The plot is deceptively straightforward—the four turtles mysteriously appear in the world of Avatar: The Last Airbender, separated and with no idea where the brothers are. Their arrival changes everything, with the people of the world seeing them as powerful spirits and guardians. I won’t spoil who ends up with who beyond what’s shown in the excerpt, but it paves the way for fascinating political intrigue and character development on all sides, our fave turtles included. Donatello’s position is perhaps the most fascinating for what may come of it, but everyone’s new groupings have been an utter delight. The banter feels charming and wholly in-character, and I can’t wait to read more. This is definitely a fic to keep your eye on, if you’ve not found it already.

Brother Dearest by Wardenov

69,666 words, 22/? chapters (last updated 11/03/2022)

Character Focus: Everyone (Donnie-centric)

Genre: Drama, Sci-Fi, Horror

“You came here looking for answers, weakling, because you messed with powers far beyond your understanding.” “I’m not-” She doesn’t let him continue. “Our brother may be dead, but the glory of our kind is that we are never truly defeated, not as long as our mark remains.” And as if to make her point, she raises a tentacle and delicately touches the glass - tendrils spawning from the point of contact, rapidly expanding across the surface like a frenzied contagion before freezing in place and crumbling under the extreme cold. “We cull the weak and assimilate those worthy, we bestow the blessing of Krang upon those who deserve it. You-” she spits, remaining tentacles scrambling to climb the glass where Donnie stood, “-you have stolen our gift.”

He says nothing.

“But,” she continues, sadistic smile returning, “your transgressions have ensured our survival. Our continued conquest. Whether you like it or not.”

Set a few months after the Krang’s invasion, things have seemingly gone back to normal for the Hamato family. Everyone’s doing their best to get by, and back to familiar routines and hobbies. Donnie, though? His newest project throws all of that into new chaos, showing that no matter how well-meaning, there are some things man (and turtle) was never meant to tamper with.

I’m absolutely feral for this fic, and desperate to impress upon anyone seeing this why they should read it. It might be one of the very best fics the fandom has to offer. Seriously. You want plot and worldbuilding on par with the Season 3 we never got? Exploration of the Hidden City, and the Council of Heads that run it? High stakes, suspense, action, and family drama? Look no further, fam. Brother Dearest has it all, and every character (even Mayhem!) has a big role to play. April’s sleuthing, Mikey further develops his new mystic powers, Leo has some heavy choices to make as leader, and Raph isn’t as home free after the Krang invasion as he thought. Make no mistake, though, the star of this show is Donnie in his unwitting supervillain arc. Will his family be able to save him from himself? Only time and new chapters can tell, but this fic dug its claws into my heart and won’t let go, it’s so good.

Drift and Chemical Reaction by Bronte

26,949 words, 7/7 chapters (split between two fics)

Character Focus: Donatello & Leonardo, Ensemble

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Family Bonding

"Piña colada?"

"What the—?" Donnie cuts him off before he can finish, cramming a green and yellow striped straw between his teeth. Leo wears some of it, the yellow, smoothie-like drink dribbling down his plastron. "Wait, where did you—what is this?"

Donnie smirks. "Pineapple, coconut, rum. A taste of the tropics."

Leo blinks and glances down apprehensively at the ‘Better Late than Ugly’ mug in his hand. "...does this have alcohol in it?"

"Does this have—pfft, I would never. Do you know who I am? Donatello, upstanding citizen of Manhattan proper?" Donnie barks a laugh, tossing his head back before leveling him with a look. "Of course there is. As the Bard himself said, self-love, my brother, is not so vile a sin as self-neglect."

As two sides of the same story, these fics are being recommended together! Set after the movie, Drift is told from Leonardo’s POV, both during and after leaving the prison dimension, where Chemical Reaction tells the story from Donatello’s POV.

The real charm of this fic, though? It has to be the banter. Reading this, I could totally hear the character’s voices in my head, which was only made better once the piña coladas came in. You think the twins are disasters; just wait until they’re drunk. These fics would be worth reccing on their own for that scene alone, but there’s actually a little bit of plot involved as well as Leo struggles to regain his ninpo, while Donnie... Well, something weird is going on with Donnie. Needless to say, both of these are a great read!

Every Night the Longest Day by ashtreelane

33,731 words, 13/? chapters (last updated 10/27/2022)

Character Focus: Leonardo & Family

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Medical Drama

“What’s wrong, Leo?” Raph asks from where he is curled around him, the snapper’s chin nestled on the top of his head.

“Can’t sleep,” Leo mutters. He smells worry, sudden and sharp, and when he opens his eyes Raph has whipped around to look at Donnie, eyes blown wide, looking for an answer. Donnie is looking at him too, his eyebrows furrowed in concern.

“We- okay. Raph, don't freak out. This is to be expected, remember?” Donnie is saying, his voice just barely on the wrong side of too calm. He’s freaking out too. Why? What’s happening? Oh, he’s being addressed now, he should probably pay attention.

“Leo, you were cursed six days ago to be unable to fall asleep. Your memory is suffering because of it, but we’re all right here, okay?”

Leo kind of knows what they’re talking about. He remembers it, he remembers that it happened, but the… events are… foggy. What- what had they been talking about?

“What are we talking about?”

When Leo is cursed to be unable to sleep, he and the family must wait for a new moon to break the spell through a ritual. Unfortunately, that new moon is nearly two weeks off. As Leo is forced to stay awake for days on end, his mental and physical condition quickly begins to deteriorate. Through it all, Leo’s family stays by his side to help him through it, beautifully balancing hurt with comfort through the beginning. As the story goes on and Leo’s condition worsens, though... Well. Things aren’t looking good, let’s say.

I have such a soft spot for this fic, though. It’s grown quite popular lately, so many of you reading this list may have already heard it, but there was a point when I was following early on where the author was debating shifting the POV around or sticking with Leo as an unreliable narrator. I was really proud of them for sticking to their guns and going with the latter, and I think it’s paid off in spades. The way the author experiments with formatting styles and missing scenes really makes the fic stand apart from the standard whump setup, and turns it into something akin to low-key psychological horror. If you’re into that sort of thing it’s a lot of fun; even if you’re not, the moments of family bonding peppered throughout the fic are so wholesome, and definitely worth your time.

Fallout by GauntletKnight

50,677 words, 20/? chapters (last updated 11/05/2022)

Character Focus: Everyone

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Family Drama

“We are here. We are alive. Raph and Mikey are downstairs. Dad and April and Casey are on the way. You’re alright, Leo. You’re safe. We are all safe. No one is here to hurt you…or us.” There is no special inflection to his voice, but his words are firm, unmoving. Leo shakes for a moment, squeezing Donnie’s hand…and then he blinks, his eyes clear and he tries to take a breath.

Violent coughs wrack his body as he tries to dislodge the blood that had built up from his sobs. Bright red spatters down his front and across Donnie’s hands as he holds onto Leo’s arm. Each breath is like nails on a chalkboard.

