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thewinchestah · 3 months

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"PREY" - Alastor x reader fic

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Tags: One-Shot, 18+, Smut, NSFW, edging, begging, overstimulation, Alastor does what he wants, there's plot if you squint really hard, alastor in heat, breeding kink, degradation kink, praise kink,

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Word Count: i lost count. it's big.

| Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

A/N: Helloooooo!!! I write a lot but i never publish it! My lovely friend and also biggest inspiration for this fic @smallershorteranduncut ordered me to post this and i'm nothing but her loyal servent! I hope you guys enjoy the fruits of me writing 10 google docs pages today while i was enraged. Also english isn't my first language, no beta we die like men here yadayayfayada! enjoy <;3 (UPDATE!) Part 2 is now up!

Everything about the Radio Demon seemed to be designed to make you desire him, want him. Many times in ways you weren’t even ready to admit to yourself. You haven’t been in Hell long, that’s true. But ever since you manifested here you felt like someone had picked your brain open to make Alastor the perfect bait to lure you into even more sinful, sinister paths.

He had an inexplicable magnetism around him, a piercing presence that made your eyes stuck on him when he worked a room. He had you bewitched and you hadn’t share more than polite pleasantries with each other since you became a guest at the hotel.

Today, again, you were transfixed in his gaze. Sitting in the corner of the hotel lobby, trying to make your embarrassing attraction to him go unnoticed while Alastor waltzed across the room explaining more of his wicked plans to Charlie. God, how you wish he had his wicked way with you.

He seemed more… on edge today. His red eyes glowed a little brighter, his nostrils flared a bit more, static filling the room more often, he was smiling with almost barred teeth, and everyone seemed to be avoiding him. Even Charlie was trying to politely dismiss him, the general feeling of uneasiness inside the hotel just growing larger when Angel stationed himself near your little corner of the room.

“Don’t go near that creepy motherfucker today, he’s about to lose it.” Angel alerted, almost whispering, a pair of his hands making the “crazy sign” near his head

“Isn’t he always creepy and about to lose it?” Husk added, staring at the exchange between the radio demon and Charlie.

“I’m telling you toots, I know that guy definitely isn't normal, but today he is borderline a mass extinction event. I swear, he’s just waiting for someone to give him the excuse” Angel replied, confirming your suspicions. Something was off.

“Uh. Well, about that, I think it’s time we rescue Charlie”

As if on cue Charlie turned to the corner of the room, gesticulating really hard to be taken away from the small commotion her conversation with Alastor was becoming.

“Hey Charlie, do you remember that thing with the hotel’s… personalized stationery you asked me to help you today? Let’s do it!” Said angel gently guiding Charlie away from the Radio Demon.

“Guess that’s my cue Alastor! Greaaaaat chat! As always! Have a nice day!! Byeee!” Charlie’s overly chirpy tone giving away her uneasiness.

Suddenly it felt like all the air was taken out of the room. Alastor’s neck turned into an ungodly angle, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. Static grew around the group, almost suffocating. As your vision went blurry from the sheer power that was being evoked, you contemplated if there was another afterlife. Preferably one where you didn’t inherit a death wish from your previous ones.

And as quick as it started, it was over.

Alastor just said a creepy “hm” turned on his hell, and walked away.

It almost felt like it was all in your head, but your friends standing perfectly still and dead silent next to you gave the reality of the situation away: everyone just had a near death-death experience. Maybe it would be a good topic for Charlie’s bonding exercises, who knows with this place.

“I told ya’ll. Mass. Extinction. Event. Stay out the psycho’s way”

Angel’s voice became background noise in your head, your eyes focusing on the spot where Alastor just threatened everybody’s life without saying a word. As the voices dissipated around you and normalcy slowly returned to the hotel, your mind sank deeper and deeper into the mystery that was the Radio Demon.

They were so oblivious, so naive. Thinking he wasn’t listening what they said about him behind his back. Thinking he was unaware of him being the topic of the discussion when he wasn’t looking. He could bathe in the smell of their fear, and he was relishing it.

Alastor stared at the new pretty little thing that arrived at the hotel. Oh how pathetically sweet and innocent she was, thinking she was being subtle about her infatuation with him. Thinking she could hide her interest in him, when she was nothing but a doe caught in the headlights of his eyes. Oh, she was just the perfect prey for him, wrapped in this lovely red bow she wore on her hair.

Angel was right, he was just waiting for an excuse, and she just offered him one on a silver platter. And alastor was everything but a coward.

You cursed a little bit louder than you intended when you saw the blood dripping from your finger. “Stop. making. a. spectacle. of. yourself” you mentally screamed. You still could not figure Charlie’s “special stationary stapler” out, so stapling your finger was bound to happen.

Even though it was not much, the silly little cut was stinging like a bitch, and your best efforts to stop the bleeding were futile, considering the mess on the hem of your skirt. Still high on the adrenaline from earlier, your shaking hands searched for something, anything to put on your finger so you could continue your work without anyone noticing. Everyone already had enough for one day, it was fine.

“My dear, did you just hurt yourself?” Alastor’s voice invaded your ears. Oh, fuck. That’s it, he was going to murder you for being so incompetent with the damned stapler.

Turning to face him, you meet his piercing gaze, not sure if you should run and scream for help. “Oh no worries alastor, it’s just a small cut, i can manage!” you give him your most confident smile.

Alastor’s head tilts, eyes burning red as he watches the small droplets of your blood make their way down your index finger.

“Nonsense, I can't have my staff running around with injuries and bloodied clothes. We are in hell, but we are not savages, dear” He seems transfixed by the blood, and you are too scared to move, too scared to anything other than hold the weight of his gaze and hope for the best. Your lizard brain is screaming for you to run, ask for help. Maybe Charlie isn’t too far away, could you make a run for it? Somehow your survival instincts override your brain, maybe all those hours watching true crime back on earth weren’t in vain, and you decide against running. Let him initiate first.

He catches your wrist, trapping it inside his deadly claws. His face, towering over you, comes all the way down to inspect the offending finger. You can feel his breathing on your skin.

Your breathing stops. You swallow an imaginary lump. He’s gonna bite off your fing-

“Would you be a doll and let me take care of it? Blood being unnecessary wasted truly abhors me”

You must have said yes at some point, you don’t really remember, now you are holding the red handkerchief he handed you, answering his request to “please follow him”. Trailing behind the Radio Demon, both of you walk through the large corridors.

This might be the time to scream for help. the voices inside your head warn. With every step of his feet you hear his microphone going tsk tsk tsk where it touches the ground. You are walking the death row, the paintings on the wall chanting “dead woman walking, dead woman walking”.

“Keep pressuring the wound darling, we are almost there” he gently commands you, too gently… it feels almost… soft, pleading. The way Alastor goes from 0 to 100 is giving you whiplash.

He slows down, reaching for the door knob of an unknown room. Ever the gentleman, he gestures for you to enter first.

the door locks behind you.

if i’m being murdered, at least i’m being murdered with class.

“Don’t be silly, I’m not going to murder you” Alastor says, almost singing the last part of the sentence.

“Oh fuck, i said that out loud, didn’t I?” you blurted out

“Yes you did. And yes, I also noticed your lovely doe eyes on me every time i’m in the room”

Your brain short circuits. That 's it. You are dead. He’s not going to murder you (apparently), but you are going to die of embarrassment. It will feel like murder. He knows, fuck, he knows. He knows about your crush (?) and he’s going to drag you for it. You are going to be so dragged the angels will pity you and bring you to heaven. A creative way to be redeemed, Charlie should know about this. Your thoughts are going downhill as a big snowball, there are too many of them and you can’t follow a single coherent train of thought. You don’t even want to know how you look in the middle of this. You must look pathetic, truly like a doe caught in headlights. And then you hear your name once.

Twice now, in a sing-song voice.

Your eyes fly open towards the sound, breaking from the anxiety induced spell as you realize the Radio Demon had just called you, by name. He knows your name???

“Ah hahah! You’re back.” Alastor says, as he starts to circle you like a predator. Your eyes, as always, follow his across the room.

“I don’t like to repeat myself, little doe. You heard what I asked?”

Again, you don’t really remember answering, your brain is going AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA as you watch him pace around you, eyes burning red, demanding your attention. Teeth slightly barred, voice on the edge of something. Was that “X” on his forehead always there?

“I asked if you know what you are doing to me” static fills the room as he finishes speaking. Alastor’s clawed hand trapped your bloodied finger dangerously close to his grinning lips. Your brain is doing flips as he stares deep into your soul, and when your thoughts land you make the connection. Alastor is horny. Alastor is horny for y-

“You see, little doe, I know what your eyes hide when you desperately lower them everytime I come near you. I know how you feel you can hide in plain sight if you stay quiet enough. But I can taste it. Your fear. Your lust. In the air. In your blood.” He has a white knuckled grip on your wrist now, same with his microphone. You lower your guard, eyes going from startled to lustful. “Good thing right now there’s nothing more i want in this godforsaken pit than your lust, pet”

You want this. There’s no point in lying to yourself. You want Alastor to fuck you. You’ve fantasized about the Radio Demon taking you more times than you can count. More times than you would like to admit to yourself. This feels deeply wrong, but you crave it.

Fuck it, you are in hell, there’s nothing to lose. Alastor is still watching you, impatiently. For the first time today you realize you actually forgot to say something. He’s waiting. Alastor is waiting for your permission.

“Take my breath away, Alastor”

Your permission might have been really loud, it felt like you were screaming the words. But you can’t be sure, it might have been a whisper. Either way he didn’t miss it, what happens next is fast, angry and delicious.

Alastor pounces and licks the blood on your finger, something clicks inside him as he tastes the red liquid, because he lets go of his microphone instantly and his arms grab your waist aggressively, so forceful you wouldn’t be surprised if it breaks skin. You shouldn’t be so turned on by this, by the sight of a psychopathic demon drinking your blood. But you are, and there’s no going back.

“Strip” he orders. You want to say to him that you can’t take your clothes off your person with him holding you like this. He must have realized the conundrum: if he wants you naked, he has to let go of you. To Alastor, letting go of you right now is simply unthinkable. So he doesn’t: you feel his claws cut the bodice of your dress open, sending the most delicious shivers down your spine. Another claw rips your skirt apart, and you are almost fully naked in the Radio Demon’s arms, pressing your body hard on his still impeccable dressed body.

It’s humiliating, it’s dangerous, it’s hot, it is delicious, to be at his complete mercy, just how you always wanted.

Somehow both of you made your way close to the enormous bed in the middle of the room. Alastor cornered you, so the only way you could escape was walking backwards towards the bed. The brilliant bastard.

You feel your calves hitting the edge of the bed, and Alastor breaks away.

Pity, your mind complains. Get him back to touching you again. right. now,.

“Now now, we should establish some rules for this, pet” Alastor’s hands might have stopped touching you, but his piercing eyes never did. He knocks you on top of the bed, you lay there sprawled open just for him. His hands move up to do a quick work of his bowtie

“Rule one: you will take what I give you. Nothing more, nothing less. What I give you is enough. You might feel like you can’t take anymore, but you can. You will take it, I will make you take it” He takes his tailcoat off, his frame towering over you, even with your body completely flat on the mattress and his in front of it.

“ Rule two: every ounce of your pleasure is mine and mine only. Mine to give, mine to take. And you will give me everything. I want to hear every sound, to feel every touch, to know every nasty thought that runs inside that pretty little head of yours. You will not suppress anything, I wanna hear your moans when you make a mess of yourself as I take everything I desire from your delicious body. I will relish on your desperate screams of pleasure.Nothing outside these walls matter” He is climbing on the bed now. You hold the weight of his gaze, underneath your demonic lover’s eyes your skin burns.

“Rule three: don’t you dare cum without my permission, good girls earn their orgasms and you will be a good girl. Or else…” static starts to pick up around the room, you are seeing the blackest black that ever was, his shadows enveloping you both. Nothing outside these walls matter. “Understood?” Alastor says as he pins your hands on top of your head, against the fancy headboard. His hand cups one of your boobs and he is worrying your nipple between his sharp claws. finally finally, your mind sings. You feel a surge of magic binding your wrists in green chains, attached to the headboard. It’s overbearing, it’s ridiculous. His magic feels like him, another part of him for you to take.

He pinches your nipple particularly hard and you moan softly, pleasure and pain consuming any other sensation. You forgot to answer him, you realize. You’ve barely started and you are already being bad. “yes alastor, yes.. but please don’t stop” the soft whimper leaves your lips.

“lovely.” he replies, and with that his mouth is on your nipple, sucking it while he administers his wicked ministrations to your other one. His sharp teeth prickling on the edge of breaking skin, and you already feel like you won’t be able to take all of him.

His hand trails down to aggressively grip your thighs, his tongue sucking the neglected nipple his fingers left. Your moans become frequent and messy, if he’s already making you go insane with the beginnings of foreplay... You might pass out and die when he starts fucking you, but you don’t care. Let him show you the true meaning of la petite mort.

“My my, what do we have here” his hand leaves your thigh to trace the wetness of your panties. A clawed finger rips it apart, the last barrier between you and total consumption by the Radio Demon. He takes the finger between your glistening lips, not entering, just teasing

“I don’t think i will get enough of this pretty little body of ours anytime soon, pet” he says as his finger finally enters your sex, He moves his digit with an expertise you didn’t really know he had in him, making you whimper his name, ooohs and aaaahs, your hips start threshing from the pleasure. If you continue at this pace, you will be begging for permission to cum too soon. Pathetic. you think to yourself. Because you know how hard this building orgasm will be,you don’t know if he will grant you more than one orgasm. And will you murder you yourself if you don’t feel his cock inside you tonight. You take a deep breath in between your moans and will your hips to stay in place, your nerves to calm down.

Alastor adds another finger, and it takes all of your willpower not to become a puddle of wetness right there. You bite your lip so hard you taste blood.

“you do make a mess of yourself, don’t you? you just can’t help it” he says as he curls his digits inside you. Your hips start thrashing hard again, and you sink them deeper into the bed. The chains on your wrists shake with the effort to hold back. As if alastor wasn’t going to notice. “no no no what did I say?” he snaps angrily, he’s eyes flash red at you and he takes his fingers out with a wet “pop”, you feel like crying at the emptiness. “please please alastor, don’t stop” you plead. His hands leave you entirely, you are left with just his piercing gaze, the one that makes your skin burn. “did I say you could hold back? don’t pretend like you aren’t a common whore for me, that you love how pathetic it feels that you are creaming yourself and we haven’t even really started”

his condescending tone just makes everything even more sublime. It’s so wrong how good being told you are nothing more than a common whore by the Radio Demon feels. But you never felt anything close to this. “please Alastor” you beg again, nothing but a small whisper

“I would love to taste this pussy, so red already for me, but since you broke one of the rules… i’m afraid I will make you understand that are nothing but my pretty cockslut the hard way”

Punishment? His punishment sounds ever better than his praise right now. You moan at his voice. He laughs.

His knees cage you, as he lifts his upper body from you and starts undoing his zipper. He is taking his cock out. Oh fuck, he’s gonna fuck you without anymore foreplay. And he’s not going to be gentle about it either. You shiver.

Alastor pumps himself a few times, his cock is big, thick, and an angry red shade, flush red like that, because of you, just for you. He’s gonna make you pay: pay for holding back from him, pay for making him feel like an animal and almost losing his hard constructed control.

The look on his face says it all, he’s gonna take it out on you and you can’t do nothing about it.

You don’t have much time to think about the repercussions, in one swift motion his tip is already inside you, stretching you deliciously. Your brain short circuits again, the feeling of his cock inside you is everything you imagine and more. Depraved, heavenly, delicious. You struggle in your binds again, you want desperately to touch him. To feel his skin beneath your finger, to scratch him, mark him. But oh well, he’s the Radio Demon, he’s the one in charge and you are his prey.

Alastor starts to slowly enter you, he’s trying his best to hold back. He knows if he does this too fast it will hurt in a way he doesn’t want you to feel. And by the look on his face going slow is as torturous for him as it is for you. tantalizing inch after tantalizing inch he spreads the walls of your cunt apart. You understand now why this is punishment, it hurts in a perfect way, it hurts even more that he is doing it slowly, and not just thrusting like you imagined he would, if he had more time to work on you.

You become a mess of moans and incoherent words. His cock is halfway inside you now “HoLY FUCK ALASTOR” you scream. It’s already too much.

“There’s nothing holy about this my dear. I’m going to breed you. I’m going to break you” and with that he buries himself to the hilt inside you. Now you truly scream in pleasure and pain “you won’t be able to walk straight for days, you will feel me in every step, and you will thank me for it”. His thrusts pick up at breakneck speed, the bed shakes from the sheer force that Alastor is using to fuck you. Every snap of his hips you moan more and more.

The sound you make when he takes everything out and enters you at once is so obscene that it would make Angel Dust blush. He’s growling now, his antlers growing bigger as he fucks you like his life dependend on it. As he fucks you like he hates you.

Alastor pushes your hips higher, and suddenly he’s even deeper. His other hand holding your waist in a bruising grip. The strain on your pinned hands will bruise too. His lips graze the skin of your collarbone, he looks so feral you are scared he will maul, the thrill of not knowing adding to your fucked up sense of pleasure.

He seems to pick up on your fear, and bites down on your collarbone, hauling as he tastes your blood and buries himself inside you again and again. Moans turned into screams, and the only thing coming out of your lips is his name, spoken like a profane prayer. You would give everything you have to Alastor, and he doesn’t even have to ask.