Draxum steps in instantly, checking the monitor for vitals. “I’ve gotta get to that punctured lung…or else getting this blood transfusion in him isn’t going to do anything.” He turns to Donnie, holding out plastic gloves, “Can you-”

Leo shakes his head, finally getting a rattling breath into his chest. “N-no…Don’s…not great with this kind of thing. S’ok…he’s so good at everything else he had to leave some for the rest of us.” He smiles up at Donnie like Donnie hung the damn moon and stars, his eyes still shining with painful tears. It’s…a weirdly genuine moment between the two of them…

Donnie doesn’t like it.

Set between the final fight and grabbing a slice in the movie, this fic follows the immediate aftermath of pulling Leo out of the prison dimension with a bit more urgency and attention to everyone’s injuries.

As I’ve said before, every movie recovery fic I’ve found has their hallmark, and I’d say Fallout’s is its heart and emotion. By focusing on the aftermath of the battle where everyone’s stresses are still running high, there’s a lot going on here, and it makes for some tense, but evocative moments. The story is lightly focused on Leo’s mental state especially, but everyone is going through it and as the POV shifts every chapter, each character gets some focus as they work through their injuries and messy feelings. Fallout is very satisfying read, and one I often come back to over and over.

hamartia by Punable

40,364 words, 9/? chapters (last updated 10/30/2022)

Character Focus: Donatello & Family

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort

It felt nothing like how he imagined dying would feel.

Donatello was a man of science, so it would have been foolish of him to have not, over the years, devised theories around what results certain situations would generate, what or who they might take out of commission, and what he would need to do personally in order to gain the best possible outcome. He would sometimes note down how he believed these situations might affect him or his brothers, both physically or mentally - he wasn’t an expert on emotions, far from it, but he could at least logically assume that getting, say, struck by lightning (one of his planned-for possibilities) would leave its own traumatic scar on any man or turtle that happened to experience it, so he’d dragged in April for those certain emotional areas and promptly abandoned her as a research partner when she’d told him he was being obsessive. He was not obsessive, just thorough.

He couldn’t help but feel as though some of that research time may have been wasted, though, as he lay on his side, his newest project slash rework shattered into almost unsalvageable pieces on the floor across from him. (And really, that felt almost like the harshest blow - how was anyone except him supposed to salvage that hunk of junk? Was that all that he was leaving behind?)

He felt it had been time wasted, maybe, because dying didn’t feel at all like the soft, slowing breaths of passing peacefully into sleep, or the fast tight gasping of someone going out from a bullet wound. If anything, it felt like he was breathing too deeply, every breath filling his whole body and stretching out every wound and puncture and fracture, oxygen making his head light (or maybe that was the blood loss). He didn’t feel at peace, and he certainly didn’t feel as scared as he thought he should’ve been, as he had read he should have been.

Mostly, it just felt like an inconvenience.

Donnie almost dies, and that’s just the start of this angsty tale. What follows is an interesting exploration of what Donatello thinks of himself and his role in the team, and his family’s growing concerns when he won’t give himself time to recover. Donnie’s brush with death has lasting consequences, and a large part of the fic is dedicated both to how much they affect him and how long he can hide it from his family (and the audience). Once the truth comes out, though? Oof.

The newfound disability is handled well, imo, and you really feel for everyone involved. There’s a lot about mental health that the author just does really well in general, actually. The focus on family and everyone’s concerns for their brother is where this fic really shines, though, and there’s a lot of emotion that hits just right. Basically, the hurt is done so well, I’m looking forward to when we get to more comfort.

i go there with you by bobtheacorn

21,649 words, 15/? chapters (last updated 11/04/2022)

Character Focus: Everyone

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Humor

"But seriously," Donnie says seriously, brandishing his tablet screen above Mikey's head and pointing at it, "I cannot emphasize enough how important it is that you be Very Honest when I ask you to scale your pain using this -" He cuts his eyes toward Raph, who grins. "Emoji Scale. Which dramatization would you say you find the most relatable at the moment?"

"Okay, so defo… this guy," Leo says. He thinks he manages to lift his finger but that's all the juice he's got. "On the… left."

"That would be the thumbs-up emoji, Leo," Raph says cautiously.

"Awww," Mikey gushes, "Is that one because you love us?"

"Hang on," Leo says around another small huff of maybe-laughter, "You… can't prove anything. But also…" He moves his finger again. "Also this guy on the… on the far r-right. Like, for-real for real."

"Oh, the sad-angry-crying emoji, fantastic," Donnie says with a bit more pep, tossing the tablet and turning to Splinter, who's closest to the monitor, "Papa, would you do Leo a huge favor and smash that morphine button, please? Like, right now, immediately."

Set immediately after the invasion. This fic is a series of interconnected one-shots originally written for Whumptober, but by Chapter 9 breaks into its own thing. The whump remains a focus, but it’s tempered by a good dose of comfort and humor as well, which the author is a master of.

If you want a recovery fic after the events of the movie that matches the feeling of the show, i go there with you is the fic to start with. The characterization and banter are spot on, as is the emotional whiplash. All of the characters gets some love and introspection in this one too, which is always fun.

Now That’s What I Call A Vacation! by WayWardWatson

56,238 words, 9/? chapters (last updated 11/06/2022)

Character Focus: Splinter & Family

Genre: Family Bonding, Adventure, Hurt/Comfort

Splinter turned his attention back to Big Mama, the flirtatious mood from earlier dissipating. “I am calling in your favor.”

It was like he had slapped her with his rat tail with how she reared back in visible disgust. Her fangs clicked in irritation and she scuttled further down, closer to where Splinter was standing. “Remind me, when have I ever owed you a measly-weasly favor?”

“When you misused demon armor for profit that nearly resulted in the end of human and yokai kind alike?” Splinter evenly said. “Oh, and the time I rubbed your feet, all eight of them, when you were on bedrest.”

“I thought that was an act of love.”

“Kindness.” He corrected because his heart hurt too much when she said love. “I was being kind. Though, if you want,” Again, his voice dipped into a purr, splaying out his arms wide in open invitation. “You could be kind enough to give me and my family a free round trip to Japan? I know you can do it.”

More scuttling as a low hiss escaped her maw. “That is a big, dimbly favor to ask.”

“I thought we were calling those acts of lo- kindness?”

“Why,” She drew the word out as she finally reached the bottom and pressed her broach. Suddenly, a swirl of light engulfed Big Mama and, with a whoosh of mystic energy that smelt like nutmeg, he watched as her stature began to diminish. Just as quickly, the light fractured and then separated into small motes of bioluminescent dust, casting a dim, golden glow around them. Now in human form, Big Mama stepped in close enough to touch. “Do you want to go to Japan?”

Without thinking, Splinter’s eyes trailed down then up and he swallowed. His heart was beginning to pick up, but certainly not from fear. He took a moment to gather himself. “My children need a vacation.”

Splinter takes one look at the S2 finale and the movie and decides that’s it, this family needs a break. Deals are made, mystic disguise brooches are acquired, itineraries are made, and with that, the family (including April!) are off on an exciting vacation to Japan! As with all scenarios involving the Hamato Clan, however, nothing goes so simply.

You’re getting so much bang for your buck picking up this fic. A family trip to Japan is charming in and of itself—and the author has done so much research on the country that some passages feels like taking a tour of your own—but this fic actually has a lot going on for it. How they even get to Japan involves some fun mystic worldbuilding, and the cloaking brooches open the door to interesting commentary on body dysphoria. And of course, things take quite a turn when the fam runs into a figure from Splinter’s past who has questions he struggles to answer. A refreshing story with creative ideas, Now That’s What I Call A Vacation! also has an excellent grasp on all of the characters, in and out of vacation mode. It’s a darling read.

odd man out by cosmocrow

22,676 words, 4/? chapters (last updated 10/29/2022)

Character Focus: Future Leonardo & Leonardo, Future Leonardo & Casey, The Hamato Family

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Family Drama

“Master Splinter,” he greets, almost impressed by the fact that his voice isn’t wavering like he feared it would. “I’m sorry for barging in– like. Barging into your timeline? I– I can explain.” He really can’t, but that isn’t the point.

Splinter only raises a hand. “Don’t worry, Casey has brought us up to speed.” He turns to deposit the tray onto a cart, before folding his hands into the sleeve of his robe. Leonardo can feel those yellow eyes look him up and down as he straightens up again. Splinter takes a step closer, craning his short neck to be able to look Leonardo in the face. Melancholy dances on his features, but the rat smiles nonetheless.

“Look at you, you’ve gotten so tall, Leonardo.” The soft usage of his name almost makes Leonardo stumble. He hasn’t heard it from his father’s mouth in a long, long time. A familiar burn starts to prickle within his eyes, so he starts blinking in order to quell the itch, pressing his lips together, so his mouth won’t wobble. He isn’t sure why he’s trying – he knows that Splinter knows.

His father always knew everything.

Splinter steps even closer, lifting a hand from within the confines of his sleeves. Like a magnet, Leonardo bends down, so his dad can cup the side of his face. Gently, the old rat rubs his thumb into his cheek, just below his mask, over his red markings. Splinter’s sad little smile falls, and he tugs down the blue mask over Leonardo’s face.

“But,” he says softly, “you look so tired, my son.”

Several months after the movie’s conclusion, a familiar face from Casey’s averted bad future appears, just as everyone else is startling to settle back in. Predictably, this throws everything into confusion.

Tl;dr, Future Leonardo is sent back into the past and has to adjust back to a world sans apocalypse, and the family takes him in with open arms. Things between him and younger Leo are a lot more tenuous, but there’s a resolution early on that feels very true to their personalities—one less sure of himself, and the other who’s learned his lessons the hard way—that resonated strongly with me and made me fall in love with the story. Add to that some genuinely heartwarming moments with the family bonding, and you’re in for a good, if bittersweet time.

Recoil by unorthodoxx

63,236 words, 10/10 chapters

Character Focus: Ensemble

Genre: Action, Team Bonding, Angst, Crossover

“Hey guys,” he yells. “You might want to see this.”

It doesn’t take long for the three of them to spill into his lab. Leo comes in first and drapes himself across the back of Donnie’s chair. “What’s up? You find the secret ingredient to Luenzo’s Pizza yet?”

“No,” Donnie scowls. “They’re locked down tighter than Fort Knox, but it’ll fall soon. They always do. No fellas,” He enlarges the email, “We’ve been invited to a meet-up of sorts.”

Raph’s hand settles heavily on his shoulder as the larger turtle leans in to read. “Dear Genius Built…….Talk about…….agree to meet…..love…”

“IRONMAN!!?!?” Mikey shouts. “THE Ironman wants to meet us!”

“Wow,” Raph whistles. “The Avengers. That’s some top-level hero stuff.”

ROTTMNT crosses over with the MCU! Set in a world where both universes exist in the same setting, this fic takes place after the Krang Invasion, but fairly into the MCU’s history, long before the superheroes have their falling out. So long as you have any familiarity with the first Avengers movie, you’ll be able to follow the story fine, as it’s straightforward: the appearance of the Krang was as abrupt as their defeat, and Tony Stark can’t let sleeping dogs lie. After uncovering the turtles’ involvement, an in-person meeting is arranged to handle the fate of the Krang Key.

Most of this fic is just a fun excuse to let the ROTTMNT characters bounce off the MCU characters, and it’s fun to see who gets along and who doesn’t. That’s the thing I love in particular about this story—the author is true enough to their characterization that not everyone is friends by the end, in a way that makes whole sense. The Avengers are disasters themselves, after all. The plot of handling the key is done exceptionally well too, and there’s a lot of high octane action at the end that’s quite thrilling. If you’re looking for a good time, you’ll fine it in Recoil, and if you enjoyed it, there’s more where that came from! The author has planned out several other stories set later on in the same series, the first of which (where the turtles meet Spiderman) is already out. So keep an eye on that!

this kind of weather by ihaveathingforpink

21,526 words, 2/4 chapters (last updated 09/18/2022)

Character Focus: Leonardo & Michelangelo, Raphael & Donatello, Ensemble

Genre: Action, Hurt/Comfort, Crossover

“Well, if it is business you seek, Krang has a proposition for you. There are two turtles Krang wishes for you to…remove from the board as their tenacity has proven to be as obstructive as it is predictable. For our plans to proceed, it’s too dangerous for either to remain alive.”

Takeshi takes another sip before asking, “Turtles? As in the ninja turtles that reside beneath the city, whom everyone pretends doesn’t exist? The people of New York won’t be pleased if I do anything to harm their heroes.”

“Oh, I want you to do more than simply harm them. First, they need to suffer.”

“Suffering costs extra. I don’t do anything for free.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“Yet you said two turtles when, last I checked, there’s four.”

“Ah, yes. They are of little concern to me. Krang only need you to get rid of two, and you must follow Krang's instructions precisely. Otherwise, you will fail. First, you will need to get rid of the little orange one; he may not look like much, but he’s one of the strongest mystic warriors of all time. I suggest you handle this one quickly—he can be quite slippery—but the blue one, Krang implores you to take your time.”

This story has one helluva hook. A surviving Krang puts a hit out on Mikey and Leo, and saying more than that would unfortunately spoil the twist of the first chapter. With just two chapters, though, this story is fascinating and deserves a lot more attention than it’s gotten. It has high stakes, great action, and is an emotional roller coaster that doesn’t let up. It’s also a bit of a crossover, though longstanding fans of the TMNT franchise will recognize these faces right away. That’s right, this is a crossover with Usagi Yojimbo! Besides characters of that series, though, there’s also a lot of familiar faces from previous TMNT series that Rise never got enough time to tackle, like Tiger Claw and Renet.

You can probably guess from the latter’s name that things are about to get timey-wimey up in here, and you’d be correct. There’s an absolutely killer plot at work here, emphasis on the killer, and whether they want to or not the turtles have to take a divide and conquer approach to it while at one of their lowest points. Seriously, check this one out.

Under Pressure by ParvumAutmaton

21,560 words, 4/4 chapters

Character Focus: The Boys & April

Genre: Suspense, Angst

“You know April, right?” The voice on the other end of the line asked. “You’re one of her gamer friends?”

Donnie blinked. The voice sounded familiar but that didn’t help him at the unholy hour where way too late morphed into way too early.