Your orgasm has been building for a while now, the coil on your belly becoming tighter and tighter, like a supernova about to be born. “Alastor, please please let me come” you beg. His unfocused eyes stare down at you, as he takes a moment from feasting on your sweet blood to address your desperate, sweet pleas.

“Don’t. You. Dare” he says, punctuating every word with a sharp thrust. As much as you want, you are not sure you will be able to hold any longer. “I beg you alastor, please let me cum, i will let you do anything you want. but i need it so badly, please please”

You sounded so desperate when you begged, so beautiful.

“Don’t strike deals you don’t know you can fulfill, pet” his voice is low, a warning. You ignore it. “I promise Alastor, anything”. Alastor laughs.

his finger touches your clit as he finally allows your sweet relief “you may come now, sweet doe” and that’s it, you are off, you are dead. You see stars, you see the entire universe as you scream out and climax. Walls tightening around Alastor’s monster cock, eyes rowling, his name a scream on your lips. You ride out your wave slowly, but Alastor is not slowing down.

Instead he is picking up his pace, maneuvering your hips even higher, your chains are stretched to the limit. You can feel them start piercing your skin. Thrust after thrust the sensation becomes too much, you are too overstimulated to go through all of this again.

“i can’t take it, i can’t take it!”

Alastor doesn’t care. “I told you not to make deals if you can’t hold them, didn’t I?” You don’t answer, you can’t. you can’t to anything but let him fuck you as hard and as much as he want. “but you are such a little cockslut for me that you can’t help it. What a shame”

He is gripping your hips so hard it breaks skin, tiny trails of blood on his claws. “you will take it. You better take it, or I will make you take it” static picks up as he threatens the last words. You know you are spent, you know how bad it hurts, you know how bad his words sound, but the lines between pleasure and pain are so blurred that you can’t think coherently. Even this pain of being broken feels good.

Still, tears fill your eyes and you start crying, from pleasure, from pain, you don’t know anymore. What Alastor is doing to you has no precedent. No one can do this like he does. He knows torture too well, and he is tortouring you in the most decadent, delicious ways possible. “alastor i want to, i want to so bad but i just can’t” the tears sting your eyes and stain your face.

Alastor sees it. He slows down just a bit, his voice softening “oh my dear doe, but you can. Just this once more, just for me. One more” his voice is so maddening soft it acts like fuel to your tears. Your skin tingles and you feel giddy, somehow your throbbing hot, wet cunt seems to find the right amount of relief, and you can feel only pleasure again.

Alastor continues to fuck you, your moans returning to normal, you are being so loud now, making a mess of yourself, just like he said, and a big hand comes to cover your mouth.

“Oh we can’t have you being this loud can we?” his voice goes to that delicious mocking tone. His thrusts are slower now, but as deep as they can go. “what would you friends say if they found out that you moan like a common whore for their feared radio demon.. hum,.?”

You start to feel the pit of your belly tightening again, and alastor doesn’t stop humiliating you. The degradation feels just the right amount of perfection. You are exactly what he says you are. A common whore when it comes to him. “weren’t you ashamed just a few moments ago? trying to hold back the sinful sounds you make when I touch you? I already gave you one orgasm. I’ve been way too generous for my liking. I should stop right now since you feel so conscious about this” Alator’s breathing is becoming erratic, his thrusts sharp, hard, and out of the breakneck rhythm he was torturing you before.You start moaning even louder through his hand. “ungrateful little pet. You are just so greedy for one more orgasm, you don’t even care that everyone downstairs can hear you hm??”

You can’t think straight. you feel on the edge of glory, this orgasm threatening to be harder than your previous one, as if it is possible. “alastor i’m so sorry, i know i don’t deserve it” you muffle behind his hand, he hears you speaking and takes if off “but can you please let me cum? just this once? just for you. Please Al” his thrusts are truly erratic now. He’s close too, even though you are too wrapped up on your own sensations to notice

“please” you beg, nothing more than a whisper. Already making peace with the fact that you are going to come without his permission and he will probably never fuck you again

“Good girl, you can come now”

instantly as you are granted his permissions your world explodes, blinding hot pleasure takes over your body, the waves of pleasure making your heart beat so fast you feel like it’s going to stop. The petit mort is coming, and her sweet embrace envelops you, specially now that you feel Alastor’s cock twitching and spilling his seed inside you. You scream his name. Maybe you hear him screaming yours too. You don’t know anymore, your nerves are singing from pleasure unheard of back when you were alive. Pleasure so great it could only be found in hell. The most heavily, depraved way of torture.

You come down from your high, still dizzy, your body going limp. You are not dead, but you are positively spent. You give in into the warm and fuzziness of sleep.

The last thing you remember is the softness of a blanket, a gentle kiss on your cheek.

“Oh my dear, I knew you had one more on you,spending yourself this way just for me! What a truly precious thing, doe”

You might be dreaming now.

You weren’t dreaming. Alastor praises you, knowing his words will be the last thing you hear before a night of peaceful, deep dreamless slumber. He makes sure to put the softest velvet blanket he owns on your body, not to make the damage you gladly allowed your body to take for him an inconvenience. Tomorrow you will wake up to fancy letters of praise and sweet chocolate covered strawberries. And no one will know how Alastor found the perfect doe to breed as he pleases during the height of his mating season.

#hello guys im insane can you tell?#eu escrevi isso aqui na força do odio puro e genuino de quem ta sendo xingada no twitter tem dias #alastor #alstor smut #alastor x reader #alastor x reader smut #alastor fanfic #the radio demon #the radio demon x you #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin fic #autora também está no cio #serio aquela msuica sento no bico da glock rebolo e tiro o short e vem vamo fudeee o gabriel tirou o meu cabaço e me botou de quatro nao #sai da minha cabeça #aquariano nato também não #QUEBRA A CAMA DESSAS PUTAAAAAAAAA #baixaria

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jtl-fics · 1 year

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Fluent Freshman - Part 08

FF knows that it might be possible to get a new flight and that the excuse of “Oh I found a flight so I could go spend the holiday with my Gran” would probably be unassailable even tot he great unknown of Andrew Minyard’s displeasure (FF has not yet figured out when the pin will drop and Andrew will come at him. The man is a stone wall but FF knows that Andrew doesn’t like him and that knowledge is confirmed every time Andrew and Captain Neil come into Nicky’s dorm and find FF there hanging out with Nicky and he sees both Andrew and Captain Neil frown at him.)

It’s just that it takes 7-10 business days for him to build up the nerve to have to call someone and deal with customer service and it would take more bravery than he currently has to press forward and actually get a flight that would WORK. He has a very limited window for when he can get to Washington. HIs Gran had called a friend to borrow a car to pick him up and that was only available during a 6 hour window on his arrival date.

He COULD get a taxi to his Gran’s house but… (“What if I get kidnapped, what if I get trafficked, how do I tell a normal taxi from a taxi that will take me to a place where I’ll wake up in an ice bath and down a kidney, what if the taxi driver doesn’t like me, what if the taxi driver wants to talk, I don’t have anything interesting to say! What if he says mean things about me in his native language on the phone and I have to pretend that I don’t know what he’s SAYING?)… he’d probably die during the hour long ride from the anxiety.

He tells his Gran and she promises to get a pie out to him A.S.A.P.

It almost makes him feel better until he remembers what he had agreed to when Andrew came at him at his WEAKEST MOMENT to get him to agree to spend an entire four days at the house in Columbia he has HEARD stories about.

FF, laying face down on the floor in Nicky’s dorm as Nicky pats his back: Nicky next time you see me about to agree to something that will result in me getting killed I NEED you to run up and just punch me in the jaw. I’m begging you. You know I’m a disaster.

Nicky thinking about how Andrew has gotten weirdly protective of FF since the whole step brother incident: I need you to understand that that will result in ME being killed which I am not a big fan of.

FF misunderstanding: My grandma’s not THAT strong Nicky. At most grandmothers from across the country will frown disapprovingly at you.

Nicky thinking about all the little old ladies who dote on FF for inexplicable reasons and how some of them know he’s FF’s friend and give Nicky the grandma experience he had lacked growing up: Somehow that’s even worse than what I was thinking :(

***

Nicky coming to check on FF hours later: Are…are you watching the Saw movies?

FF taking copious notes: I need to prepare myself to survive Columbia. Do you have a basement or will Andrew be moving me to a secondary location?

Nicky walking over and shutting off the TV: I think it’s time to go to bed champ.

FF: If I don’t sleep then Andrew can’t drag me to a secondary location. I bought a 20 pack of five hour energy because that is the most the CVS would sell me.

Nicky: They cut you off??

FF: Yeah the manager there said he’d sell it as a ‘favor’ to a ‘loyal customer’ but to destroy my receipt and I had to buy in cash in case I die from a heart attack so it’s not linked to them. So if I play my cards right I have around 4 days of energy right here. I have looked up all the foods that can make you sleepy and will be avoiding them to stack the deck.

Nicky guiding FF towards his bedroom: Y’know that includes turkey. Also those five hour energy shots will be murder on your tummy. :(

FF: I am willing to make some sacrifices so I can live to see 19 Nicky. Also I figure I can just drink an entire bottle of Pepto per bottle of five hour energy resulting in a net neutral situation in my stomach.

Nicky tucking FF into bed carefully: Or result in you going to the hospital for an overdose get some sleep Smith. Andrew is not planning on killing you.

FF already falling asleep because his stress energy is running out: You have no idea how much he dislikes me and how much pepto my body can handle but you’re right about going to sleep. I’ll need my strength to power through the reverse bear trap let alone a laser collar.

***

2 of Grandma Smith’s apple pies arrive in the early afternoon of Thanksgiving via a little old lady turning up at Abby’s house who is a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend of Grandma Smith. The Foxes take a moment to marvel that somehow it is still warm despite apparently having been Granny expressed across the country despite the storm.

The delivering old lady pinches FF’s cheek and says not to be too disheartened and that his Grandma loves him and will see him for Christmas Break for SURE. She hands him a little note his Gran sent with the pies and he pointedly does not read it there.

This would make FF happy if he hadn’t been swearing up down left and right that he didn’t TALK to his grandma to Andrew whose eyes he can FEEL on him.

He manages a “THANKS.” In a perfectly normal tone. He has no memory that he already told Andrew and Captain Neil that he was spending the holiday with his grandma since he had blue screened at the offer last time and had rebooted in safe mode to power walk away from the situation.

“Your grandma is really nice.” Captain Neil says. “Those pies look good.”

FF, his anxiety momentarily overridden by a soul-deep love for his grandma, “My gran is the BEST and so are her pies.” And then he hears what he has said and walks back into Abby’s house to set out one pie for everyone else and goes and stress eats the second one on the living room couch after he promised Abby he’d clean up any mess.

He wonders if he’ll make it to Christmas Break as he sees Kevin Day staring at him in abject horror while Andrew stares straight at him.

Even with the attention on him he decides to check the note the other granny had given him from his Gran. It is in her native polish so he feels his shoulders relax since no one would be able to read it.

‘For my little Chicken, this isn’t your last meal like you texted me. I know you will be fine. I am thankful for you in my life every day.’

He tucks the note in his pocket and feels a little better.

Per your requests:

@i-have-three-feelings @blep-23 @dreamerking27 @andreilsmyreligion @belodensetdust @rainbowpineapplebottle @yarn-ace @iwouldlikesometea @lily-s-world @obscureshipsandchips @booklover242 @whataboutmyfries @sahturnos

#Fluent Freshman AU #Andrew is a man who can't help but be impressed when someone can put away an entire pie #Kevin is a man who is planning an entire diet plan for FF because JFC he's not going to let there be 2 ANDREWS #Nicky is jonsing for a slice but Abby won't let him have one until after dinner #FF gets to eat the pie because he's so visibly distraught about not seeing his gran and Abby's heart aches for him #FF gets to eat a pie on her couch #As a treat #Besides FF is down like 4 pounds he needs the weight #AFTG #AFTG AU #AFTG OC #AFTG shitpost #AFTG Fic #My Fic #andreil #FF - Pt. 08

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rachiecrown · 6 months

Note

I dont fully remember what the og ask was but im p sure it was smth like

Hotguy and Cuteguy fighting for mumbos (a civilian) attention

Could be villain v hero, vigilante v hero, vigilante v villain, both on the same team

HEEHEEHOO THIS was so fun to write honestly :33 freakin have some villain Grian and hero Scar fighting over the silly civilian reporter with a mustache they both have crushes on!!

Also btw I used Xelqua for Grian instead of Cute Guy cause I feel like the resident supervillain would not appreciate having matching names with his arch nemesis.

---

Today was a perfectly average day. The temperature was nice, not too hot to sweat, not too cold to wear a coat. People made their way to and from work, here and there from places in the shopping district. Traffic wasn't too bad and the sun was about to reach its solar noon.

Everything, today, was normal, and Mumbo hoped to the high heavens above it would stay that way. Now, that was an odd wish for someone of his occupation, but nowadays all Mumbo wished for was just a bit of normalcy.

Mumbo was a journalist, you see, but not on mundane topics like coffee shops or pigeons (not like they were boring, no, they were plenty interesting in their own ways). He followed the stories and fights between heroes and villains as up close and personal as possible, even risking his life several times in the process.

At first, it had been an exciting job to follow fights both big and small with his fancy camera in one hand and his motorcycle's handles in the other, weaving through traffic dangerously and filming the way the most powerful hero and villain fought together above traffic. The hero lived up to his name, Hot Guy, with his majestic hair and his somehow beautiful scars, and the villain, Xelqua, was stunning with his white wings and graceful movements.

It had all gone downhill the day Mumbo got caught between a violent fight between the two. His adrenaline had peaked that day, he thought he was really gonna die! But for some inexplicable reason Hot Guy and Xelqua stopped their fighting, showing some sort of immediate interest in the journalist. Mumbo honestly believed he would never be scared again after that day.

Weeks and months passed, either one or the other of the powered menaces finding Mumbo and causing all sorts of mischief to surround him. Three months ago, all Mumbo wanted was a shot as a journalist to earn good money.. but today, all he wanted was a sense of peace and normalcy.

"Well, well, well." Well, there goes that wish. "If it isn't mister Mumbo." Ohh, great, he knows my name now. Mumbo turned around slowly to face the one and only Xelqua. The villain had his hands folded behind his back, his wings spread behind him as he took a few steps towards Mumbo.

"Well well whoopsie, looks like I'm in the wrong place at the wrong time." Mumbo muttered, turning back around to continue walking. He was stopped by silky gloves grabbing his shoulders and Xelqua putting his chin on Mumbo's shoulder from behind. "Don't be a party pooper, pretty boy." Xelqua cooed. Mumbo just slipped out of his grasp. "Listen, I'm sure you understand time constraints, I have somewhere to be." Mumbo lied.

Xelqua basically wilted at this. "You're saying you don't want to spend time with me?"

"When did I ever want to do that?" Mumbo shot back.

"Well hello there!" A third voice sounded.

Mumbo wanted to scream.

Hot Guy approached the two with a lopsided smile, his hand going to Xelqua's face and pushing him away. "Is this horrible, horrible villain bothering you? Do you need a safe escort to wherever you're going?" Hot Guy wondered. Mumbo glared at the two. "I have a lunch to get to before I get hungrier. Now if you'll excuse me-"

Mumbo turned on his heel, only for both of his arms to be grabbed by two pairs of hands. "I'll go with you!" Xelqua shouted, siding up to Mumbo. Hot Guy pulled Mumbo away from Xelqua, picking him up bridal style. "No, I'll get you where you need to go, safe and sound!" He proclaimed. Mumbo just sighed. "Here we go again.."

Hot Guy turned and ran the second Xelqua reached for Mumbo. "So where do you need to go, Mumbo?" He asked, his mechanical glider unfolding and letting him take flight. Oh, wonderful, you know my name too. Well, as long as this gets me where I'm going and you leave me alone, I'll accept it. Mumbo thought. "Shopping district, food court on Ninth Street." Mumbo said. At least this was free transportation.

Mumbo looked around and spotted Xelqua, soaring after Hot Guy with an upset look on his face. Mumbo sighed. "Xelqua on your seven." He exasperated, in which Hot Guy turned quickly around a corner and set Mumbo down. "I will defend you, beautiful citizen!!" He shouted boisterously, striking a pose just seconds before Xelqua tackled him

The two went tumbling into an alley. Mumbo, truly, was unfazed. He snapped a photo of the two wrestling for the news before he turned and walked towards his lunch spot, which was luckily only a block away now.

All I want is one day. One day! But noo, these two utter buffoons have to bother the ever living bits out of me. I'm chuffed, and not in the good way today. Mumbo's internal dialogue spoke as he entered the shop and made his order. He sat at a table near the back. Ugh, he couldn't even enjoy window views anymore because of those two..

Whatever. He had his food, and that was a good thing. Customers came and went as Mumbo filled up, slowly becoming more content with his day again..

..until Xelqua entered the shop.

There were shouts and screams from civilians as Xelqua spotted Mumbo and made his way towards the back. Mumbo would've let himself faceplant into his dish if he wouldn't get dirty. Xelqua stopped in front of his table and held up a thorny rose that was so very clearly picked from someone's rose bush.

"I'm sorry about Hot Guy ruining our special day," Xelqua said, "please take this rose!"

Mumbo stared at Xelqua incredulously. "What kind of stunt is this then!?" He blurted out. Xelqua pushed the rose forward. "I'm not taking the flower! It's full of thorns!" Mumbo then shouted.

The shop's door chimed again as Hot Guy entered, sauntering his way over to Mumbo and shoving Xelqua out of the way with a bouquet of red carnations. Hot Guy placed the bouquet in Mumbo's arms and procedurally messed up the mustached man's hair in the process.

"Is he bothering you?" Hot Guy basically cooed. Xelqua squawked in offense and grabbed Hot Guy's hair, pulling it, causing the hero to shout and grab back at Xelqua. Mumbo simply watched apathetically. Weeks ago, he would be flustered beyond no end, probably folding in on himself and unable to properly take the attention, but he came to realize in this moment that he had become desensitized to the antics the hero and villain put up.

Goodness, these two made Mumbo feel less like himself with each encounter. He dropped the flowers on the table and stood, snatching up his food and walking out as the two fools fought behind him. Being around them really just drained his energy, now.

It was hours later when Xelqua pulled off the stupidest stunt of them all, and Mumbo found himself stuck in an abandoned apartment in a pile of pillows with the villain curled around his torso. Despite his apathy towards Xelqua and Hot Guy fighting over him and getting him flowers, he could at least admit that his face felt a bit hot at how Xelqua's head rested on his chest and how his leg crossed over his waist.

Mumbo could only groan in defeat at the desperate antics of the avian. Whatever. He could maybe give in just a little bit, right? Not like this would matter once Hot Guy found this place and distracted Xelqua enough so he could make his escape.

Hesitantly, Mumbo let his hand hover over Xelqua's head. His mind distantly brought up the idea of pulling Xelqua's hair to get him off, but he mentally shot that down, as that would really only make the avian angry. He was a highly dangerous villain, after all.

He let his hand settle on Xelqua's halfway up hood. It would be a small gesture for anyone else, but to Mumbo it was a huge step of faith that the villain wouldn't get even more lovey over him.

Thinking back, this was probably a mistake.

Mumbo and Xelqua jumped as the door slammed open. "So this is where you've taken him!! You scoundrel!! You menace!!" Hot Guy shouted, pointing at the now incredulous Xelqua who held his head up with a look of shock on his half covered face. "How did you even find us!?" Xelqua shouted, which Hot Guy marched over and shoved the screen of his phone in Xelqua's face. "I tracked his phone!"

Mumbo cringed at that. Is that how Hot Guy's able to find me so easily? He was grabbed and lifted by Hot Guy, which Xelqua shrieked and grabbed Mumbo's arm. This quickly resulted in a tug of war with Mumbo as the rope.

"He's mine! I had him first!"

"guys-"

"Let go of him, you fiend!!"

"you both, please-"

"I kidnapped him fair and square!"

"Well I'm here to rescue him!!"

"BOTH OF YOU!!!'

Mumbo yanked his arms away from the two and pulled in on himself. He was about to make a horribly stupid negotiation. "You two either get along and share me on that pillow nest right there-" he pointed past Xelqua, "or none of you will receive any positive emotion from me! Ever!"

The hero and villain both stared at the journalist, and something inside Mumbo's mind screamed at him for saying such a stupid thing. He already began to get nervous by the time the two shared a glance.

"Fiiiine.." Xelqua rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. Hot Guy kicked idly at the floor with a pout. "..maybe I could share.." he mumbled out.

And that was how Mumbo found himself more flustered than he'd like to admit in the grasps of two extremely powerful people who were just so oddly infatuated with him. Xelqua laid with his head tucked under Mumbo's arm, his left arm over Mumbo's stomach and his legs linked around Mumbo's right thigh. Hot Guy had opted to tuck Mumbo's left side into his chest with his right arm over Mumbo's chest and his left pillowing Mumbo's head. One of Xelqua's wings covered the three of them together, blanketing them in a sort of nice warmth that Mumbo didn't know could come from wings.

The journalist could practically feel the animosity radiating off the two, but he could really care less about their feelings for each other. He rested one hand in Xelqua's hair, and the other on Hot Guy's hand. Both the villain and hero made pleased noises at the touches. Mumbo rolled his eyes. "Goodness, the both of you are complete dorks."

Mumbo would just pretend that his cheeks weren't bright pink.

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kawaoneechan · 6 months

Text

You'll believe a cat can do game design

So many Superman games suck hard time or inexplicably depower the Man of Steel. But if you don't depower him there's not much gameplay left, right? So I've been thinking, what would make a possibly good Superman game? And I came up with the following.

First, it's an open-world, free roam thing, set in and probably limited to Metropolis, though for story reasons there may be other places sometimes (the moon, Gotham, whatever). You go around, either flying freely as Superman or low-key on the ground as Clark, and every so often there's a call for help. You can respond, and stop a mugger or rescue a kitten from a tree. Just standard "superhero's slow day" bullshit. If you're playing as Clark though you have to play carefully lest your secret identity is blown.

Now, Supes lives in a world of cardboard (remember that scene?) so you can't expect him to punch a mugger and have the mugger survive. My proposal is twofold: first, punch impacts scale with the target. Second, merely tapping the button does less damage than holding it. So when fighting a mugger, you gotta take care to only tap the button lest you turn the man to paste. Unless of course you want to rather play as Homelander. You monster. Similarly, heat vision -- you want to intimidate the mugger into running? Tap the heat vision button to do the glowing eyes of doom thing. But hold the button and the mugger dies in pieces.

(@letrune suggested earlier that you get one freebie. The first time you ketchup a mugger, you see him slump against the wall or whatever, blood decals and all. The black cutscene bars appear as Superman angrily turns to face the player. "You get one free shot." Fade to white, and the mugger gets up dazed and afraid, without any blood decals.)

So basically instead of worrying about your health bar, since the muggers and most environmental hazards do quickly regenerated chip damage at best, you have to worry about your reputation bar. Killing people or causing property damage hurts, even if not physically. Except for that one free shot.

Then the special story missions come in. Finish an objective that requires use of super powers, but as Clark. Find someone/something, using your X-ray vision or super-hearing. Race the Flash (it only happened like... several times in the comics? Also, super-speed would be depicted as the world around you slowing down since you'd need super-reflexes to go with it, so Barry looks like he's just running normally as far as you're concerned.)

And then the heavy hitters come in. And the kryptonite. And you notice that tapping the punch button does way more damage now, because your attacks are scaled to your opponent. And you very quickly notice that your health bar does go down now.

On the other hand, a fair bit of environmental damage is now allowed without reputation loss.

Until that mission is over and everything scales back. Back to the world of cardboard. Unless, again, you think Homelander is the better superhero. You monster.

Add on top of this a bunch of useless cosmetics and you got yourself a Good Game.

#superman #game design

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calaofnoldor · 3 years

Text

What’s Mine

Characters: Sam x F!Reader, Dean

Words: 7,595

Summary: The secret you and Sam are hiding from Dean is threatened by your inability to keep your hands off each other.

Warnings: 18+ no actual smut but plenty of implied smut, pre-smut, and smut adjacency lol, secret dating, enemies to lovers, jealousy and possessiveness (exhibited by both sam and reader), slight obsession with sam’s big ass hands (i blame this largely on @walkerboy290‘s glorious hand porn gif sets), and language

A/N: inspired by and written for @thinkinghardhardlythinking bc she’s been bugging me to write smut and using her birthday as a bargaining chip, so i hope you’re happy sai. happy (belated) birthday babe! i suppose in my subconscious need to truly honor you, this became the longest one shot i’ve ever written... that and this is now also a little birthday gesture for the brilliant and beautiful @sams-sass (damn your close birthdays!) even though she never asked for smut (if you hate it, i’ll write you something else!) happy birthday to you too, darling!

also written for @superbadassnatural‘s 333 badass followers celebration with the prompt “___ and I are together.” “Yeah, right, and I’m Santa.” and @writethelifeyouwant‘s 300 follower fic challenge with the prompt “All the pretty girls like Samuel” (both prompts are bolded in the fic) i’m sorry i’m so late! congratulations to both of you and thanks for letting me enter your challenges!

[basically i have a lot of people to blame for this disaster 😂]

Square Filled: Secret Dating for @spnfluffbingo and Enemies to Lovers for @girl-next-door-writes Make Me Feel Bingo

MASTERLIST

The waffles on your plate are surprisingly good for a sketchy, 50’s-themed diner, but unfortunately your attention is elsewhere. In fact, the two distinctly masculine voices behind you have been obnoxiously impairing your ability to savor the buttery, syrup-doused carbs since their owners sat down in the adjoining booth. It’s the topic of their discussion that disturbs you, and nips at your conscience until you realize you can no longer take off without imparting a few words to your oblivious colleagues.

Turning your head subtly to the side, you try to catch a glimpse of the men you’re about to confront in your peripheral vision. From what you can see, they’re both rather burly, a little rough around the edges, and from what you’ve heard, recklessly cocksure. You know the type all too well. Being a lone hunter of the fairer sex for most of your life means you’ve long since learned that the best way to combat their kind is with a steadfast façade of thick skin and unwavering confidence.

So you sigh and put on your best smile before turning around, crossing your forearms along the top of the booth seat, “Listen fellas, I hate to interrupt, but I really wouldn’t bother with the bamboo dagger and Shinto priest if I were you.”

“And who the hell are you?” the one with shorter hair demands. He’s a bit stockier than his companion and has a face that looks like it was designed by Abercrombie and Fitch - well that explains the arrogance.

“I’m the person who’s about to save your asses evidently,” you respond with a smug grin, trying not to let their absurdly good looks deter your act.

Abercrombie’s partner, the Fabio wannabe, releases a quiet scoff, “And how are you gonna do that?” he questions dubiously.

“By letting you in on a little secret…” Throwing him a tight smile, you lean forward and lower your voice, “That ōkami you’re after? It’s not an ōkami, it’s a ghoul.” Sitting back, you await the outrage.

“What?! But that’s not possible, I checked the lore. And it’s obviously got a type.” Fabio’s glossy chestnut locks fall across his delicate features as he shakes his head in disbelief, and you almost snort out loud. How did this amateur expect to hunt with hair like that?

You look him over, taking in the broad shoulders and muscled arms, as well as the obvious height advantage he’s got over Abercrombie even whilst they’re both seated. To be honest, you’re surprised he’s referencing lore at all. Guys his size always assume they can either outman or outgun whatever obstacles cross their path, and they almost never take women like you seriously, despite your ample years of acquired knowledge and invaluable experience. It’s this experience that surmises a bit of antagonism here is inevitable, so you might as well get a head start.

“Yeah well maybe you should check again, big guy,” you glance down at his hands, your first mistake as their sheer size render you speechless and subsequently agitated at yourself for the momentary lapse of visceral lust, but the show must go on, “Make sure those giant, lumbering hands of yours don’t fumble over anything important or you might miss the connection to Isabelle Harding. You see it’s not ‘a type’; it’s revenge.”

“Wh- Bu- I looked through the files. I wouldn’t have missed that,” Fabio insists.

“Oh yeah? Why don’t you type ‘Isabelle Harding’ and ‘1987 school bombing’ into your search bar and see what comes up?” you gesture towards the laptop on their table with a raised brow. Minutes later, both men are dumbfounded by the revelation on the screen, staring between it and you with their mouths agape.

You chuckle silently at their faces, “Don’t worry, there’s no need to thank me. Although you rookies might wanna go home and let the more experienced hunter finish up here.” As you’re about to bid them farewell, you dip back in to add, “Oh and a word of free advice, maybe don’t discuss supernatural monsters quite so loudly in public spaces next time. It might invite unwanted attention.”

With that, you turn around and slap some cash down next to your unfinished waffles, before grabbing your jacket and strutting out the door.

Sam is left in utter confusion. The sudden animosity you had spouted his way seems completely baseless and unwarranted. Had he somehow offended you? Sam generally considers himself a highly respectful and fairly easy-going guy, not quite as hot-blooded as his brother, and thus not as likely to provoke such antipathy from a complete stranger. To make matters worse, he certainly can’t deny that something about you had registered within his subconscious as inexplicably attractive, despite the way you’d embarrassed him. In his flustered and slightly aroused state, it had been all he could do to remain awestruck in his seat and stare blatantly at your ass as you walked away.

The next time Sam sees you is only twelve hours later and no less humiliating. You’re mid-swing in the killing blow against what you had accurately predicted to be a ghoul as he and Dean tumble in. Despite the low lighting, Sam is once again stupefied by your raging beauty, augmented by the incredible skill you’re displaying in a much more physical sense this time around. Before he can drag his eyes away, there’s a collective shout of “watch out!” and suddenly you’re right in front of him. In a blur of events, you somehow manage to push Sam out of the way and successfully decapitate the unexpected second ghoul that had been sneaking up behind him, with only a slice across the arm to show for it.

“Didn’t I tell you two to go home?” You’re panting from the exertion and Sam’s gaze lands on the neckline of your shirt, skewed from the fight and revealing a good amount of cleavage. He quickly averts his eyes. What is happening? Sam can’t remember the last time anyone had evoked such a staggering reaction from him. He feels as if he’s a mere spectator in his own body.

Across from him, you press your hand against the wound and curse when it comes back covered in blood. At your groan of pain, Sam finally finds his voice again, “Shit. I’m so sorry! I don’t know how I missed that other one. I- that normally doesn’t happen.”

“Yeah, I bet that’s what you say to all the girls, huh?” you reply offhand, still a bit out of breath.

It’s easy for Sam to dismiss your mocking given that he feels terribly guilty for being the cause of your injury. From where he’s standing, the cut looks deep. “Here, at least let me stitch it up for you. It’s too awkward a position for you to do it yourself,” he offers, holding out his ginormous hands to you like he’s waving a white flag.

“I think you’ve done enough damage for one day, haven’t you, big guy? At this point, I’d rather Abercrombie over there be the one behind the needle.”

“Who- what?” are the first words Dean speaks since the action has died down.

You turn to face the shorter guy, “Oh don’t look so surprised. You might as well be the model for a slightly older Ken doll. Are you up for it or not?”

Dean’s mouth hangs open as he tries to determine whether he should feel flattered or insulted.

“Uh- actually, I’m better at stitches than my brother,” Sam butts in.

“With those jumbo, fumbling hands? Yeah, sure you are, big guy,” you decline skeptically.

“It’s Sam,” he states through a clenched jaw.

“OK, Sam. Since I just saved your life, you mind making yourself useful and burning those bodies while your bro puts my arm back together? You know, as a ‘thank you’ perhaps?”

Sam is stunned for the third time that day. No one has ever belittled him (whilst gratuitously attacking his size) insofar without any apparent reason. It seems as though his very existence upsets you and the arbitrariness of your contempt has caused an anger to stir beneath him, but beyond that lies bewilderment and irritation. How had he managed to accomplish two such massive mistakes in front of you in the span of so short a time? Perturbed and bitter, Sam silently sets to work on the bodies.

Meanwhile, you’ve come to a surprising realization as Dean begins to cut the fabric of your flannel away from your damaged arm, the name ‘Sam’ and the words ‘my brother’ resounding in your head, “Wait a second- there’s no way… you’re not… the Winchesters, are you? Sam and… Dean?”

“The one and only, sweetheart.” He sends you a dazzling smile that is as perfect as you’d expect, but within his eyes is an underlying poignancy that you recognize as clear as day: an indication of a traumatic past and a lifetime spent plastering on tough veneers. You notice as well how gentle his touch is and how his stitches are practiced and prudent. Perhaps you had judged him too hastily.

Through an incredulous chuckle, you retort, “Well I can’t say I didn’t expect more from you, but at least this’ll get me a free round of drinks at the hunters’ pub tonight.”

Dean laughs with you before sobering at the thought of how his baby brother must be feeling, “Hey listen, take it easy on Sammy, alright? I don’t know what’s gotten into him today but he’s not usually like this. He’s actually the smart one, believe it or not.”

Scoffing, you can’t help but smile back at Dean and soon find an easy rhythm with the older Winchester, despite your awkward introduction.

From several yards away, however, Sam looks wistfully back to see you smiling lightheartedly at something Dean’s said, the two of you huddled in close proximity as his brother’s hands drift across your bare skin. Something akin to envy bubbles within his chest although he’s aware it makes no sense, so with a frown, Sam does his best to shake it off and get back to work.

But it’s not easy to forget you. And just as Sam is beginning to think he’s rid that awful day from his memory, you pop back into his life three months down the line.

“Well, if it isn’t the overgrown hunter extraordinaire Sammy Winchester.” The sarcasm that oozes from your otherwise beguiling voice has him gritting his teeth in no time.

“It’s Sam.”

“So you here to mess up my hunt again, Sam?”

Although he wishes he could have been the bigger man instead of surrendering to the resentment you roused within him, after a couple repeated hatchet burying attempts fall through, Sam just can’t resist the little game you’ve started.

Over the next few months, you and Dean form a fortuitously close bond and the older Winchester develops a habit of calling you up when faced with a troublesome hunt, and vice versa. Despite Sam’s fabricated displeasure, a show he puts on mostly for Dean (since any other emotion would seem illogical given the way you treat him), Sam is peculiarly and begrudgingly excited to see you every time. But the match never ends. In fact, Sam lets it intensify each time you work together, always astounded by how you manage to get him so worked up.

“I’m telling you, it’s a rugaru!”

“Right, because the last time we listened to you, things worked out so well,” you remark sardonically.

“The lore says-“

“Ooh, quoting the lore again now are we, Mr. Know It All?”