“And you are?”

“Her mother. Please, did she spend the night at your place?”

“No, she did not,” Donnie answered, forcing himself upright, his exhaustion evaporating with that question. “I believe she was planning on some extracurricular club activity yesterday afternoon. So we weren’t planning on seeing her.”

“I don’t suppose you know which club?”

“No, I do not.”

“Ok,” The waver Donnie heard in her voice implied that it wasn’t. “You will let me know if April gets in touch?”

“Of course Ms. O’Neil.”

The call ended.

Donnie stared at his phone.

One of the few fics on this list not set after the movie, this story takes place after the S2 finale on a dismal day when April goes missing. Investigating her disappearance leads the boys to a van and a lake, and an exploration on the dangers of cave diving.

As you can guess from that description, this fic has quite the creative setup that’s both atmospheric and suspenseful. Be sure to heed the tags because it does get dark, but it’s still a great read, and the turtles’ determination to find their sister pulls at the heartstrings.

➤ ➤ ➤ CANON DIVERGENT

big sister by Darth_Sunny

18,090 words, 6/? chapters (last updated 10/24/2022)

Character Focus: April & Family

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort

April O’Neil wasn’t an only child anymore. She had four younger brothers, whom she loved with all her heart, and who she’d burned the world down for if anything were to happen to them. She’d fight every ancient mystic evil the world would throw at her if it meant keeping them safe. And if she couldn’t be there for them at the moment, she’d be there for them in the aftermath. She was their big sister, their oldest and only sister. : was the self-proclaimed protector, but even he needed someone to protect him and to help protect their younger brothers.

So that’s why, when she watched the portal close up, slicing the Technodrome in half, stopping the Kraang for good, knowing that he was trapped back in that prison dimension, April O’Neil felt her heart break into hundreds, thousands, millions of little pieces.

This one’s a fic following April’s perspective on the end of the invasion, from Leo’s sacrifice, to picking up Casey, and reuniting with the boys. It mostly follows canon, but there is a fairly major change revealed partway through that makes it canon divergent from the movie’s ending. It’s unclear if other changes will follow, but just in case it’s being slotted in the canon divergent category all the same.

That’s not the focus, though. No, this fic is centered squarely on April and her relationship with the rest of the Hamato Clan. I love that it impresses how much April is a part of the family, and that the boys aren’t just her friends but her brothers, and that their pain is her pain. Watching the aftermath of the invasion unfold from her perspective is a fresh and evocative take.

Like Father Like Son by eternalglitch

132,982 words, 25/? chapters (last updated 11/02/2022)

Character Focus: Everyone (Leo-centric)

Genre: Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort

“Here, Boss!” Huginn darted back across the room, wings straining, as he carried a very… familiar…

“Uh, wait up, no,” Leo said, eyeing the blue object as Huginn dropped it into Draxum’s waiting hand. “Do you even know where that thing’s been? Have you properly washed it at least?”

Draxum’s roots suddenly shift, dragging Leo upright until he’s forced to stand on his tip-toes to have any sort of purchase. “I happened to have had it offered to me by the mutant that you call Meat Sweats,” Draxum said, admiring the collar (for that’s what it actually was, even if Leo had never called it that when it was just a gift from his brother) in the light. “He was quite helpful once I mentioned what I wanted to use it for.” Draxum started to approach, the collar held aloft.

“So, what,” Leo bit out. “You’re gonna stop me from saying my one-liners? Big whoop.”

“I think you’ll find,” Draxum coolly said. “That this has been modified to do so much more than that.”

This fic needs no introduction. In fact, there’s a high chance some of you heard of LFLS before they even saw Rise; I’ve heard of people who only watched the show just so they could read it! It’s the most popular fic in the fandom for a reason. If that’s scared you off, though, or if you’ve avoided it for other reasons, let me tell you why you should give it a chance.

The fic takes some of Rise’s best villains and settings, and explores the darker sides of them (do heed the warnings in the tags). Leo goes through the absolute wringer, but the effect his disappearance has on his family plays a central part of the story as well, with all of the brothers getting full blown introspection and character arcs. Donnie’s in particular hurts me. The emotions are high and the plot is juicy, with some of the tightest writing the fandom has to offer, including intelligent plans and dialogue. As far as hurt/comfort goes, this is definitely a slow burn with a lot of angst, but the author has promised a happy ending. Between that and consistent updates (it’s been going strong for two years), what more could you ask for?

Three Days to Live by Werepirechick

93,992 words, 13/13 chapters

Character Focus: April & The Boys

Genre: Cyberpunk, Action, Human AU

The heiress and former target lowers her hands, keeping them placidly by her sides. “K-tech is a vicious, unrelenting company,” she says, glasses gleaming in the room’s light as she lifts her chin in defiance. “The people who run it are the same. They don’t let people get away, and they don’t leave loose ends. You were all on their shit list as much as I am, the second you signed on.”

Leo shifts his stance, tightening his grip on his gun. “So what are you proposing?” he asks coolly.

“Like y’all said. I’m the heiress to the company. In three days I’m going to walk into a courtroom, sign the papers that frees K-tech from the control of my guardian, and walk out the richest, most powerful person in North America.” O’Neil smiles bitterly. “That is, if I can survive the next seventy-two hours. That’s where you come in.”

“You want us to guard you,” Raph states.

Ohhh, this fic is an absolute gem. You can’t say no to a good Human AU in this fandom to start, but to top it off with a cyberpunk twist? Trust me, this is a match made in heaven. The plot kicks off when the boys—hitmen in this universe—are hired to take out April O’Neil, an heiress to one of the world’s largest tech companies. When things take a turn, she makes them a deal: protect her for three days instead, and she’ll make them rich beyond their wildest dreams.

The plot that follows is filled with danger, intrigue, and high octane action. The world is incredibly thought out and immersive, and makes for a great way to work ROTTMNT’s mystic powers into a new genre. The banter, though. If you’ve read any of Werepirechick’s other fics, you’d know that’s their specialty, and it’s no different here in Three Days to Live. While on the run from the powers seeking to destroy her, the boys and April bond and their friendship is perfection. The series also blends in characters from other iterations of the franchise, but it’s not too distracting, and for the most part remains firmly rooted in the Rise style. Do yourself a favor, and give this one a read!

Posted: 11/06/2022

#rottmnt #rottmnt fic #rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #fanfic recs #the fics got longer #thus so did my commentary

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vanwritesfan-fiction · 7 months

Text

Jack and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week

Part Two

Warnings: angst, language

The last month had been agonizingly slow for you. The little voice in the back of your mind was a manipulative bitch, and at this point you were numb to the attacks.

He’s already out there fucking other girls

He was always gonna leave you

He never loved you

Your apartment was a mess, stacks of takeout boxes piled on the counter, weeks worth of laundry that either needed to be washed or folded had made it into the same pile and were now indistinguishable, cluttered your apartment.

There were also pieces of Jack everywhere around your place, and they weren’t always things you could pick up and throw away so easily. You could box up his hoodies and his shirts you had grown attached to and give them to good will, but you could never truly be free of the impact he had on your life. His laugh echoed in your mind as you laid in your bed, memories of laughing till you cried as the two of you talked until the early morning, keeping you awake at night.