At this point, Sam is about as huffy and puffy as the big bad wolf and if he were a cartoon character, there’d surely be steam erupting from his ears. “Look, Y/N, this isn’t about who knows more or who’s right; this is about saving those people’s lives!”

“You think I don’t know that? Was I not the one who saved your life the first time we met?”

“OK, alright, just shut up you two!” Dean finally shouts above you, “Would it kill you to just get along for two seconds?”

“No,” Sam admits.

“Probably,” you say at the same time, causing Sam to shoot you his overly perfected bitch face.

SIX MONTHS LATER

“What the fuck?!” Dean’s booming voice echoes throughout the bunker and moments later you and Sam come flying into the kitchen to answer his call, guns at the ready.

“What? What is it?” you ask while Sam scans the room.

A whimper is the only the way to describe the sound of Dean’s reply, as he points toward an unseen object on the floor. Edging toward him, you lower your gun in the direction of his finger until you discover the source of Dean’s distress.

With a sigh, you look toward Sam who is also exhaling in relief at the sight of the entity in question. The two of you share a moment of wordless conversation before simultaneously dropping your guns with a conclusive nod.

“Why does this feel like déjà vu?” Dean’s tone is still timid and appalled, and you nearly laugh at the idea of a grown-ass man looking so aghast because of a used condom.

“Because it kinda is…” you supply unhelpfully, earning yourself a small glare from the man beside you.

“Dean,” Sam begins with a deep breath, “There’s something we have to tell you… Y/N and I are together.”

The snort that escapes Dean is full-bodied and borderline psychotic, “Yeah, right, and I’m Santa!”

You wait till his snickering subsides, “No, it- it’s true.” Your voice is hesitant yet hopeful, “We’re not joking. We’ve kinda become… a thing.”

“A thing?”

“Yeah, well you know, I don’t wanna have to put a label on it or-“

“Y/N’s my girlfriend,” Sam declares with conviction as he reaches out to curl his long fingers around your waist and lasso you towards him.

“-Buuuut, that is the one I’d use if anyone asks,” you quickly affirm with a stiff pat to your boyfriend’s abdomen, wincing at the unversed attempt of PDA and missing the dimpled grin that crosses Sam’s amused features.

“Well, I don’t buy it. I don’t believe either of you.” Dean’s sturgeon face comes on strong as he shakes his head and points a challenging finger at you, “Kiss him, right now,” he dares with perked brows.

The eye roll you respond with is so dramatic your entire head moves with it. But then, without a moment of pause, you turn your body into Sam’s, reach up to grab the back of his neck and pull him down for a searing kiss. Now this is something you’re well-versed in. The reunion of your lips starts off relatively slow, but it doesn’t take long to escalate into something more fiery that involves tongue, the eager push and pull movements of your bodies, and Sam’s enormous hands cradling your head.

After a moment of shock, Dean objects, “Alright, alright, I get it! That’s enough of that!”

Unwilling to recede just yet, you linger in the kiss for a little longer, delaying your separation by nibbling down on Sam’s lower lip and tugging gently, only releasing it as you pull away torturously slow. When the two of you finally open your languid eyes, it’s to stare into each other’s dilated pupils and ponder the moment for an indiscernible minute.

“What th- I said, I get it! Now could please stop ogling each other before my lunch comes back out the wrong way?!”

But the way Sam’s smiling at you is addictive and you can’t bring yourself to look away until he forces a break by leaning in to plant a tender kiss upon your forehead before tucking you into his side as he faces his brother again.

Dean’s face is covered by his hand, “I’m gonna need a minute. I just-“ His features leap through a range of expressions as he tries to find the right words, “When the hell did this start anyway? I thought you two couldn’t stand each other?”

“Yeahhh, that was mostly an act. Although we bought it at first too,” you explain with a shrug.

“We weren’t pretending the whole time. It just kind of happened and we didn’t really know how else to act around each other by then,” Sam adds.

“Right, basically it turns out there’s a fine line between love and hate... and that line is hardcore yearning.” Your words bring a chuckle to Sam’s lips but his brother still looks out of sorts.

Shaking his head with closed eyes, Dean sighs, “Alright, can someone just explain to me exactly how this happened, because I’m still not computing here. But spare me the details and try to keep it PG-13,” he emphasizes with adamant hand gestures.

“How do you know it’s not PG-13?” you inquire with a held-back laugh.

“Ha. With the way you two were playing tonsil hockey just now, I can tell you’ve been around the bend way more than I wanna know. My little brother doesn’t kiss like that on the first date.”

It’s impossible to hold back a giggle at the memory of your ‘first date’ and the way Sam had kissed you, “OK well, that would be hard, considering the story involves a lot of sex... You wanna give it a go, big guy?” you pass the ball over to Sam with a quirked brow and lowered voice, to which he responds with narrowed eyes and pursed lips, a little warning glance that you’re well aware means ‘save it for the bedroom’ but you simply smirk up at him.

‘Big guy’ used to be a term you called Sam in contempt, but when the feelings between you evolved and a sexual relationship developed, it became an innuendo, such that calling him ‘big guy’ in front of Dean or in public almost always results in glorious sex. In fact, sometimes you believe the nickname has held a slightly obscene connotation for you since the beginning.

Afterall, your carnal longing for him has been present from day one, although at the time you had believed it to be purely physical. Sure, you had dreams about having him in various positions in your bed, but you figured those were merely betrayals of your subconscious mind. That was until one day, a heated argument in a rare moment alone had ended up in a violent make out session, after which the two of you had just barely gotten the last of your clothes back on before Dean walked in. One look at your worked up and frenetic states alongside the disordered condition of your surroundings, and he immediately assumed you’d been fighting again (which wasn’t terribly far from the truth), chortling as he asked if you would have killed each other had he returned a bit later.

With a clearing of his throat, Sam begins to recount the tale, “Uh, well it started in that motel in South Carolina, while you were out getting food…”

“Look, all I’m saying is there is no way he’s using the hospital as a dump site! It’s just not feasible!”

With complete disregard for the peace and quiet of the other residents within this thin-walled motel, you and Sam once again find yourselves in a shouting match.

“Oh right, I forgot! You’re Sam Winchester! How could you POSSIBLY be wrong?! Mister ‘look at me, my IQ and LSAT score match my fucking height! Oh and I also happen to have the physique of an Adonis without even owning a gym membership!’” you roar bitterly, gesticulating with your hands to help better communicate your pent-up indignation.

“Right and you’re Y/N Y/L/N, so how could YOU possibly be wrong? Miss ‘look at me, I never went to college but I’m a genius AND I can kick ass! Oh and I also happen to look effortlessly stunning through it all!’” Sam suddenly seems bigger than ever as he towers over you, that panty-soaking deep voice emanating from his diaphragm and infusing itself throughout the entire room until all you can see, hear, and breathe is Sam.

The fury takes over and you don’t notice your feet taking you closer to him, “Oh yeah because you don’t make EVERYTHING you do look so unnecessarily hot and make me wanna rip your clothes off all the damn time!”

“Fuck! And you don’t always drive me crazy when we have these stupid arguments and your chest starts heaving and you look so insanely delectable I just wanna pick you up and fuck you against the closest surface!” By now, the distance between you is essentially nonexistent and your brain is no longer run by reason.

“So why don’t you then?” are your famous last words, prompting Sam to grab you wildly by the back of a thigh, lifting slightly and driving you to climb up him like a spider monkey fleeing from a grounded predator, while his other hand pushes your hair aside to gain better access to your face. Your mouths clash in a fierce battle and before you know it, Sam’s huge hands are cupping your ass as your legs wrap around his waist and you rut into him, hands flying from his shoulders to his hair. Those divine chestnut locks that you’ve always dreamed of running your fingers through. They’re somehow even softer than you imagined and the revelation, in conjunction with the way Sam’s tongue is becoming increasingly aggressive causes a fresh surge of libidinous energy to rocket through you. As a result, you give his silky strands an irresistible tug and drink in the moan he makes, the sinful sound reverberating straight down to your core as you clench around nothing.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Sam groans as he grudgingly forces himself to pull back as much as he can, “Are you sure? Is this what you want? Cause I can’t- Y/N I won’t be able to stop myself if we keep going.” His eyes squeeze shut as if the notion of stopping or the act of keeping his lips away from yours is causing him genuine pain, and the entire gesture moves you.

“Fuck, you really are the opposite of everything I thought you would be,” you make a quick mental note to apologize later for your initially presumptuous behavior although you can’t find it within yourself to feel any remorse right now, “Yes, please Sam, fuck me. I want you so bad… I think I have since we met and I saw those gorgeous hands of yours,” you confess, biting your lip lightly.

Sam breathes out a low incredulous laugh, “What, these?” he asks, removing one of the aforementioned hands away from your butt to bring it into your line of vision.

“Yes, fuck they’re so big and beautiful and strong and-“

“Alright, I don’t need to know about your weird hand fetish!” Dean hollers abruptly, rubbing his fingers across his eyes as if he could somehow erase the image of you and his brother together out of his retinas. “OK, but that was like… four months ago. You mean you’ve been sneaking around behind my back this whole time?”

“Well at first we didn’t want to tell you because we weren’t even sure what it was ourselves,” you divulge.

“Yeah, we didn’t want to try to explain something that we didn’t understand yet,” Sam supplements, hoping his brother will understand the motive behind your secrecy.

You nod along, “But then… it got a little harder to hide.”

The apprehension behind Dean’s emerald eyes is unmistakable as he reluctantly inquires, “That’s why this felt like déjà vu?”

It’s with a grimace that you reply, hesitantly, “Remember the time you found those panties in the backseat of the Impala?”

Dean’s eyes grow comically wide and Sam ducks his head in preparation of what’s to come.

“Yeah, there’s a story behind that…”

The click of her heels against the porcelain-tiled foyer irritates you as the three of you stride through her front door. You’re posing as detectives sent to question this overdressed young woman about her late husband, but the moment she lays her eyes on Sam, you reckon she’s forgotten her beloved’s damn name.

“Oh my… lord and savior. Well aren’t you a tall drink of water?” she beholds breathlessly with a seductive bite of her painted ruby lips.

You cough loudly and Dean sniggers, thinking you’re annoyed about Sam getting such commendation and attention during a serious case.

“I know this might be the grief talking, but I would climb you like a tree,” she purrs, sauntering up to Sam with an exaggerated sway of her hips. With her half-lidded doe eyes adorned with dark, fluttery lashes and low, sultry voice, you have to admit she’s quite attractive.

Grinding your teeth as your nails dig into your palms, you glower at the woman unreservedly. She, however, takes no notice, running her hands along Sam’s forearms before gripping at his bicep to lead him toward her living room. “Please, come have a seat, detective. You can ask me whatever you want.” The wink she appends is somehow the final nail in the coffin.

It’s with zero hesitation that you feign the reception of a notification on your phone before declaring, “Oh would you look at that, the uh… Sheriff needs us back at the station, Sam. He says it’s urgent.” You try to keep your tone even, thankful that you all maintained your real first names for these aliases, “Dean, you’re good to conduct this interview on your own, right?” Without waiting for an answer, you trample over to snatch Sam’s other arm and ignoring the horny widow’s gaping mouth, proceed to haul him away.

Dean sends you a strange look but relents, “Uh, yeah I guess, OK.”

As soon as the door closes behind you, your hand shifts down to lace your fingers with Sam’s, marching him towards the Impala with a staunch and mighty purpose. Even Sam’s elongated legs stumble to keep up.

“So uh… when did you give the Sheriff your number?” There’s an edge in his voice that normally disappears when it’s just the two of you.

“Wha- I didn’t. Sam, I just made all that up,” you tell him as you reach the car and open its back door. Pushing Sam inside, you climb in swiftly after him, wasting no time as you straddle his thighs and begin to undress him, only pausing when he looks up at you in adorable, puppy-like confusion.

“Wait, what? Then what are we doing?”

That’s when it finally dawns on you, “Hold on a sec, were you… jealous?” You can’t help but smile, finding it amusing that he’s stewing in his own envy after what you just witnessed.

“No, I just- He was kinda all over you this morning.”

“You mean like the way Mrs. My-Husband-Just-Died-But-I-Wanna-Climb-You-Like-a-Tree was in there?”

“Oh, that’s what this is about?” Sam perks up, the hint of a smug grin ghosting across his lips.

“She was practically holding your hand!”

“That’s what bothered you the most?” He dips his head to catch your eyes and those variegated irises burn into you with an intense, questioning gaze, alight with mischievous curiosity.

“They’re my hands to hold,” you contend with a pout, subconsciously clenching your thighs around his as you seize one of his large hands with two of your much smaller ones, “Just like you’re my tree to climb.”

Sam’s head falls back in bright laughter, “I thought you said they were ‘oversized’ and ‘ungainly’?” he teases, quoting your previous slights.

“You know I only said that cause Dean was there.”

“I’m pretty sure you called them ‘fumbly’ and ‘lumbering’ the first time we met.”

Staring at his fingers as you play with them, you shiver at the memory of how they feel all over you. “That was cause I used to think all hunters with a Y chromosome were cocky, misogynistic assholes who needed to be knocked down a peg or two.”

“But I proved you wrong, right?”

“Fuck yes you did. So, so wrong. And now you’re mine, and I don’t like seeing other people touch what’s mine,” you growl before returning to your earlier task of removing his clothes, pouncing on him when your fingers finally land on bare skin. You kiss him fiercely, swallowing his surprised grunts with glee, and as his hands start travelling from your hips up to your back, holding you tight against him, your lips move down to his pulse point, sucking, licking, and nibbling, “Mine.”

“Fucking Jesus Christ on a cracker! You goddamn rabbits!” Dean squawks in protest as he begins to pace the floor, “Have you no decency?! And in my poor Baby! While I was busy doing all the work, saving lives!”

You roll your eyes at his melodramatics and can feel the tension in Sam’s abdominal muscles as he attempts to restrain his laughter. As if Dean had never taken a break during a case for a stress-relieving quickie before, or hadn’t been at least somewhat grateful to be left alone with a beautiful woman.

His next comment confirms your point, “Although, if I remember correctly that lady was a fox.” After a brief pondering pause and an introspectively appreciative smirk, Dean’s whining resumes, “But seriously! I can’t believe you two! Here I was feeling bad for forcing you to work and live together, hoping you’d eventually learn to get along when this whole time you were shacking up like animals and casually defiling my Baby just because what? Some girl touched Sam’s hand?!”

Feeling emboldened by the catharsis of this long-overdue airing of your dirty laundry, you decide to add to Dean’s exasperation, “Yeah and in the spirit of honesty, that might’ve happened more than once.” Sam tries to hold back his snort as he gives your hip a playful cautionary squeeze while Dean’s feet come to a full stop as he turns to give you a death glare. “Hey, it’s not my fault all the pretty girls like Samuel! And I’m pretty sure we wiped her down after.”

“I don’t even-“ Dean purses his lips and quirks his head with a dynamic expression of unbearable vexation, “You better be getting me pie every day of the week for what you did.“ He takes a deep breath before circling back, “Wait, OK so you’re telling me that a used condom ended up in our kitchen because- what? You two couldn’t keep it in your pants long enough to find a bed? You know what, forget I asked. I don’t wanna know. Did you at least sanitize the place after?? No, of course you didn’t, you left a fucking condom on the floor… I think I’m gonna throw up.”

But you hardly hear Dean’s rambling because you and Sam are far too wrapped up in each other, smiling as you recall the events of that morning.

Your eyes slowly drift open to find the most exalting sight in all the world: Sam Winchester’s sleeping face, blissful and serene. Lifting a hand to gingerly cup his cheek, the corners of your mouth curl up when he leans into your touch. It’s moments like this that make you wish you could wake up next to him every morning.

Only after you’ve traced his every feature and planted a soft kiss where his dimple would be if he were awake and smiling, do you carefully peel yourself from his side, slipping out of his hold as you quietly climb out of bed. Sam rolls over a bit and you freeze with bated breath, watching as his big arm extends out in your direction as if trying to reach for you in his sleep, before stilling again.

Mornings like this are rare and you want him to soak up all the restful sleep he can. Once you’re sure you haven’t woken him, you scan the room for something to cover your naked figure, until your eyes land on the flannel he’d worn the night before. Picking it up, you bring it to your nose and inhale deeply to revel in the residual scent of Sam. Another glimpse at his peaceful, sleeping form has you smiling fondly. God, you are such a goner for that man. It’s becoming hard to reserve your soft looks toward him for private moments alone.

You can barely remember how it happened, but over time, you’d come to learn that Sam is nothing like you originally imagined him to be. He’s kind-hearted and open-minded, the type of soul that can find hope and beauty in even the darkest of places, a far cry from the shallow macho man silhouette you’d expected him to fill. In fact, Sam routinely defies the expectations others have enforced upon him, proving his worth time and time again as he’s persisted through some of what must be the toughest challenges to ever face a single human. Yet through it all, his spirit remains intact, never once yielding to cynicism or resentment or apathy or even the building of walls as you and Dean have resorted to. He is truly the bravest man you know and infinitely more competent than your first fluke of a hunt with him had mistakenly suggested, both in the field and in bed.

Shaking the thoughts from your head, you wrap yourself in plaid and head out the door. Dean never questions your use of Sam’s shirts because ever since Sam firmly insisted on giving you his flannel after your second encounter with them resulted in Dean cutting your own top apart, you’ve grown into a habit of borrowing Sam’s clothes. You always claim they’re more comfortable than your own and Sam’s feigned annoyance over you ‘stealing’ his belongings tides Dean right over.

Half an hour passes before Sam approaches the bunker kitchen to find you with your back towards the entrance, busy prepping breakfast in nothing but his plaid. He pauses in the doorway to stare at you for a minute, licking his lips with an irrepressible smile. For some, this may seem like a stereotypical morning after, but for a couple of hunters, it feels like a dream come true.

After finally returning to the bunker last night following the completion of a series of successful hunts, you’ve got no solid obligations and very little on your to-do lists today, although Sam’s got more than a few ideas about how to pass the time, and a couple more come to mind when you stretch up on your toes to reach for something, causing the hem of his shirt to glide up until its corner reveals just slightest hint of your incredible ass. Sam can’t suppress his little grunt of approval, which catches your attention and makes you turn your head, peering back at him over your shoulder.

You smirk at the blessed view of him standing there in nothing but the pair of thin grey sweatpants you’d bought him a month ago when you discovered the viral online phenomenon, “Hey, big guy. You just gonna stand there and gawk or do you wanna make yourself useful and grab another plate from the top shelf?”

Chuckling at your false animosity, Sam stalks toward you, “Good morning to you too.” One of his vast hands falls upon your hip as he presses the maximum possible length of his body into your back side, while his other hand reaches up over your head to snatch the plate you’d asked for.

“Good morning indeed,” you concur with a silent gasp when you feel the generous bulge in his pants.

“Oh that’s not morning, baby girl,” Sam husks into your ear, “That’s all you.” His powerful arms slink around you and his lips find their way down the side of your neck, lingering in that tender spot just behind your ear whilst you tilt your head and close your eyes, contentedly surrendering yourself to the moment. “I ever tell you how good you look in my shirts?”

Wiggling your butt back to tease him a bit, you’re pleased with the hiss it elicits. “No, but you made it very clear how bad I look in Dean’s,” you counter playfully.

The man behind you scoffs, “I didn’t say you looked bad; you could never look bad. I just… don’t like seeing you wear his clothes.”

“Oh, I know,” you turn around in his arms, “I just don’t understand how Dean doesn’t know yet. I mean, I think you’ve been very obvious.”

“And you haven’t?”

“I’m not the one who leaves hickeys in very visible places all over your body!”

Sam’s eyes glaze over in lust, an idea clearly forming in his head as he glances down at you. “Dean’s a hot-blooded guy; he needs to know you’re off-limits,” he alleges before attacking your throat with his mouth.

“So why don’t we just tell him?”

Without pausing his efforts, Sam reminds you, “Because you said you thought it was kinda hot, all the sneaking around. Mmpf, and because you said you wanted to see how long it would take him to figure it out.”

You nod while running your fingers through his silken strands and leaning back to give him more purchase, “That’s true. But in my defence, we always have this conversation when we’re doing stuff like this and I can’t think straight when your hands and mouth are on me.”

“Kinda like how I can’t think straight when you’re wearing nothing but my shirt?” His kisses travel down from your neck to your collarbone and shoulder as he slides his loosely buttoned flannel off to one side, “Fuck, you’ve got me so hard.”

Without warning, Sam seizes your waist and hoists you into the air as if gravity were an absolute joke, before plopping you down on the edge of the steel counter, his thumbs digging lightly into your ribcage.

“Sam! This is where we eat!” you protest with a laugh.

“Exactly. Which is why I’m gonna devour you here.” He dives back into your neck, continuing his work on a little pink mark that’s already beginning to form.

“Oh fuck… Wait, what if Dean walks in?” It’s through a great struggle that you manage to push him back an inch.

“He’s got a date with the Impala. He’ll be in the garage all day, trust me.” Sam’s gaze sweeps over your body suggestively, “Now are you gonna let me taste what’s mine?”

With an equally lewd survey of his extensive frame, you reply, “As long as you let me impale myself on what’s mine later.”

His eyes darken and the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only person he’s ever wanted ignites a confidence within you, so in a rather swift motion, you grasp him by the shaft through his sweatpants – the delicious groan he emits at your touch is enough to turn your pussy into a slip and slide – and pull him back towards you until the clothed length of him is resting against your folds and your noses brush, while his hands settle naturally on your thighs.

Shivering, your breath stutters and for an instant you can do nothing but bask in the closeness of him. Sam seems to enjoy it too because he closes his eyes as he rests his forehead against yours with an elated sigh. For the second time today, you marvel at his beauty, whispering a string of gasping kisses along his lower eye socket and exquisite cheekbone, simply dying to breathe him in. All of him is so immaculate and sublime. Each time the two of you reconvene, you want to savor every fucking inch of him, but there are a lot of inches, so the task often overwhelms you. Still, you must try. Locking your ankles behind him, you use your legs to pull him even further into you and the friction makes you lose your mind.

“Fuck, baby girl, you keep that up I’ll be making a mess in my pants,” Sam grunts with his lips upon your cheek.

Your breathless laughter fills the air, thinking of the stain you've undoubtedly already left on his charming grey sweatpants. Nimble as he is, Sam takes advantage of your open mouth and plunges his tongue inside. After so much preamble, the kiss is heavy and full of need. When the pressure of his lips pushes your head back, your hands fly to his wrists for the sake of your balance.

From there, they journey upward across his vascular forearms to his bulging triceps, fondling his massive shoulders before sliding along his traps and up the gorgeous length of his perfect neck, until you finally reach the treasure trove of his impeccable locks. You tangle your fingers into the lush mane and yank, gently but zealously, making Sam growl into your mouth. His voice is the hottest thing you’ve ever heard and the sounds he makes always drive you insane.

Never breaking the kiss, Sam’s colossal moose paws roam up to your back as he slowly lays you down on the counter, his member somehow still notched at your entrance and the new angle rousing a quiet moan from you. When he ultimately pulls away, you pitch forward to chase after his lips, but Sam only grants you a devilish grin and a quick peck to the corner of your mouth before moving down to your jaw and neck. While one palm kneads at your breast through his shirt, the other begins pushing and pulling at fabric to uncover more of your skin for his wandering lips.

“Sam! Augh!” you cry out as your head falls back.

“I got you, baby. I’m all yours. Gonna make you feel so good.” As if to attest his words, he rolls his hips into yours and a needy whimper escapes you. With your fingers still twisted in his hair, Sam leaves no part of you untouched as his mouth travels down your body. But upon reaching your navel, he pauses, those vivid, color-changing eyes peeping up at you to check for any signs of discomfort or objection. Finding none, his thick tongue pokes out to lick a deliriously winding path from your belly button to your exposed clit. Then, pushing down tenderly on the insides of your knees to open you up to him, Sam directs you one last look that is both hungry and reverent, “I still can’t believe this is mine.”

Dean had stopped you halfway through your recollection, but it appears that was still too much for him, “What did I do to deserve this?! I feel like I need to go bathe in holy water for a week.”

You and Sam both open your mouths to respond but Dean cuts you off vehemently, “Ba-da-da-da!” His vocalized outcry is complete with animated gestures featuring an accusing index finger. “OK, before you two tell me another traumatizing story, that’s enough of the who, what, when, where, and how… I just need to know why. I mean, is this- are you- …?”

Sensing the protective wheels turning in his head, you decide to put Dean out his misery, “I’m not just with Sam because he’s an incredible lay if that’s what you’re wondering. We can skip the fatherly ‘what are your intentions’ talk. Yes, Dean, I am in love with your little brother… although ‘little’ is not exactly the word I’d use to describe him.”

“Sammy, could you please control your woman?”

“My woman?” Sam sounds mostly amused but you’re almost certain you can hear a hint of pride in his voice.

“Yeah, I admit I’m surprised I didn’t see it until now. You two are kinda oddly perfect for each other, you know, in a weird, kinky way.”

“To be honest, we’re pretty surprised too. I mean, he doesn’t look it but this guy is kind of territorial,” you quip whilst cocking a thumb in Sam’s direction.

“I don’t need to- Wait a minute, so all those bruises you told me were from hunts?” Dean’s eyebrows soar towards his hairline.

Chewing on your lip, you confirm his hypothesis with a miniscule nod.

“Yeah well that time you saw my back,” Sam chimes in vengefully, casting you a handsome grin full of mischief as he reveals, “that wasn’t a werewolf, that was Y/N.”

With eyes as round as dinner plates, Dean frantically shuts you both down, “OK, that’s it. Torture Dean time is over. I don’t wanna hear any more about your depraved sex lives! Look, I guess I’m happy for you guys, although mostly cause I don’t have to play referee anymore, but I’m gonna need you to follow some ground rules around here. Like rule number one! No sex in public places!” he starts counting with his fingers, “Always put a sock on it when you’re busy! And most importantly, no sex in Baby!”

Your laughter follows Dean as he wearily saunters out of the kitchen, an exhausted expression on his face. Turning to your newly outed boyfriend, you petition excitedly, “Does this mean we can have shower sex now?”

“Not while I’m around!” comes Dean’s snappy answer.

In contrast, Sam gives you the same look he did on that dreamy morning, “Oh trust me baby girl, I’m gonna get you wet somehow.”

“Still within hearing distance! I think I liked it better when you guys were at each other’s throats.”

As you’re giggling, Sam leans down to whisper in your ear, “For the record, I’m in love with you too.” And just like that, you’re tempted to re-enact your previous kitchen escapades.

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dameronology · 3 years

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thinking about Javi putting on a necklace for u 🥺and thinking about javi thinking about putting a necklace on u🥺bc it’s so delicate and gentle and he never sees himself that way but now he could get used to it 🥺help🥺

ok this wasn't meant to turn into a fic (or a mini fic??) but u sent me this. and it's all i could think about for days. just me, in self isolation, thinking about javier pena

warning: literally 3 words that allude to adult themes but it's like squint them and u'll miss but...just a warning <3

Neither you nor Javier Pena were entirely sure when your anniversary was.

Given that you had started as friends and not-so-inexplicably morphed into something more, it was hard for you to pin point exactly when you became a thing. It was as though one minute you were merely colleagues, then friends, then you rattled some desk drawers...and now you were living together. It was something that you (and also everyone and their mothers, for that matter) had never thought to be possible. He normally ran away from the idea of commitment and domesticity. It was just wasn't him.

But, with you it had come completely naturally. Javi hadn't spent a second of your relationship hesitating - he'd never had a reason to.

Still, you never expected him to think about anniversaries. You sure as hell didn't remember the specific date; heck, you didn't even know where to start. Was it the first time you kissed? The first time you slept together? How did people decide these things?

It didn't matter. It wasn't important - so you pushed the thought out of your head and carried on with your life.

That was until one particularly warm afternoon in the summer; you and Javi had been living together for six months by that point. The sun was hanging low in the sky, beating down on your back as you trudged from the car to your front door. It was pretty fucking suffocating outside, but inside was worst. You were seriously getting fed-up of Javi's refusal to turn on the air conditioning. Something about it being too noisy, or too expensive, or too-

You stopped in your tracks when you saw Javi sat on the sofa. He had a half empty bottle of scotch next to him - always a sure sign that he was nervous as shit.

"Hey, Jav," you greeted him. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," he cleared his throat.

You thinned your eyes. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm just...did you know that today is our one year anniversary?"

"Huh," you murmured. "That's cool. Well done to use for making it this far, I guess?"

Despite his eye roll, Javi stood up. He circled the coffee table for a minute, before brushing past you and placing his hands on your shoulders.

"Honestly, I didn't even know we were keeping track," you admitted. "I mean, if I wasn't, I assumed that you definitely weren't."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I have to remind you every year of your own dad's birthday," you shot back. "And our beginnings were so all over the place that I don't even know what day counts as our anniversary."

"We had our first kiss on Connie's birthday last year," he began. "That was when I realised I genuinely loved you."

"And it's Connie's birthday today, isn't it?" you replied, eyes flickering over to the calendar on the wall. Fuck. Had you sent a card? Not important.

"It is," he smiled slightly. "I, uh, I got you something."

"Javi," you murmured. "You really didn't have to."

"I did," he quickly shot back.

Pressing a quick kiss to your forehead, the DEA agent backed away from you and turned around. He opened one of the cabinet doors and pulled out a box. Thank fucking god it was the wrong size for a ring. Not that you didn't want to marry Javier, but you hadn't had that conversation. And given that he had run out on his first one? Sure, it had only happened once, but one was still...a lot. Given the magnitude of the event from which he was running, at least.

With slightly shaky hands, you took the box out his hands and opened it.

It was a necklace; a silver chain with a J hanging on it. Nothing too blingy or in your face - just subtle, but breath-taking.

"J," you murmured. "For Javi?"

"It can stand for whatever you want it to, querida, but that is what I had in mind," he replied.

You couldn't help but snort at his sarcasm, despite the situation.

"It's beautiful," you smiled. "I love it. I love you."

Placing on his hands on your shoulders again, Javi spun you around to look in the clumsily hung mirror. He might have been a brilliant marksman and intuitive agent, but his DIY skills were...let's just remember that he's really pretty, okay?

Taking the necklace out the box, he gently put it over your neck, closing the clasp. He let it fall against your chest, giving you a triumphant smile in the mirror.

It was moments like this that he fucking cherished. You made him feel loved - not like a man who spent most of his time chasing drug lords, or an agent who was far too familiar with the colour red. And these hands? The ones that so often clung onto the grip of a gun, white knuckled and shaking and just hoping and goddamn praying that he wouldn't have to pull the trigger.

Then there was you: you tangled your fingers in his, the very ones that had been responsible for more anguish than he could ever deal with. You kissed his scars and held him after long days.

When the world around him felt like it was burning, you were still there. You hadn't let the bloodshed or corruption shake you. You were good.

"You okay, Jav?" you quietly asked.

"Yeah," he softly smiled. "I love you. You know that, right?"

Your eyes met his in the mirror. "Yeah. I do."

#javier pena x reader #javier pena imagine #javier pena x you #javier penia headcanons #javier pena drabble #javier pena reader insert #pedro pascal characters #asks #simone tag

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aliwritesfic · 3 years

Text

The Night Shift part 8 (F!Reader x Frankie Morales)

Summary: It's time to do what's best for you . . . also fuck Kurt

Warnings: physical violence, emotional abuse, brief mention of trauma

W/C: 2.2k

AN: So.... I'll be honest, I was quite sick when I wrote this (and I'm still not 100% but I'm at like 75% which is good enough) but I have a mentality of not editing or revising my work otherwise I embarrass myself and convince myself I'm The Worst(tm), but I hope this makes sense and the pacing is good <3

Spotify

Part 1 Part 9

Frankie was glad to see you finally opening up. Even if that meant tears he couldn’t wipe away, or a hand he couldn’t hold. The last thing he wanted was to put you in a position where you thought the only reason he was helping was to swoop in while you were vulnerable.

You sat next to him in his truck, your eyes were puffy and red from tears that once they started seemed to come in waves of intensity, from a few sniffles to shoulders heaving, gasping for air sobs. Manny sat beside you, holding your hand, which Frankie was grateful for. He was glad to see that you had people that cared about you. When he had messaged Manny that morning, it was more to find out if his suspicions were correct about the ‘friend’ you had talked about while drunk was you.

“You don’t have-“

“We want to,” Manny interjected for the fifth time. It occurred to Frankie that you weren’t used to people wanting to help you. “I’ve been praying that you’ll let me help you.” That made you sob again. You gave another apology, chest heaving as you tried to breathe.

Truthfully, Frankie was also glad that this was an excuse for him to skip talking about his own feelings. His own mind was a muddy mess of flashbacks and night terrors and bouts of anxiety that became so crippling he forgot how to breathe. How well would that have gone down in the little group he now found himself apart of? If he had to guess, about as well as it went down with Portia – pitying looks and urges to see a proper therapist, and a new distance that neither was willing bridge.

Manny answered a call as Frankie drove back. He wasn’t driving anywhere in particular, but when it had become clear you wanted to be anywhere but that bistro, he had suggested the three of you pile into his truck and see where the road took you.

“Mateo, honey, I need to ask you a few things,” Manny said into his phone. Out of the corner of his eye, Frankie saw you lean your head back and squeeze your eyes shut. Frankie wanted to reach out and squeeze your knee, take your hand, do anything to show that he was there, that he wasn’t going anywhere so long as you wanted him around.

Manny’s voice faded into the background as you turned to look at Frankie. He pulled up at a small nature reserve, which was just an algae slicked pond and a few oak trees surrounded by recently mowed grass. Frankie noticed how bloodshot your eyes were.

“You okay?” he asked, realising it was a stupid question.

“I will be,” you said, your voice hoarse. You cleared your throat with a wince. “I’m not upset . . . I’m just overwhelmed. Like, I’ve been holding this all in for so long that once the lid was opened it was impossible to put back on, and now I’ve just gotta let it all out. Does that sound stupid?”

Frankie shook his head. “Not at all.” You smiled weakly at him.

“Bet this is the worst lunch you’ve ever had,” you said.

“Nah, I think it ranks pretty highly,” Frankie said. “Mainly because of the company, though.” You rolled your eyes and Frankie could see the corners of your mouth twitch in an effort to keep a smile away.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” he said softly.

“What isn’t?” You asked, but before he could answer, Manny interjected.

“I’ve found you a new place,” he said. You shot up, confusion written on your face plainly. Manny smiled the type of smile when someone knows they’ve basically saved the day. “That was my dear friend Mateo on the phone. He is taking his first steps towards being a real estate mogul and recently brought a one bedroom apartment to rent out. And because he is such a dear friend and owes me like, a billion favours, I told him the minimum of what your situation was, and he has told me that he’s willing to rent the place to you for lower than market value. A hundred and twenty a week, including water.”