You had missed calls from your friends and family who had all heard about the break up and wanted to check in, but you didn't answer any of them. You thought isolating yourself after ending your relationship with Jack was the best way to heal, and you couldn't have been more wrong.

It wasn't working. You missed him just as much today as you did 30 days ago, and it was killing you. You were a shell of the person you used to be, and you weren't sure if anyone was going to see your old self again, not even you.

He ruined you forever

Stop missing him, he doesn’t miss you

You’re unlovable, and you always will be

“God, can you please shut the fuck up?”, you pounded at your head. Your words echoed through your empty apartment. There was no one here to hear your cries for help, and maybe it was better that way.

The only reason you were even leaving the house was to stock up on some food, so you could retreat into yourself for another few weeks. You threw on an old pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, throwing your hair into a ponytail before you left your apartment.

You went through the motions, smiling at people you passed, striking up a conversation with the cashier, pretending to care about anything but the man who broke your heart. To anyone who didn't know you personally, it would appear that you were perfectly fine, even though that couldn't be further from the truth.

You slung your tote bag carrying your groceries over your shoulder as you scrolled through your phone, walking back to your apartment.

*30 Missed Calls from Mom*- you'd call her later when you were ready to hear a lecture about perseverance

*50 Unopened Text Messages*- old invites from friends wanting to take you out to get drunk and get over that fuck boy you'd been dating

You ignored them all, indifferent to their concern. The only thing that caught your attention was one missed voicemail. You stopped in the stairwell, pressing play on the message before you put the phone to your ear and continued taking the steps.

"Hey, Y/N, this is Urban. I don't know why I'm saying that, you know who this is. Unless you don't have my number saved anymore, which I totally would understand. Jack and I are kind of a package deal-.

Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that Jack is in the hospital. He collapsed during sound check here in New York. Somethings been going on with him, fuck, I'm saying that like you aren't going through the same thing right now.

Listen, I don't expect you to do anything with this information, if you didn't want to see him I would totally understand, but I thought that you should know. I really hope you're doing okay, kiddo, and if you need me, I'm here. Again, this is Urban. Bye."

****

"Hey", Jack's voice startled you, making your phone fly out of your hand, smashing the screen in the process. There he was, the same guy who had walked out on you, who turned his back on you when you needed him the most, sitting in the stairwell of your apartment building.

You were silent, tight lipped as you took in his appearance. He looked terrible, like he had gone 12 rounds in a knock-down, drag-out fight with a heavyweight champion in the ring.

"I got here, climbed all of these damn stairs, and realized I left my key card on your kitchen counter that night." He explained weakly, motioning towards the door. "Elevator is still broken, piece of shit. I always hated the fact that you lived here, this apartment building is garbage", he muttered under his breath, but you heard every word.

Jack was rambling, hoping that at some point you'd stop him, come running into his arms, and for the first time he'd be able to breathe again. But instead, you just stood there, so he continued to ramble.

"I came here right from the airport. Still have the hospital bracelet on." He held his arm out revealing the plastic wristband. He let out a laugh, but there was no humor in it, only desperation and sadness.

"Had to lie to Neelam and everything." He looked at you, tears brimming in his eyes. "Please say something."

He left you

He left you!

Your next steps took everything in you. As you walked pass him, Jack closed his eyes, allowing the tears to flow, listening to the beep of your key card and the door unlocking.

****

Four Weeks Ago

You climbed the final step to your floor, gripping the handrail. Jack followed behind you, his hand on your lower back. You sighed as you reached the door, turning on your heels with your hand out to face Jack.

"What?", he asked with a cheeky smile on his face.

"I forgot my key card again. Can you let us in?" You pulled your lip out in a pitiful pout, Jack's resolve weakening immediately. He gently pushed you against the cold metal, grazing his nose against yours before you locked lips. His hands roamed your body like he was desperate to find something. You felt him sigh into your mouth as his hands found your face, his thumbs gently brushing against your cheeks.

You pulled away before he was ready, chuckling to yourself. "The key, Jack."

He let out a huff, pulling out his wallet. "Remind me again why you won't just move in with me? My building has an elevator." You rolled your eyes as you opened the door, taking Jack's hand as you walked down the hallway to your apartment. "I like living here, and I like living alone."

"You do know that once we get married, we're going to live together, right?" Jack leaned against the doorframe, watching you search through your purse.

You squinted your eyes at him, pulling out your keys. "I always thought you were going to move in here." You flipped on the light to your kitchen, dropping your purse by the door. Jack threw his key card on your kitchen counter. "Yeah, that's never gonna happen."

You stripped your sweater off as you walked to your bedroom, throwing it on the bed. Jack threw himself back on the mattress, watching you move through the motions of getting ready for bed. "Maybe we can go look at some places together, next weekend. I'm serious about us moving in together, Y/N."

You stopped, focusing on his glistening blue eyes as he looked at you with so much love and adoration. You felt your face flush, your stomach full of butterflies. You climbed over him, hovering about his broad shoulders.

"Ok, but I have a couple of conditions." Jack pulled you down so your body weight was fully on his, wrapping his arms around your torso. "Shoot."

"One, it needs to have enough closet space. I have a lot of shoes." Jack pushed a strand of hair out of your face, tracing your jawline with his index finger. "Done."

"Two-" Jack felt his phone vibrating in his back pocket. "I've gotta get that."

You pushed off of his chest, sitting into his lap. "No, ignore it. We barely get any time together, no work tonight."

"It could be Neelam. I'm not really in a position to ignore my team's calls." You sighed, climbing off of Jack's lap onto your feet. "Five minutes."

"Five minutes", he agreed sitting up. You left the door cracked, giving him some privacy. You felt a tinge of anger in your chest as you went to the kitchen. You were so proud of Jack's success and was glad that he was getting the recognition he rightly deserved, but you were getting tired of always being understanding of the impromptu work calls, and Jack canceling plans with you because of work commitments.

You caught him as he walked out of the bedroom, sending off texts from his phone. "So I was thinking, there's this house a couple blocks from here that I have been in love with since I've moved here. I think it would be perfect for us. What do you think about us looking at it this weekend?"

Jack looked up, his face riddled with guilt. You knew that look well; he was about to make up some excuse about how he had some last minute appearance or studio time that he just couldn't miss.

"Forget it." You felt the lump build in the back of your throat, your eyes starting to sting with tears.

"Babe, you know I can't say no to anything with work. I'm still trying to build my career, make a name for myself. We'll do it some other time." Jack stepped towards you, trying to pull you into his arms, but you backed away.

"Is this what its going to be like when we get married? Am I always going to come second to you?" You hated how jealous and bratty you sounded in the moment.

Jack sighed, leaning against the counter as he crossed his arms over his chest and hung his head. "Please, baby, don't do this again."

"Do what? Beg you to put me first for once? Trust me, I'm getting tired of it too." This night had quickly turned sour, months of built up anger and frustration spilling out of you. "I don't know if I want to live my life like this, Jack."

You could see his neck start to get red, a sign he was agitated. "What do you want from me? Do you want me to stop working and spend all of my time here with you in this crappy apartment? Is that what you want? Would that make you happy?"

"God, when did you become such a pretentious asshole? This apartment is where I first told you I loved you, where we first made love, and now its crappy? I didn't realize I meant that little to you." You could barely speak, you were crying so hard. You tried to catch your breath and steady yourself, but it was all in vain.

"Stop putting words in my mouth." Jack pulled at his curls, scrunching his eyes closed. "You know I didn't mean it that way."

"Then, please, tell me what you meant, Jack." You immediately wished you hadn't said that, because you didn't think you were going to like what you were about to hear.

"You have no idea that pressure that I am under. Everyone wants something from me, wants everything that I can give. Its exhausting, and now you're telling me that you want me to put all of that, everything that I've worked so damn hard for, to the side because you're jealous?"

You were stunned. He hadn't heard one word that you had said, he was so caught up in trying to defend himself.

"Jack-"

"I don't have anything else to give! I don't have anything left in me!" He punctuated his sentence with a sharp breath, feeling himself go light-headed. You were silent for a few moments, and the quiet was making Jack's skin crawl.

"Jack, I don't want something from you. I don't want your money, or the things you can give me. I want you." You wiped a stray tear from your cheek. "I have always only ever wanted you."

Jack felt his chest tighten. He knew where this was going, and in no way was it ending well. If he stayed, this fight would always hang over your head. He knew it wasn't the last time work was going to take priority, and he wasn't sure if he could take seeing you this upset again.

"I think we're done here." Jack balled up his fist, his finger nails digging into the palm of his hand.

"Fine. Maybe you should go back to your place, and I'll talk to you later." You looked at your feet, afraid to make eye contact with him.

"No." Jack pinched the bridge of his nose, his head throbbing. "I think we're done here for good. This isn't gonna work out anymore." Jack tried to stand up and walk out, but he couldn't feel his legs beneath him.

"Wait, what are you talking about?" You felt nauseous, like the moment you opened your mouth, you were going to be sick right there in the kitchen.

"I'm making this easy for the both of us. I can't do this anymore, Y/N. I'm sorry."

You flinched as you heard the door slam closed. You followed his heavy footsteps down the hall, hearing the stairwell door swing open and closed as well.

Tag-List:

@jacks-daycare

@livsters

@katiaw2

@xangelonmyshoulderx

@thatonegirlthatlikesthings

@j0hkiya

@bell3e

@isisosidixj

@caroline334

@lightsoutstyles

@hufflewhore128

@jackscurlyhair

@jackharloww

@brixo

@beautiifulpeople312

@bernelflo

@taniapri

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#jack harlow #jackman thomas harlow #jackharlow #jack harlow x reader #jackman harlow #jack harlow concepts #jack harlow imagine #jack harlow fanfic #jack harlow angst

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tmntxthings · 2 years

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hi! can you do a rottmnt x sibling!reader where splinter wasnt able to rescue them from draxum and so the reader grew up to be draxums assistan, i need the sibling angst

has a bonus they have a redemtion arc like draxum

Lost & Found

author’s note: anon, i think you’re a absolute genius, this might be super long (I’m writing this before I start heh) honestly there are a lot of ways this could play out, but I’m going to hone in on your request for some sibling angst and let that take me where it will! thank you so much for requesting c; hope you enjoy~

p.s. >.< i haven’t finished season 1 on netflix (I’m rlly close tho like episode 23 I think) sooo im kinda lost in the sauce with ‘draxum redemption arc’ life’s been super busy as of lately I hardly have time to write much less watch the show *cries* but I shall find out what you mean sooner or later!!!

warnings: angsty angst, cursing, violence, abuse, sibling!reader, comfort ending

> part two <

—————————————————————————

[13 years ago]

After Draxum had injected him with the ooze, there was only so much time Lou Jitsu.. no, Splinter had left. To escape, to grab the turtles and each one was in a different capsule. Splinter was weak, he didn’t have time, and had barely broken into the fourth’s when Draxum burst into his lab. Lights were flashing red, everything was so loud. Draxum was quick to block off the last cage, that held the fifth child, the final turtle. Splinter didn’t want to leave you. He hurt everyday knowing your fate was in the hands of the lunatic named Draxum. And yet he had hope, that someday, you would finally be reunited with your brothers. But they weren’t ready, none of them were. Splinter was too old now, he had run out of time. It would be up to them, Splinter decided, when they finally showed him they were ready, and capable of facing you. Because Splinter knew that whatever you had turned into, it would be something completely different than his sons. A powerful mutant under the influence of the mad scientist and manipulator, Draxum.

。・゜・(pov change: you)・゜・。

[the present]

You knelt before your creator. “I’ve got a mission for you,” you kept your head bowed, knowing the consequences of looking up too soon. You had been on the receiving end of many ‘lessons’ and you were too old to be beaten for anything other than failure. And that was something that only happened on rare occasion. “Get rid of the pests that keep interfering with my work.” Draxum sounded irritated. It was unusual, he normally didn’t seem phased by anything, and if he had a tone it was arrogant and full of smug confidence. “Yes Draxum,” you rose to your full height. Looking up into those cold, calculating eyes that had raised you. “Don’t disappoint me.” If you fail I will squeeze your shell until another crack forms. You could read between the lines, hear the underlying threat. “I won’t.” you muttered as you turned your back on him, leaving the Hidden City, going into the human realm. New York City is a real piece of work and that’s putting it politely, you thought as you emerged into an alleyway. The smell of trash flooding your senses. “Alright fellow turtles, prepare for your demise..”

。・゜・( pov change: everyone )・゜・。

“This is greatttt,” Leo said sarcastically. Waving his ōdachi around making little portals. He was utterly bored. “Sometimes Leo, heroes have to wait for crime to happen,” Raph was leaning down over the edge of the rooftop looking down at the streets below. “In any case, isn’t that a good thing! No crime means no bad guys,” Mikey said rocking back on his heels, nonexistent eyebrows waggling at Leo. His older brother rolled his eyes, “then what are we here for let’s go back to the lair!”

“Hold on I’m picking up something,” Donnie said looking down at his wrist tech. Leo waited a whole 5 seconds before complaining, “yeah a whole bunch of nothing!” Raph shot a look at Leo, telling him to shut up silently, the blue turtle only stuck out his tongue. “Bingo!” Donnie’s wrist tech flared up in a flash of color, “What was that Leo?? A bunch of what??” He goaded his twin, smiling smugly. “Let’s hear it Don,” Raph prompted not wanting to waste anymore time. “Two streets away, northwest, someone’s breaking into-“ “Bla, bla, bla time to goooo!” Leo cut Donnie off and waved his sword into a big circle. “Oh no no no, it’s only two streets awayyyyy~!” Donnie yelled out as they all fell into Leon’s portal.