You’re silent for a few moments, and Frankie watched you carefully.

“When can I move in?” you said finally, and Frankie felt an invisible weight lift off your shoulders. He could only imagine how difficult this would be for you; making decisions that would change how you lived in a matter of hours, basically upending your life.

“He can get the keys to us on Wednesday, he’s just got to replace some fixtures and finish painting some walls,” Manny said. You nodded slowly.

“So, I just need to last till Wednesday,” you said.

“You can stay at my place, if you want.” Frankie said quickly, not exactly comfortable with the idea of you staying with Kurt. You had said he was never physically violent, but Frankie also knew how quickly a man could change when they didn’t get their way.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to impose,” you said carefully. Frankie nodded.

“Of course, you’re my friend, and friends help each other.” Just friends. Only friends. He wasn’t going to take advantage of you in this state just because he had a stupid crush. He had once had a conversation with a pissed off Eve Miller, who was ranting about the guys she thought were her friends instantly making moves the moment she became single. That had solidified Frankie’s resolve to not make moves on women he was friends with – it wasn’t fair to them or to him.

Before you could answer, your phone was ringing loudly. Your face crumpled as you looked at the contact, and Frankie frowned.

Kurt.

You took a deep breath and hit answer. “Hey! What’s up?” Your light and airy tone was at odds with your sombre expression. “No, I have lunch with Manny on Sunday, remember? You’re home already? But –“

Frankie listened to the angry buzzing coming from your phone, his revulsion growing.

“My phone died – no I just went out with Sara last night, she wanted to go to fight night . . . it’s not that short . . . No I didn’t fuck anyone else, Jesus Christ, Kurt! No! Look, I’ll be home soon, we can talk about this then.” You hung up with a shaking hand, your mouth twisting with effort to contain the tears.

Manny met Frankie’s eye over the top of your bowed head and gave a small nod.

“We’ll come with you to get some of your clothes,” Frankie said. “And anything else you need.”

“You’re really too sweet for this,” you muttered with a hiccup. “I’m sorry for dragging the both of you into my shit.”

“I crawled willingly into it,” Manny said breezily, “which I would only do for about five people in this world.”

The trio remained silent for several minutes, interrupted only but the sound of your occasional hiccups. Frankie reached out and patted your shoulder awkwardly, cringing internally while he did. Inexplicably, you leant into his touch, your damp cheek brushing against the back of his hand.

“Can you drive me home so I can get my stuff?” you asked softly. Frankie nodded and turned on the truck.

~*~

You were a ball of anxiety as Frankie pulled into the complex’s parking lot. Kurt’s car was already in the spot reserved for your apartment, sending you to the verge of a full-blown panic attack. You squeezed your eyes shut and counted to ten, then backwards from ten. Distantly, you felt Manny take hold of one of your hands.

“You’ve got this.” Manny’s voice sounded far away. “Francisco and I are behind you one hundred percent.”

“You’re calling the shots,” Frankie said, touching your arm. His hand was warm and calloused, and you didn’t know why that observation seemed to be at the forefront of your mind, but it was. You opened your eyes and met Frankie’s warm brown ones, suddenly feeling infinitely stronger.

You told them what you wanted to do – for you to go in by yourself and for them to wait outside the door, plug their ears if necessary, only come in if they felt like you were in any actual danger. Frankie’s face darkened at this, but to your relief he didn’t protest your plan.

You felt stronger with the two of them behind you. Every single step towards your apartment door solidified your resolve that this was the right thing, that this relationship hadn’t made you happy, fulfilled, in years. The click of your key in the door felt like one of finality.

Kurt sat on the couch, glaring at you. You left the door open a crack as you walked in, hovering by the dining table. You took him in fully and came to the conclusion that you were no longer attracted to this man at all. His skin was reddened by the sun, pale patches around his light blue eyes. His thin mouth was curled into a sneer.

“Care to explain what the fuck you’ve been doing while I was gone?” he said.

“Not really, no.” You replied. “Here’s the thing, Kurtis, you don’t get to go out with your friends for the whole weekend doing who-knows-what then turn around and get angry at me for spending time with the only friend from school that I still have! That’s not fair.”

“And who’s fault is that? You’re the one who pushed them all away!” Kurt stood up and advanced towards you. Normally, you would have taken a step backwards, given him space, but this time you stood your ground, clenching your fists tightly to stop them shaking.

“I’m still allowed to have a social life,” you said, struggling to keep your tone even. Kurt rolled his eyes.

“If you wanna go out and act like a fucking whore-“

“Think what you want, Kurt,” you said, “it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m leaving. You can’t stop me.”

Kurt spluttered for a moment, turning a shade of deep red. “Like fucking HELL you’re leaving me, you bitch!”

“I am!” you shot back. He was only a few inches from you now, so close his breath was hot on your face. “I’m miserable, I don’t love you anymore, and I’m done. I’ve been done for so long I can’t remember a time I was fully invested in this relationship! I deserve better! I deserve love that doesn’t make me so sad it hurts, and I can’t have that with you.”

Kurt’s face twisted into an ugly contortion of the features you once found perfect. “No. Nobody can love you the way I do! Nobody can understand you like I do! If you leave, I won’t want to live anymore. Don’t you remember? I can’t live without you!”

“Then go to a fucking hospital!” you snapped, moving to get past him. Kurt grabbed your wrist tightly. His grip was like a vice, cutting off blood supply to your fingers.

“Let go!” you begged. Kurt tugged you closer, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth, your noses almost touching. He’s going to kill me. Oh my god, he’s actually going to kill me. You saw movement by the door out of the corner of your eye, and your heart swelled.

“You heard her,” Frankie said, “let her go.”

Kurt didn’t let go, but instead gripped harder. He’s completely lost it, you thought dimly, the expression Kurt wore sending true fear into your heart.

“And just who the fuck are you?” Kurt demanded.

“Let her go,” Frankie repeated. He didn’t raise his voice, but you could still hear the power it held. Kurt scoffed and spat at Frankie’s feet.

“This is an issue between me and my girlfriend, now get out of my apartment before I make you.”

Frankie didn’t reply, instead, he strode forward, pushed the sleeves of his flannel over shirt up as he did. Kurt didn’t wait. He pushed you hard against the kitchen bench, knocking the breath out of you and sending a shot of pain through your back, and moved to meet Frankie in the middle of the room.

It happened in an instant, blink and you miss it. Frankie swung, his fist connecting with Kurt’s jaw with a sickening crunch. Kurt went down like a lead balloon, howling as he collapsed on the floor. Frankie stood over him, breathing hard through his nose.

Manny ran forward to help you, holding you to him like the protective brother you had always wished for. It took you a few moments to realise you were shaking, out of fear or adrenaline you didn’t know.

“Come on,” he whispered soothingly, “we gotta get your stuff.” You nodded and let him help you up. You didn’t feel like you were connected with your body like you were watching the whole thing through a separate set of eyes. You saw Frankie standing over Kurt, arms crossed and boot pressing into Kurt’s chest.

Manny held your hand as you walked to your bedroom. You were distantly aware of the aching in your body, your back, and wrist especially. It was Manny who packed your bag for you, grabbing anything he thought you might need. The whole thing was done in less than ten minutes. Before you left you turned to face Kurt.

“I’ll be back sometime this week to get the rest of my stuff. Do not contact me.”

You felt your strength returning to you as you left with Frankie and Manny with you. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you could breathe.

Taglist: @hnt-escape @sharkbait77 @1800-fight-me @annathewitch @darnitdraco @frankiecatfish @punkerthanpascal @nakhudanyx @gracie7209 @quica-quica-quica @pintsizemama @phoenix-of-loki

#the night shift #frankie x reader #frankie morales x you #triple frontier #frankie catfish morales

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therealvalkyrie · 3 years

Text

Painter’s Hands and Guatemalan Coffee: Part 4

the ackerman influence

Pairing/setting: Levi Ackerman x Female!Reader, modern!college!AU

Summary: When you catch your idiot boyfriend cheating, your grumpy roommate is there to pick up the pieces and watch your back as you toe a carefully drawn line in the metaphorical sand.

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: consumption of alcohol and weed products, intoxication, swearing, pretty dang fluffy

AN: SURPRISE BITCHES it’s out tonight!! An infinite thank you belongs to my beloved @ghostlightprincess for her keen eye for editing and swoon-worthy compliments and encouragements. Seriously, this chapter is dedicated entirely to her. I hope y’all enjoy!! I hope y’all appreciate the love I gave Sasha this chapter because........reasons. Pleease feel free to come scream/squeal/chat in my DMs or askbox! In love with you all<3 ~valkyrie

(read part 3 here)

“Here, thisun ‘sblue!” Hange slurs as she passes you yet another shot glass with Greek letters etched on the side.

“Mmm, I like blue,” you giggle, then clink your shot with hers before you both tip your heads back to pour the liquor down your throats. It tastes inexplicably like turquoise, and you laugh loudly over the thumping dance music in approval.

The poor freshman charged with staffing the drinks table eyes the pair of you skeptically. “Maybe you two should slow down, you seem like you’ve had enough—”

You round on him, offense written across your face. He’s definitely right, but you aren’t exactly gonna let some pimply, snot-nosed teen tell you how to drink. “Woah, Nelly, this ain’t cocktail hour, this is fuckin’ Greek row an’ I won’t have your judgment,” you waggle a finger in his general direction for emphasis, “harsh my vibe.”

“You tell ‘em, girlfriend,” Hange approves vaguely, hanging off your shoulder.

The freshman holds his hands up in defeat, amused. “No judgment.”

You nod once.

“C’mon, Han, let’s see if we can find the snacks.”

“Pleeeeeeease…”

You turn away from the drinks table to do just that, angling towards where you remember the kitchen to be — honestly, this frat is huge — and set off through the crowd. Hange trails after you, fingers tangled with yours like they have been all night, yammering on about something you can’t be bothered to follow.

“‘Scuse us, comin’ through, on a mission!” You push past jostling bodies until you reach the far wall and lean against it for the last leg of your epic journey to the fluorescent lights of the kitchen.

Someone calls your name and you look up through squinted eyes to see Sasha leaned up against the counter by the fridge, bowl of chips in her arms and dab pen tucked behind her ear. She’s dressed casually, sweatpants and DIY cropped t-shirt contrasting your jeans and flashy top.

“Sasha! My love! My dearest, sweetest darling!” You stretch your arms wide towards her, Hange jolting forward where you’re connected. “We come in search of snacks.”

Sasha laughs and lazily deposits her bowl on the counter, stepping forward to stabilize you both with a hand on your shoulder. “You’ve come to the right place, my friends.”

She steers you both to sit at the island, wedging you between the only other two people in the kitchen. You vaguely recognize them as soccer players on the university team: a shaggy-haired brunette and a tall blonde. Sasha passes you her dab pen before ambling over to the pantry. You take a hit, then pass it to Hange, who’s looking much better now that she’s sitting down.

“Sash, these your friends?” the blonde asks, peering down at you through red-rimmed hazel eyes. You pluck the pen out of Hange’s limp grasp and offer it to him in greeting, along with a drunk smile. He takes it and grins back.

“Yep,” Sasha confirms with half her body still stuck into the pantry. “It’s the mad scientist one and the architect.”

“Almost architect,” you correct. “Not official until I have my degree! Although, I will agree, Han’s a mad scientist.” You poke her in the side and she swats you away with an eye roll.

“Oh,” the brunette soccer player pipes up from Hange’s other side, now looking at you curiously as well. He’s also high, startling green eyes hooded and posture relaxed. “So you’re Braun’s ex.”

You hide your shudder of distaste by turning back to take a drag off the pen. “Please don’t tell me that’s all I’m known for,” you sigh out with a cloud of smoke.

“Eren, don’t be an ass.” Sasha finally returns with a box of chocolate pretzels and a bag of hot Cheetos. “Pick your poison, hot stuff,” she offers each in turn. You ponder for a second, then reach for the Cheetos. “That’s Eren—” she points to the brunette, who raises a lazy hand “—and that’s Jean—” the blonde reaches for the pretzels. Sasha makes an offended noise and cradles them to her chest.

You introduce both yourself and Hange while Sasha plays defense against Jean’s long reach.

“Sorry,” Eren apologizes to you, leaning over Hange to grab some Cheetos. “I heard what he did to you. Really shitty.” His tone is casual, but the way he’s practically pinning you in place with his eyes makes you twitch.

“Puh-lease,” Hange pulls out the word, long and sarcastic. “‘Twas more than shitty, what that douche did. I’d’ve wrung him out to dry, but she didn’t—”

You cut her off with a sharp poke to her side. “Drop it, Han, I don’t wanna think about it.”

“But— ooh!” She’s sufficiently distracted when you shove your food in front of her face.

“Sorry,” Eren apologizes again.

“S’okay,” you sigh and take another drag, then hold the pen out to him in a peace offering. He smiles slowly and takes it.

“You guys staying over? There’s plenty of room in the basement, and friends of Sasha’s are always welcome.” It’s Jean who offers, returning to his seat beside you with a singular pretzel for his trouble.

“Hmm, might be nice,” Hange muses, but you’re already shaking your head.

“Thank you, but my roommate’d probably have a conniption if I wasn’t home in the morning.”

Hange actually snorts at this, then starts coughing violently because of the hot Cheeto dust suddenly up her nose. You pat her back in mild concern.

“What, they got a stick up their ass or something?” Eren asks.

“Or something. Levi’s just protective.”

“Levi?” Eren’s eyes are suddenly wide, almost fearful. “Levi Ackerman?”

“Yeah.” Your tone edges on defensive. “Why?”

He takes a hit and shrugs before answering. “He’s just my foster sister’s cousin. Interesting family.”

“Oh, you mean Mikasa?” You didn’t know exactly how they were related, but she’d helped Levi move in and it had struck you how eerily similar they were in disposition.

“Yeah, Mikasa. She’s around here somewhere…” As though by magic, he turns to look over his shoulder just as Mikasa and another blonde boy you don’t recognize mosey in from the hallway. She’s leaning down to catch his soft words and he’s talking with his hands, stalling as his eyes light on the little group in the kitchen.

“Oh, hey guys,” he greets.

“Armiiiin,” Eren greets with a genuine smile. “Come meet some new friends.”

The pair rounds the kitchen island, Armin allowing Eren to pull him in by the arm and Mikasa going to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Sasha.

“I know you,” Hange pipes up, tilting her head to observe Armin. “You’re in the sophomore biochem class I TA for. Arlert, right?”

Armin ducks his head in a nod. “Yep. Professor LaBelle is a wonder, I had a great time this semester.”

“She is, isn’t she?” Hange’s grin is almost slipping to the dangerous side of intrigued. “I graded your final paper, by the way, and just between us, you set the grade curve.”

He blushes red but his eyes shine with something akin to satisfaction. “Really? That’s a relief, it was a bear to write.”

Eren leans back behind Hange to gesture to you, looking across the kitchen at his foster sister. “Mikasa, this is—”

“—Levi’s roommate,” they say at the same time.

“I know.” Her dark eyes regard you interestedly. “Hi, again,” she greets, saying your name even though she’s maybe heard it once in her life.

“Hi!” You give a small wave.

“What, uh, what,” Jean clears his throat and you look up at him to catch a blush staining across his cheeks and nose. He’s looking at Mikasa. “What’re you guys up to in the basement?”

“We were just going to start a movie, Connie’s setting up the projector,” Mikasa says, eyes flicking from you to Eren. “Wanted to see if you guys wanted to join.”

Jean stands suddenly, his stool rocking from the force of it. “Y-yeah, we’ll join!” Sasha hides a snicker behind her hand.

Eren stands, too, between Armin and Hange, who are still chatting. He looks down at you and says your name like a question. “You coming?”

You find yourself shaking your head again. “I’m so crossed, I think if I even look at a couch I’ll fall asleep. And I, uh,” you yawn, slipping your phone out of a back pocket to check the time. 12:11 AM. “I should be getting home.”

It’s earlier than when you would normally call it quits, but suddenly all you can think about is going home and falling into Levi’s clean, soft-smelling sheets. Plus, it’s the Saturday preceding finals week and tonight was only meant to blow off steam between intense days of studying.

“You stayin’?” You bump Hange with your shoulder, and she looks around at you with wide eyes as though she forgot you were there.

“Hmm?”

“You stayin’ for the movie?”

“We’re watching It: Chapter Two,” Armin supplies, eyes crinkled in excitement.

Hange’s eyes grow impossibly wider behind her glasses and she grabs your elbow a little too hard. “You wouldn’t mind, right? I’ve been meaning to watch it.”

You smile and shake your head. “Wouldn’t mind at all. You stay, I’ll call an Uber.”

The whole group starts migrating in the lazy way drunk and high people do: Mikasa helps Sasha with the snacks; Eren and Jean grab canned drinks from the fridge; Armin and Hange gravitate towards the door, talking fast with words you’ve never heard before. You stay sitting at the island, tapping away at your phone to order a car.

When you stand to find the front door, your high hits you from behind like a fuckin’ baseball bat and you sway dangerously. You whistle through your teeth, low and soft, planting a hand on the counter. Sasha looks over at you in concern, her arms full.

“You okay, babe?”

“Yeah, I just… what is in that dab pen?”

She laughs, head tilting back. “Good shit, right? Got that one new last week.”