“That was fun,” Donnie grumped, while Mikey snickered. The portal had put them 7 streets away from their target, and effectively ruining any sort of hero work that night. “Look if I don’t practice how am I gonna get better at it,” Leo said thinking he was being pretty logical. “How about practice before an actual patrol? Huh? Ever thought about that my dumb dumb of a brother?” Leo peered over at Mikey and started mimicking Donnie’s voice. Mikey had to hold in his laughter, hand slapping over his mouth loudly. “Enough you two,” Raph chided, “it’s already over with let’s just get back to the lair, we’ll try again tomorrow.” When Leo grabbed for his sword this time, Raph stopped him, shaking his head, “practice on your own time like Donnie said,”

“Tch,” was the only reply Leo could come up with. He wanted to say something like, you guys are just jealous my power is ten times awesome-er than everyone’s combined. But he held himself back, somehow, someway. Who was he kidding, “you guys are ju-“

Something whizzed past Leo’s face connecting into Mikey’s and slamming him back and onto the ground he skidded a couple of feet before coming to a stop. “OW!” Mikey groaned as his brothers came running, a collective “Mikey!” yelled out in worry. They formed a circle around the youngest, “What the fuck was that?!” Raph said as he looked around for any signs, any clues to what had just pummeled his little brother. “Felt like a fist to me,” Mikey coughed as Donnie knelt down over him, making sure he was okay and then helping him up. Leo was on guard too, “why don’t you pick on someone your own size!” he barked out. “You saw it??” Raph said still searching, only giving Leo a glance. “No but I’m guessing whatever it was chose Mikey for a reason,” Leo explained, eyes narrowing in on a billboard.

Raph nodded his head and they were off, both jumping up and weapons drawn for anything that was on the other side. “Huh, nothing,” Leo commented as Raph huffed in frustration. The moment they had left Mikey’s side, Donnie had a matter of milliseconds before he was thrown back on his shell. The air being knocked straight out of his lungs as Mikey’s eyes widened and yelled for his brothers as he threw out his mystic kusari-fundo hoping to wrap whatever it was that kept throwing them to the ground. But as the chain wrapped around its target Mikey hadn’t been prepared to be jolted forward at such speed, he was practically half-dragged, half-flying after whatever he had caught. “GUYS,” he screamed in panic as he zoomed forward, leaving his brothers in the dust as they called out for him to let go. But Mikey didn’t listen and when he finally landed on a rooftop, somehow on his feet, he was tense, and more than a little scared to be facing whatever this was without his brothers.

You looked down at the chains wrapped around your torso. Bright orange, your shell facing your opponent not worried in the slightest. “I see you’ve stolen something,” you commented and Mikey just held onto his weapon tighter. “Borrowed actually,” he corrected- a turtle?! Mikey blinked and his grip loosened immediately. He saw the state of your shell, his stomach rolled, his own shell tightened as if he could feel your pain. You felt the slack and turned only your face. Black bandana waving in the wind. “You” Mikey said stunned, “you’re like us!” He couldn’t help it, a smile of recognition replaced his frightened features. You scowled, not returning the sentiment. One second you were yards away from Mikey and the next you were throwing him onto the rooftop again. He cried out in pain, “I’m nothing like you.” And even though he was hurt, his innocence was too pure to be shot down. “But you’ve got a shell, and a bandana,” he groaned out as he forced himself up. Noticing you had released yourself from his binds the moment you had him on the ground.

“Get away from our brother,” Raph hollered as he came down as a huge red figure of power. You side stepped, letting the cement feel his wrath instead. So the orange wasn’t the only one who stole. A purple drill came next, you jumped into the air it missed your feet by centimeters as you came back down, your eyes widened in surprise for the first time this fight, as you didn’t touch the ground but went through a blue circle. Suddenly blue was all you could see, and you activated your power, a black shadow surrounding your body and time slowed, you watched as the portal ended and the blue one was ready and waiting with a sword held out. You landed with grace, crouching immediately but you didn’t need to, while in your power form you were faster than all of them combined. You kicked the blue straight in the groin, feeling somewhat irritated that he had gotten the best of you for a split second. He went down as you continued to move, not wanting to be caught off guard again, you went back to normal form after you put two rooftops in between you and the four.

It was a stare off. All but the Red had felt how powerful just your fists and feet were. It was his turn, and then you would destroy them completely. “What do you want!” Raph roared, angry that he hadn’t been able to protect his little brothers. “Nothing from you,” you let your voice be carried by the wind. Unable to find such passion like the Red one, no one but Draxum could make you howl like he just had. In fear and anger, in anguish and pain. You took a step forward, all but the Red flinched. You found that quite funny. “Then just leave us alone,” Raph begged, standing over Mikey and Leo while Donnie stood a little staggered next to him. “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” you said taking another step forward. Why were you wasting time like this? Answering his buffoon questions, for what? You gritted your teeth from your own condescending thoughts. “Why?!” The red exasperated. “Because,” you glared reaching for the sole tantō (short sword) behind your shell. You only unsheathed it when necessary, but all these questions were grating your nerves, “I was ordered to.” And maybe that was what pissed you off the most. As you lunged forward eyes seething with pitch black rage.

Raph braced himself calling onto his power to create a shield from the shadow that was hurtling towards him faster than anything he had ever seen. He tried to keep his eyes open, but at the last second he flinched closing them tightly hoping his shield would hold. “Boys?” Splinter said in confusion. They had all just been saved by Leo’s well-timed portal and if it wasn’t for the near death experience he would have boasted about it proudly. Raph fell back on his haunches, his weapons dropping limply from his hands. Mikey was the first to recover, “Dad you’ll never guess what just happened!” Bruised everywhere he exclaimed, “we met another turtle!” “Met?” Donnie shook his head, “that Michael, was not a meeting, that was a blindside!” He had to hold his side wincing when he raised his voice.

Splinter fell back into his recliner. “So you finally crossed paths,” it had been a weak whisper. Silence stretched on after that as Splinter relived that haunting night. Where time hadn’t been on his side, not enough to save everyone. “What do you mean dad?” Raph asked, breaking the silence. “The night I rescued you all and myself from Draxum’s lab, I hadn’t saved everyone that night,” his voice sounded far away. The brothers all looked at each other, shock and confusion written on their faces. “Are you saying, that we just met our sibling out there tonight?” Donnie expounded, eyes bugging out. Splinter nodded. Another collective silence. “Well, they wanna kill us,” Leo put plainly, trying to get up. “No they don’t!” Mikey said defensively. All three of his brothers turned on him with crazed expressions. “I’m serious! You heard them, they were ordered to come after us!” Mikey had his hands out as if it were obvious. Splinter kept silent, Leo looked doubtful, while Raph and Donnie both shook their heads.

“It doesn’t matter Mikey, if Leo hadn’t portaled us outta there, we would’ve been turtle soup.” Raph said, and he wasn’t joking. “Yeah but, maybe if we talked to them, showed them that Draxum isn’t their real family, then maybe-“ Mikey was cut off by Donnie, “No. Mikey listen to yourself! You wanna go back out there after three of us got pummeled and Raph was about to get sliced?!” Mikey’s cheeks puffed out in frustration, they weren’t listening to him. “…maybe Mikey’s right,” Leo pipped up looking at his little brother. “What if one of us had been left behind?” Splinter winced. Leo paused, continuing after awhile, “shouldn’t we at least try?” Donnie scoffed, “try what exactly, reason with the trained killer of a psychopath who wants us dead?!” Mikey nodded. Raph blew out a long breath. “Not anytime soon,” he said giving in, he couldn’t help it, looking at it the way Leo had put it. He’d try. “Once we are healed a hundred percent and Leo practices his portals more… then we can try talking,” Donnie glared at them all. “If this backfires I don’t care if it’s my last dying breath, I’m saying I told you so,” with that he was off to his lab. Mikey smiled to himself, hoping this would work, that you would listen, and see that they were your real family.

After Raph’s orders were carried out, all of them healed up to the max, and Leo did practice on his portaling, it was time. “So how’re we gonna find them??” Mikey questioned as they all exited the manhole, Raph the last out and covering it up. “The Hidden City,” Raph said, since they knew who was behind your strings aka Draxum. “Righttt,” Mikey agreed. “We’re breaking into Draxum’s,” Donnie explained further for his little brother to catch up to speed. They all knew he had zoned out when the plan was being discussed, Mikey was too excited. Which had all of his older brothers worried for the impending disappointment they all expected. “Alright, breaking into Draxy’s,” Mikey said rubbing his hands together in mischief, finally up to speed.

They went the same route they had came when April had been with them. It seemed like they were always trying to rescue someone from here, first Mayhem, now you. All the turtles peered down into what had been an exploded lab last they left it. Now it was fully refurbished and off to the side you came into view.

Horror. Raph tried reaching for Mikey to cover his eyes, but it was too late. He had seen, your limbs were spread far apart, vines wrapped tightly around your wrists and ankles. But what held all of the turtles stares was the thick vines that were in a vice-like grip around you torso, around your shell. Draxum appeared from a doorway. “Not tight enough?” He commented as your head hung to the floor, but as the grip tightened around your shell you gasped, head lurching up once more. This had been going on for days, ever since you had returned, since you had failed. “Why are you being punished,” Draxum questioned as you panted in pain, it was getting to the point where you would pass out. “ANSWER ME” his voice raised in authority and anger, “I-“ the vines tightened again and you finally screamed out in agony. New streams of tears flooded down your cheeks. “Say it.” He seethed, “I f-failed you,” you sobbed. Head falling in front of your body unable to keep it raised any longer. “You are pathetic and weak. You expect me to believe those pests outsmarted you?” He spat in disgust. “They had mystic weapons,” you tried to explain, you hadn’t realized how vital the blue one could be for escape. You were paying for it now. “Excuses,” Draxum shook his head, “I gave you a mystic weapon, I trained you and this is the result I get?” Your head was swimming in pain, it was becoming hard to breath and you knew what was coming next, the sound haunted you in your sleep. Crack! “Please!” You begged, knowing it was useless because you had been through this before, “I’ll do better, I’ll get them next time just give me one more chance!” You’d say anything, promise anything if it meant you could save yourself from the living nightmare you were experiencing.

An fiery orange chained whipped out of nowhere and snagged Draxum up and off the ground. “Leave them alone!” He cried out, tears pouring down his own face as he yanked his weapon backwards, continuing to pull Draxum away from you. Raph’s fist was three times its size, and punched the sheep yokai, slamming him to the floor of his lab. Donnie and Leo were quickly cutting away at the vines that held you hostage. Leo catching you before you fell to the ground. “Let’s go!” Leo called out as Donnie positioned himself defensively, his mystic tech aimed at Draxum’s figure that was still on the ground. He turned and faced the turtles he had created, his face pure fury, “Y/N!” He bellowed and that was the last thing you remembered before you slipped into unconsciousness.

[one week later]

“They should be waking up any moment now,” a not so familiar voice said informatively. “But when exactly??” someone whined. “They’ve been through a lot just give them time,” someone else chided. “Look” another voice said, and as your eyes moved underneath your eyelids, listening intently and very much awake, you realized they must’ve noticed you were up. “Hello?” you squinted open one eyelid, and orange was so close you could see down to his esophagus. “Mikey, give ‘em some space!” red said exasperated as if he had said it a million times already. “What did I tell you guys, any moment!” purple said as a matter-of-factly. “We get ittt,” sighed blue. All of them had curious eyes on you, the red had one weapon drawn, and purple had a finger hovering over a button. Blue had his arms crossed and orange was still in your face. “We saved you!” He explained, “from Draxum’s crazy” “psycho” “sadistic” “ass.” They all had a word for your creator. And they all seemed to be waiting for you to say something or do something. You slowly opened up both eyes, “please back away orange,” you phrased it as nicely as possible but the frown on his face couldn’t be missed. “Told ya,” Raph chuckled, silently putting away his weapon. “So how old are you?” “And what kind of turtle are you?” “What’s your mystic power exactly?” “Are you hungry?” Mikey pitched in last, recovering from your first sentence to him. It seemed to be the only question you would acknowledge as you nodded slightly. The rest looked at one another, with wary expressions. “Where am I?” you decided it was better to be the one who asked the questions. “In-“ a hand slapped over Mikey’s mouth. “Why don’t you go get them some pizza?” Raph said. “Oh right! Be right back!” He said bouncing away. The three older ones sighed in unison. “Look Y/n,” you blinked no one but Draxum had ever used your name. “You’ve gotta answer our questions first,” the red one claimed.

You wondered if you were fully recovered. Because if so, you’d rather just leave than have to sit through an interrogation like this. You could feel the unwelcomeness roll off these three. But as you did a mental check, you knew you would have trouble using your power and making a speedy escape. So you sighed, admitting defeat nonverbally. “I am 13 years old, a diamondback terrapin, and to put it shortly speed,” Donnie went to say he wanted the longer more detailed version because he obviously had gotten that. But Raph stopped him. You were Mikey’s age. Raph couldn’t believe it, how polar opposite the two of you were, and it crushed him to think how Mikey might have been in your place. “I see,” Raph murmured. “Now my turn?” You asked, prompting for an answer to your earlier question. “We’re in the sewers!” Mikey answered coming back into the room. Leo face palmed himself. “What?!” Mikey exclaimed, “they deserve to know!” and he handed you a plate stacked high with slices of pizza.

“Well I guess we’ve got a lot of catching up to do,” you gave Mikey an inquisitive glance as you stuffed your face. You hadn’t eaten in what felt like ages. Raph and Mikey both smiled at the sight of you eating heartily. “Because we’re family!” Mikey explained as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. And that had you swallowing, you looked around the room, these four were your brothers? “Draxum never told you?” Donnie asked quietly, and all you could do was shake your head. You kept looking all around, like suddenly everyone in the room looked different looked more familiar. And you hadn’t realized it when one tear streaked down your face. “Family?” You echoed. Draxum had never used familial terms between the two of you. He was your creator and you were his creation. Black and white, plain and simple. You always believed you were on your own. The thought of a family, it was too good to be true. “Yeah!” Mikey cried, the instant he saw the tear go down your cheek. And space bubbles be damned! He leapt on top of you hugging you close, “you’re our family!” Mikey said and the rest of the gang piled in, more tears were shed, even from Donnie. It was a miracle you thought, and maybe finally you could be happy, here with your family.

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