“For real…” you trail off, getting your bearings.

“Here,” Mikasa starts, piling even more food into Sasha’s arms, “I’ll walk you out. Levi would skin me if he knew I didn’t make sure your driver’s not an ax murderer.”

Normally, you’d protest, but the room really is starting to spin.

“Okay,” you sigh and allow her to hook your arm through hers. She’s surprisingly solid, and you find yourself leaning heavily into her. “How’re you still sober?”

“I don’t drink or smoke,” she answers, gently pushing past Armin standing in the doorway. “Doesn’t affect me, anyway, so it’d just be a waste of money.”

“Huh,” you grunt, then twist to wave to the group. “Night, everyone.”

A replying chorus of “goodnight” chases you and Mikasa through the dark foyer littered with drunken party-goers.

“Oh, wait,” she pauses with a hand on the doorknob. “Did you bring a jacket?”

“Oh,” you wrinkle your nose and think back to getting ready in the afternoon. It had been unseasonably warm and your coat didn’t match your outfit. “No, I didn’t bring one.”

Mikasa gives you an odd look and deposits you by the door. “I’ll be right back.”

Your body feels light as you lean back, tucking your hands into your armpits so they don’t float away. Your eye catches on movement in the dark shadows by the staircase and you squint, trying to see who’s there. It takes a second, but you eventually make out a pair of people, well… making out. They’re completely absorbed in each other, bodies impossibly close and you giggle quietly to yourself before your stomach rolls. No, don’t think about… too late.

You shut your eyes tight and turn away from the couple to lean sideways against the wall. The image is too similar, too gut-punchingly familiar.

“Didn’t mean what? Didn’t mean to stick your tongue down my best friend’s throat? Didn’t mean to practically fuck your best friend’s girlfriend in public?”

The biting words and stuttered apologies are still rolling around in your head when Mikasa comes back, thick puffer coat in hand. She hands it to you and you mutter a subdued “thanks,” twitching to dislodge the dull pain that’s settled in your ribs.

“It’s Eren’s, but he won’t mind. He doesn’t wear this one a lot, and you can just give it back next time we see you.”

“Right,” you nod, head moving a little too easily as you slip your arms in and fumble with the zipper. The faux fur around the hood tickles your face as Mikasa flips it up over your head. She’s clearly experienced in the art of taking care of intoxicated people.

Outside, you’re grateful you bundled up because the temperature has dropped significantly since the afternoon. Chilly December wind bites at your face and you bury your hands in coat pockets to save them from the same fate. Your fingers brush against something cold and metallic, and before you know it you’re pulling out a fistful of crumby objects: a super plus tampon, the packaging split down the side; two “for her pleasure” condoms; and, inexplicably, a Hot Wheels matchbox car. An ugly snort escapes your nose and Mikasa looks over at you in alarm. You raise up your fist and she chuckles through her nose as well. Squinting in the dim light of a flickering streetlamp, you find the expiration date on the condoms to be several months ago, so you lean over to a convenient trash can and toss both them and the tampon. The matchbox car returns to the pocket. Who knows, maybe Eren’ll miss it if it’s gone.

Mikasa doesn’t look affected by the cold, only winding her red scarf more securely around her neck as you both quietly wait on the sidewalk for your Uber. A quick glance at the app tells you that it’s three minutes away.

“Are you and Levi close?” You find yourself asking into the night sounds of Greek Row on a Saturday night.

You almost think she doesn’t hear you over the sound of a group spilling out of a neighboring sorority, but then she answers.

“Not particularly. We didn’t grow up together and only connected because of Uncle Kenny a couple years ago.” Her tone is light and casual as she talks about her family, as though you should know who Uncle Kenny is. Should I know who Uncle Kenny is?

“Oh,” is all you can think to say.

“We may not be close,” she starts again, eyeing you closely, “but I think we’re very similar. And I can tell he cares a lot about you.”

“Oh. Right.” Your palms are suddenly sweaty in your pockets.

“He may not show it,” her tone is careful, “But he does.”

You smile faintly and kick your boot against the curb. “He does show it, in his own way. He’s been really good to me.” Somehow, it’s easy to talk about this to Mikasa, even when you get all stuttery and weird having an identical conversation with Hange. Maybe it’s the drugs and alcohol, or maybe it’s because there’s not a hint of judgment in Mikasa’s eyes. Either way, it feels good to speak your feelings into the world.

“Good.” She nods and follows your gaze to where you’re still scuffing the curb. “Some unsolicited advice for you: if you ever want anything besides mutual pining to come out of it, you need to be really obvious. Or make the first move outright.”

This makes you stutter and wring your hands, she just puts it so bluntly. “R-right, the first move…. Oh, I think that’s my car.”

“What’s the license plate number we’re looking for?”

You read it out from the app while Mikasa steps to the back of the blue sedan that just pulled up. She nods, confirming it’s the same, then circles to the driver’s side window, which is cracked open.

“Hi,” you greet the driver, a blonde woman in her late twenties, and confirm her name matches the one in the app before sliding into the back seat. Mikasa leans down to murmur something to her and she nods, glancing back at you in the rearview mirror.

“G’night, Mikasa,” you call out the window. “Thanks for everything. And tell Eren thanks for the jacket.”

She waves as the car pulls away. You settle into the quiet hum of the car and let your mind wander.

Mutual pining. Make the first move outright….

—

“Mikasa texted me,” Levi says by way of greeting as you stumble out of the car and thank your driver. He’s leaning on a lamp post outside your apartment building when your Uber pulls up, jacket and boots pulled on over flannel pajamas.

“Levi, stand ominously on the sidewalk often?” you ask, dragging out his name long and sing-song.

“Only for you, kid.” He loops an arm around your waist and steers you towards the entryway

“Not a kid,” you grumble, masking the stutter of your heart at his usual pet name for you. Somewhere in the last couple of weeks, it’s gained a weightier significance, at least to you. It’s endearing and a little distancing and charged all at once and it makes your head spin as you climb the stairs up to your floor.

At your door, Levi unlocks it while you drift slowly in a circle next to him, trying to expend the sudden nervous energy you’ve gained in his presence.

The first move, first move, first move… Mutual pining. Mutual.

“What are you muttering about?”

You hadn’t realized you were thinking out loud.

“Nothing,” you say quickly and pass through the door he’s holding open for you. Your momentum carries you farther than you mean to go, and he catches you by the elbow, reeling you back to the coat rack by the door.

“Whose jacket is that?” He shrugs off his own and eyes the faux fur around your face skeptically.

You fumble with the zipper for a second before he sighs and reaches for it himself, stepping into your space. His face is so close to yours you can feel his breath ghosting over your collarbone as he unzips the jacket.

“Eren’s,” you finally answer. “Look.” You pull the matchbox car out of its pocket and show it to Levi with a wide grin. He stares at it for a second, then the tiniest smile twitches onto his lips.

“He’s a weird kid.” It’s almost fond, with an undertone of exasperation.

“You know him?”

“Yeah, he’s in the art department, too. Graphic design major, marketing minor. I TAed his freshman seminar last year.” Levi slips the coat off your shoulders as he speaks, then hangs it by the loop next to his.

“Ah, that makes sense,” you muse, wandering farther into the apartment. “He looked terrified when I mentioned you. What’d you do to those poor freshmen?”

“Nothing they didn’t deserve.”

“...ominous,” you hiss, your eyes wide as you let him gently push you into your room. The nervous energy hasn’t quite been expended, and you find your hands wringing with it. Suddenly, you’re rambling about your night as he sits you down on your bed among the laundry that’s taken residence there in its disuse. The stupid song they played at the first frat; Sasha’s excellent food; the blue mystery shot.

“It tasted like turquoise, I swear, Levi! It was like magic!” Your eyes are wide, insistent as you lean forward into his space.

“How does something taste like turquoise?” He ducks his head to avoid your face, fingers untying the knotted laces of your boots.

“You’re the artist, you tell me.”

“I don’t eat my paint.”

“Not even once? Not gonna lie, your paint looks very tasty, sometimes…”

“Are you always this annoying when you’re high?” He tugs the second boot off your foot as you let yourself fall back onto your bed.

“Come on, you love me,” you crow to the ceiling. Mutual pining.

Levi mutters something under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing. Where do you keep your pajamas?” He stands and looks around your room.

“Middle drawer, left side,” you direct, lazily motioning to your dresser with an arm. Your eyes flutter shut as you listen to Levi pick his way across the floor and slide the drawer open.

Normally, you can get yourself in bed after a night out just fine. Normally, you slip into the apartment making as little noise as possible, and fall into bed without Levi even waking up. But it feels nice to have his steady hands on you when it feels like your organs might start floating apart at any second. It’s anchoring and reassuring and you can feel the safety of being near him lulling you into a doze.

Come on, you love me.

You shoot up to sitting, mind whirling and chest tight. “L-Levi?”

“What.”

“D-do…” Do you love me? “Do you think I’m pretty?” It feels petty in your mouth and you immediately regret the words, but it would be worse to try and take them back, so you just bite your lip and look down at the floor.

A hand plops onto the top of your head. Levi’s gray eyes meet yours, soft with something you can’t describe, when he tilts your head up. He’s quiet for a moment, then reaches his other hand to thumb your bottom lip out from between your teeth.

“I think you’re very pretty.”

(read part 5 here)

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consumeconstantly · 4 years

Text

Speak My Name In Tongues

1| 2(you are here) | 3 | 4

Summary: Bruce Wayne is determined to get his daughter to safety and aid (read: take over for) the Parisian heroes in capturing their supervillains of over six years. Unfortunately, these two goals are in direct conflict. (all of biodad bruce things can be read as stand alones but I do post in chronological order)

________________________________________________

Let it be said that Bruce Wayne is a persistent man.

When he wants something, he does not stop on the first or second failed attempt. It doesn’t matter if the world believes something to be impossible. It doesn’t matter if he fails spectacularly to achieve his goal multiple times, in fashions that would likely result in any man of lesser wealth becoming the laughing stock of the global community for months. In order for him to cease his pursuit, he must come to the realization that whatever he’s pursuing is not worth the effort. This is a very rare occasion. Most times when Bruce comes to this conclusion, his decision can be traced back to the trauma of his parents death and the subsequent consequences of his vigilante life style (read: not pursuing Jason’s death, letting Barbara get shot.)

Thus, when Marinette turns down his offer of a safer life, he will not take her rejection at face value. A lesser man might. But Bruce is not any such thing.

Anything that Marinette is involved in-- and he finds that she does a lot-- all oh-so-coincidentally happen to be things that Wayne Enterprises invests in as well. He marks down each and every charity event and gala that she is scheduled to attend and makes an appearance there as well. When he finds that she supports all of her collége friends in their pursuits, he attends too.

Somehow, she manages to skillfully evade being drawn into any long conversation with him and always ensures that there’s a third person involved when he even says hello. If Bruce weren’t trying so hard to have a talk with her, he’d say that her ability to do so was really quite impressive and spoke to the reach of her network. But again, Bruce is trying to convince his daughter that he’s not safe in Paris by herself when the League most likely has a bounty on her head. If Talia finds out that he had a daughter not borne by her-- she’s certainly changed in recent years, becoming more volatile and much less like the woman he fell in love with all those years ago.

He half believes that with Marinette’s wit, intellect, and escape abilities, she may even be able to hold her own against the League. Unfortunate that the League has weapons training and she does not.

“Marinette,” Bruce approaches her at a Bourgeois evening party. She has friends in high places, that’s for certain. Chloe Bourgeois works at her company in the public relations department as does Adrien Agreste, which definitely turned a lot of heads in the fashion industry as nobody expected the boy to work for anybody but his father, nor did they expect him to stop his modelling career in the prime of his life. For modelling works, she turns to Juleka Couffaine and occasionally Olympic hopefuls Kagami Tsurugi, Alix Kubdel, Ondine and Kim Le Chien. Thanks to her connections to Rose Lavillant, she’s produced an entire line of scents that go with MDC’s evening wear. MDC is extensively covered by Aurore Boreale, one of the youngest talk show hosts in the industry, Alya Cesaire, a young journalist who’s won international acclaim with her writing, and Nadja Chamack, a Senior Executive producer of TVi. Though Bruce is rather impartial to the music industry, she’s well known for working with international singers Jagged Stone, Clara Nightingale, and Luka Couffaine as well as an up and coming EDM artist named Nino Lahiffe. In the film sector, she works closely with Tom Astruc and Graham Industries, with Adrien’s cousin, Felix.

As the saying goes, Who you know is everything.

Marinette smiles, teeth bared. Even the way she stands is sharp.

It’s difficult reconciling the girl in front of him with the pictures he saw while doing background checks on her, or even the girl he saw at the bar just three nights ago. At least, it’s difficult for Bruce to reconcile her when she’s around him; Marinette seems to be very much the same girl around her friends, which is almost just as frightening. When she’s with Adrien or Alya of Kagami, it’s as if her parent’s death didn’t even happen. All smiles and sunshine and good will. She still attends all of the charity events she signed up for, has increased the amount of hours she spends volunteering at homeless shelters and akuma shelters-- and Bruce has no clue in hell how Paris’ supervillain situation has gone unchecked for so long, but he already has several agents tracking down Hawkmoth and the Miraculous team to no avail-- and goes to work on a normal schedule. Since Tom and Sabine’s death, she’s taken no time off.

In the presence of Bruce Wayne, however, there’s a great shift in her demeanor. There is nothing warm about her, and despite the fact that Marinette is his daughter and that she’s more than a full foot shorter than him, he finds himself wary of her. That says something, considering the types of people he faces down as Batman near daily.

For the first time, she allows him to approach without dodging him.

“M. Wayne.” Marinette begins to meander to a less public place, all while maintaining a pretty media smile and waving to acquaintances as she passes them. The moment the door closes behind him, a flip is switched.

“Leave me alone,” she growls. “I don’t want or need your protection.”

“Your parents were murdered.”

“You don’t think I know that? I was the one who found their corpses.”

“They’ll come after you, next.” The League of Assassins never leaves their jobs half done. Marinette is more of an achilles heel than Tom and Sabine were-- despite not being in her life, he cares for her. He can’t deny that if she were murdered, he’d probably get caught up in a fit of rage. The Lazarus Pits have not been good for his mental state over the years.

Marinette crosses her arms, sleeves fluttering around her. “You think you know who did it.”

“I don’t think I know; I’m sure who did it.”

“No,” Marinette says in a strangely detached tone. “You think you know who did it. You don’t actually know, do you, Dark Knight?”

Bruce’s stomach fills with dread. Something about her statement makes him feel nauseous. Queasy, even. “I do. The League of Assassins--”

“You think everything revolves around you, don’t you? Bruce Wayne and Batman are not the only ones with enemies.”

“You’re suggesting that you have enemies who would be willing to kill your parents?” Bruce isn’t sure how to take this. Marinette does have a fairly large following, runs in the most powerful and influential Parisian circles, and has money to spare. But as far as his research told him, she didn’t do anything to egregiously offend anybody, besides maybe one Lila Rossi and Chloe Bourgeois, though the latter of the two rectified their relationship eventually.

“I don’t,” Marinette denies. “But Ladybug does.”

“The superhero.” Is his age finally catching up to him?

“The superhero,” Marinette agrees, looking at Bruce contemplatively.

“Ladybug and I-- we’re close,” Marinette settles on. “Close enough for our bakery to become a safe house of sorts for the Miraculous team. Hawkmoth--no, Pavona. She either acted out of anger for her past with me or just wanted to strike a blow at the Miraculous team.”

Bruce feels a migraine coming on. It’s on days like this when he wishes he were a drinking sort of man. “Why would Pavona be upset with you?”

Marinette laughs, humorlessly. “World’s greatest detective, huh? Maybe you’ll figure it out eventually.”

He gets the feeling that their conversation is quickly coming to a close, and figures that whatever issue Marinette and Pavona have is something he can decipher later, “It doesn’t seem like Pavona has done much with this information. The Miraculous Team seems to be in high spirits, and there haven’t been any akumatizations in the past two weeks.”

Another dry laugh. “Wrong move at the wrong time. And besides Ladybug and you, nobody else knows.”

Marinette pushes past him, back to the door, back to the party. She pauses at the door. “I’ll put the two of you in contact. Until then, keep a lid on you and your operative’s emotions. I’m sure trained agents like yourselves can restrain yourself from feeling anger or sorrow for a while.”

Bruce is left with two horrifying realizations: Marinette is in a situation where she’s in over her head, and Sabine and Tom’s deaths have not been publicized.

Batman and Bruce have never liked magic or metas, and Ladybug seems to be both. It doesn’t help that she’s so high strung and seems to be inexplicably angry at him from the moment that he steps foot at their prearranged meetup.

“I sent you the ground rules if you want to operate in Paris. Forward it to your operatives. Follow the rules or leave.”

“I’m here to take down Hawkmoth,” Batman says with a bone-weary tiredness.

Ladybug crosses her arms in a fashion that’s achingly familiar. “I know that. That’s why I’m giving you and your people the ground rules and a chance. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be allowed here.”

“Ladybug, you and your team have failed to catch Hawkmoth for six years now.”

“You and your team have been fighting the same set of villains for over thirty years. I wonder which one of us is really worse off.”

Batman grimaces.

The heroine looks out at the night sky and sighs. “Look, this is a very stressful situation. Pavona acted out in one of the worst ways possible, and even though she and Hawkmoth seem to be MIA, it’s still not ideal.”

He remembers that Marinette said Ladybug and her parents were close. Batman stumbles over his words. He’s never been the best at comforting people, and healthy coping mechanisms simply don’t run in the family. There’s definitely a reason why he and all of his children take to vigilantism so well. “Tom and Sabine-- they were great people.”

Ladybug stills.

Batman doesn’t know how old she is, or how old any of the Miraculous team is, besides from Chloe Bourgeois, who used to be Queen Bee. Something in the way her shoulders hunch, how her jaw trembles, and eyes water makes Batman feel like she’s just a child. But she can’t be. Not if she’s been protecting a city for six years. If he had to guess her age, he’d put her in her mid to late twenties, maybe even early thirties.

“They were the most loving people I’ve ever known,” Ladybug says. “It was a privilege to know them.”

He’s not sure who made the decision to not release Tom and Sabine’s death to the public, but Batman recognizes it as a tactical decision. It only took a short amount of time to hack into security cameras near Marinette’s residence and filter through the sighting of the Miraculous Team at Tom & Sabine’s Boulangerie, stopping to chat with Marinette or one of her parents, sometimes eating there, sometimes staying the night, using their living room as a gathering point. From there, it’s not difficult to realize that Marinette or Ladybug is keeping this information from the rest of their team in order to ensure that their civilian or superhero identities don’t get compromised by an akuma or a sentimonster.

In comparison to the Scarecrow, who makes his victims fight their worst fears, Batman can’t help but think that turning people into their insecurities and angers is worse. At least with Scarecrow, there’s a chance that people can win against whatever they’re fighting. Once a Parisian is turned into an akuma or sentimonster, they just have to hope that somebody else will come in and save the day. Victimhood with the cruelest twist, similar to when the Joker tried to make Dick into the Joker Jr.

“Pavona. What’s her deal with Marinette?”

Ladybug’s laugh is hollow and familiar. “Didn’t Marinette tell you to figure it out on your own?”

“I need to know,” Batman insists. “I want to protect her. I don’t want her to get hurt like that again.”

“You have noble intentions, Batman,” Ladybug says quietly. “A kind heart. But you are mistaken in thinking that Pavona can hurt Marinette anymore. Even if Pavona tries to, she won’t be able to. Tom and Sabine-- they were the weak link. Everyone else she loves is safe.”

Ladybug pauses, looks sideways at Batman, then stares out at the Parisian skyline again. “Everyone except for you. You’re not safe, here in Paris. You know that, don’t you?”

“She--” his mouth dries. There’s a lot of information to process, but he focuses on one thing. “She loves me?”

He doesn’t think he’s heard those words come out of any of his kid’s mouths. He knows that all of them do love each other in their own messed up ways and knows that his sons and daughters are more likely to show their affection in actions instead of words, but Marinette is a biological child that he’s never interacted with before this month. How can she love him when all he’s done is push her away?

“She loves you.” Ladybug closes her eyes. “But that makes her a fool. She’s clung to the hope that she’d get to know you for years. Look where that’s gotten her. She gets to meet you at the price of her parents' lives. So please, don’t mess this up. The best way to protect her is by making sure that you’re safe. Really, I’d want you to leave Paris and forget about her. She’ll be okay. We’ll keep her safe.”

Batman says nothing for a time. Ladybug is right in thinking that Marinette shouldn’t love him, but she’s not right in her belief that she can protect her. After all, Tom and Sabine are still dead. “But I can make sure no one hurts her. I may not be someone she interacts with normally, but I can’t see her die.”

Ladybug makes a keening sound in the back of her throat. “I know, Batman. We’re not as trained as you and your team. I know you want to keep her safe. That’s why I’m letting you and your team help us. Because we’re just not enough.”

“You’ve done a lot to keep this city safe.” He wants to be mad at her for involving a civilian family, but he can’t find it in him. She seems so young. Does she have parents? Do her parents know that she’s Ladybug?

“But not enough.” She wanders to the edge of the building, yoyo in hand. “When this is all over-- maybe the two of you can spend some time getting to know each other.”

Batman stares at the spotted heroine. “Maybe someday.”

“That’s not very convincing.” Ladybug turns so that he can’t see her face. “Be kind to her. She’s alone.”

“She has you. She has your team.” Neither Bruce nor Batman has been very good at comfort during a time of loss.

Ladybug fiddles with the chain around her neck. Two rings as a pendant. She clenches her fist around them and goes still for a moment. “We’re too similar to comfort each other. And we both agreed that telling the team… it would be disastrous. Tom and Sabine were parents to all of us. Pavona is scheduled to come back soon. If we tell them now, it might end in another mass akumatization. That’s something we have to avoid.”

Pavona is coming back? How did Ladybug even know that she left? How—

Batman stills. The muggy Parisian warmth is only alleviated by a brief breeze that makes Ladybug’s hair ties fly in the wind. Anger wells up in the back of his throat, and he feels the Lazarus in him spike, knows that behind the white film of his cowl, his eyes are turning green. “You know who Pavona is. Why hasn’t she been brought in yet? Why—”

Ladybug could have prevented Tom and Sabine’s death. She could have saved Marinette the loss of her parents.

Marinette could have retained her innocence. Been kept out of the world of superheroes and supervillains, been kept safely on the sidelines if only Ladybug weren’t so selfish, wasn’t so foolish to bring in a civilian family with no training and no background.

“Marinette and I have known for a long time,” Ladybug cuts him off, and he’s ready to put his hands to her throat, but no. Justice, not vengeance. He will make sure that Ladybug’s wrongdoings are brought to light. He will right her wrongs. “For four years, it was Hawkmoth and Mayura. Once Pavona showed up, we thought-- we thought that between her and Hawkmoth that she’d be the lesser of the two evils. We had no clue who Hawkmoth was, but we knew that they were working together. Pavona was left free to roam in hope that she’d lead us to Hawkmoth. That we could finally end the fight.”

Ladybug’s back straightens. She turns, and her eyes are all blue steel and pain. It’s then that Batman realizes that Ladybug truly did love Tom and Sabine with her whole heart.

“I see that I was wrong. Hawkmoth kills indiscriminately. But Pavona-- her grudges run deep. Mayura was the kindest of the three. The reason Pavona killed Tom and Sabine was petty.” Ladybug’s voice crumples, as do her legs. She hunches in on herself, hugging her knees. Batman watches on from a distance.

What was it she said? That she and Marinette were too similar to comfort each other? One day, Batman may find himself furious at Ladybug for making the decisions she did. But right now, all he sees is a child.

“I’m sure you’ve looked into Marinette’s past,” Ladybug starts.

Batman makes a noise of affirmation, but she clearly wasn’t looking for permission to go on. She was trying to collect herself in order to tell a story.

“There was a transfer all the way back in collège. She was very popular amongst her classmates. Beautiful, well connected, charismatic. There was no way people wouldn’t love her.”

Ladybug glances back at him. “Come, sit, Monsieur. I do not know you well, but I don’t bite.”

Bruce— Bruce does not want to sit with her. But Batman says that he has to hear her out. To give her a chance, at least. Batman has made mistakes over the course of his career as well, his actions and inactions affecting too many for him to keep track of. He would be a hypocrite if he didn’t let Ladybug speak, even if Sabine and Marinette are two people he never would have dreamed of involving. Still, he keeps one hand firmly on a batarang. The videos shows that not much damage can be done to the superheroes when they’re suited up, save for attacks with magic, but nothing is absolute. There’s always a way to bring an opponent down. “Is it that shocking of a story?”

“No. Not at all. If anything, it’s a typical story of teenage drama, except perhaps a bit more than that. But I need the reassurance that you won’t run off once I finish.” She lets the two rings go, gentle thud of the two rings pressing against each other and her collar bone. The rings seem familiar.

Batman sits, albeit warily and at least five feet away from his companion. Ladybug hasn’t proven untrustworthy so far, but she is still part meta and a magic user, from what he’s gathered. He wouldn’t put it past her or one of her team, particularly the one who creates illusions, to do something. He just doesn’t know what.

“This beautiful, charming classmate easily swayed Marinette’s class to her side.” Ladybug peeks at Batman through her bangs. “Understand that the classmates are children. Children in a class where power means that trouble and responsibility never stick. They learned that taking action meant you would be blamed.”

Batman wonders how Marinette and Ladybug met. Maybe it was through this very class she’s talking about now. If that’s true, it does not bode well for his perception of her.

“Marinette recognized this classmate for what she was. A liar. She promised all sorts of beautiful things-- things that played to their classmate’s biggest dreams. Working with their favorite artist. Meeting olympic athletes and musicians. Trips to impossible places. Perhaps if Marinette wans’t who she was, she would have believed her, too. But this classmate lied about two things Marinette knew were false. She lied about being a hero. She lied about me.”

“How do you and Marinette know each other?” It was incredibly difficult to find the video evidence of the Miraculous team going to Tom & Sabine’s Boulangerie. Batman had to call in a favor from Zatara and avoiding her questions as to why— he’d much preferred it if he were able to go through any normal channel instead.

“We’ve known each other since the beginning.” Ladybug fiddles with her yoyo, refusing to look him in the eyes. “Marinette tried to get her friends to realize the truth. But everybody wanted what she was saying to be real. It’s hard to say otherwise when everything they ever wanted could be found in a single person. And Marinette didn’t pick the smartest ways to try to reveal her lies.

“That beautiful, charming classmate didn’t like Marinette trying to debunk her entire persona. She grew to be very cunning. She hurt Marinette in so many ways. I lost track over how many times Marinette got suspended or temporarily expelled, only for her to be brought back at the behest of the one other person in her class who knew the truth. Her designs were stolen. The boy she loved grew into a shell in order to protect himself. Her friends drifted away-- not that they were cruel or anything, they were taught inaction above all else, to not say a word about whatever happened in class ever since ecole-- but Marinette was really lonely.

“It was sort of a blessing in disguise. During this time, a lot of the Miraculous Team went on a break of sorts, and it was only Chat Noir and I. We had to get stronger and smarter and Marinette and her family provided relief and moral support. If her friends were close to her during that time, things may have ended really badly. Hawkmoth may have caught on to more secret identities than he already knew.”

“Does Marinette know who you and Chat Noir are underneath the mask?” To put the weight of their alter egos on a civilian is cruel. It’s why his own was so closely guarded. He’s not a fan of Marinette knowing his existence as Bruce, let alone Ladybug.

“The more people who know our identities, the greater a chance Hawkmoth has at taking our Miraculous.”

A non answer. Clever wording on Ladybug’s part. Although he can imagine Sabine agreeing to put up a bunch of teenage superheroes in her bakery, he knows that it’s impossible for anything to escape from her eyes for very long. He’d bet anything that she figured out the majority of the team’s identities. And by extension, anything that Sabien finds out, Marinette is bound to find out as well; her past indicates that she has an equal, if not higher level of intelligence and creativity that Sabine had.

Had. They went for so long without patching anything up. Why was he so foolish? So Hard headed? She offered him so many chances to reconnect, to connect with Marinette, to be a second father to her. She didn’t have any romantic feelings for him left, that much he knew, what with how utterly in love she was with Tom, and he was happy for her. Happy that she found somebody more stable than him.

If he and Sabine were closer, could he have prevented their deaths? Would he have been clued into the situation of a magic supervillain in Paris sooner?

He can’t be mad at Ladybug. Not when Batman, a hero with decades of experience on her, failed to step in. Refused to look old problems in the eye. Let loved ones die for his own inability to communicate.

“For a while, Marinette didn’t fight back. She didn’t want the boy she loved, her best friend, to get in any more trouble than he already was, trying to protect her. She laid low. But the classmate was very interested in this boy as well. The classmate tried to break him to get him to love her.”

Ladybug smiles wryly. “You can imagine that was the end of her rope. Marinette thought that the only person the liar was targeting was herself. After three years of bearing the weight, she finally snapped. She started using the resources she had. And the wasn’t any grandiose thing, though in retrospect, perhaps it should have been. She wouldn’t have ended up in prison, no she’s too young, and one of the two main victims was under lock and key, and Marinette was never hurt to the point where the liar would face real consequences for her actions. All that happened was a restraining order and her removal from Marinette’s school.”

“The girl’s name is Lila Rossi. She was already a suspect for working with Hawkmoth at the time by helping him turn people into akumas. Then Mayura stopped showing up and Pavona took her place. Pavona was clearly targeting everything and anything near Marinette. I should have seen the signs, but I had years of experience on her, and the Miraculous Cure--” Ladybug breaks off. “From one point of view, even Hawkmoth is better than her, because at least he didn’t cause any irreversible deaths.”

The Miraculous Cure is cruel. It only reverses the damage done with a Miraculous or while Ladybug is transformed. When Tom and Sabine were murdered, Pavona and the Peacock Miraculous were nowhere in sight.

Batman can’t say whether Pavona is better or worse than Hawkmoth. But Lila Rossi-- he recognizes the name. He knows what she looks like, since her image came up when he was doing a background check on Marinette. It’s quite possible that she has some type of mental disorder. Now is not the time to think about that. Hawkmoth’s identity needs to be revealed, and quickly. “How did you connect the two with the magic protecting your identities?”

“I used a little magic of my own.”

Beneath them, more and more lights begin to flicker out. Even though Paris is nicknamed the City of Lights, due to the extensive drain on energy, shops are required to turn off their exterior lighting after 1AM.

“Please,” Ladybug says. “Please help me find Hawkmoth. Please help me put them in prison. I-- I’ve been fighting for so long, and it was a duty I didn’t even want for the longest time. I just want all of this to be over. I want to be able to scream and cry and mourn without Hawkmoth and Pavona trying to manipulate me. Please.”

Batman has never been one for physical affection, but he pats Ladybug awkwardly on her back. She launches herself into his arms, curling into him and sobs as he awkwardly rubs her back. He keeps his eyes trained at a distance, watching for any akumas or amoks.

“Please,” she warbles, eyes watery. “Be good to Marinette. Be a good father. Be someone for her to lean on.”

His muscles tighten. He’s never claimed to be a good father, let alone a good man. He tries to do right, but Marinette is different from all of the other kids he’s taken in over the years. She’s not from Gotham. She had parents who were kind and stable and normal. He doesn’t think he can be a good father to her.

Somehow, Ladybug guesses exactly what he’s thinking. “You just have to be yourself. It may be stupid and foolish, but she loves you. She really does.”

For a long time, the two of them stay on that roof, Ladybug buried in the crook of Batman’s arm.

_____________________________________________________

@biodad-bruce-month

Maribat tag list(to be added onto this pls send me an ask/dm): @our-precipreciousss @my-dear-friend-anxiety

Who Are You (and what will you become) tag list (to be added here just comment): @anjuschiffer @theunquiet-dead @certainmuffinbagelcalzone @cresentmo0n @allulily @myazael @zalladane @rebecarojas07 @keepingupwiththemalfoys @frieddonutsweets @all-mights-asscheeks @thornalchemist23 @trippingovermyfeet @jiso-lee @redscarlet95 @ira-sairain @screechingflapbiscuitpeach @ramos123 @cutechip

also if i missed you please just lmk in the appropriate place again! and is it a me thing or a tumblr thing that some of these tags just wont WORK AUGH. thank you all for the support on the fics i’ve posted so far! i’m quite bad at posting regularly because all sense of time has been stripped away

hahahaha consistent chapter length? what’s that? (jokes on you these aren’t chapters just loosely related chronologically told one shots. what even makes a cohesive story a story)

#bio!dad bruce wayne month 2020 #bio!dad bruce #marinette dupain cheng #bruce wayne #marinette is mdc #angst #hurt/comfort #bruce is an okay dad even when he doesn't know he's being a dad #miraculous ladybug #dcu #maribat

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bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher · 4 years

Text

Don’t Take the Money

(cross-posted from my AO3 and based on the Bleachers song of the same name; you should give it a listen ‘cause it definitely shaped this story)

-vomit tw, depression tw, lots of angst and emotional whump with a happy ending, of course-

Jaskier had received six urgent messages in three weeks, each delivered by a different exhausted messenger in the same oddly familiar livery. They showed up outside of inns, in the corner of taverns, and one of them even had to trek through the deep woods to find their hidden campsite; Geralt almost felt bad for them. Almost.

After the seventh strange man appeared with a scroll for Jaskier, the bard didn’t even bother reading it. He merely tossed the rolled and sealed piece of parchment into a refuse pile on their way out of town and didn’t look back. Geralt picked it up when the bard wasn’t paying attention, letting his eyes scan the fancy, swirling script of the Viscountess Pankratz.

Julian Alfred Pankratz,

Return home immediately! Your wedding cannot be put off any longer! Lady Ainsley will not wait another month for your foolish adventures with that Witcher to come to an end. If you do not return for your wedding in three weeks time then you shall be officially disowned and your name will be stricken from the family records.

With Urgency,

Lady Pankratz

Geralt swallowed hard. Jaskier was betrothed? He was to be married in three weeks? But they weren’t anywhere near Redania. Or Lettenhove. Jaskier had never mentioned anyone by the name of Lady Ainsley before, or anything about his past if he could avoid it. Did that mean...?

“Why aren’t you going?” the Witcher asked. Jaskier whirled around, his eyebrow already raised in confusion; he went three shades paler than normal when he saw the limp paper hanging from Geralt’s fingers. “We’re not even remotely close to your hometown and we’re traveling in quite the opposite direction.”

Jaskier made a face and waved his hand dismissively.

“I know. I don’t want to marry her.”

“Why don’t you want to marry her? They’re going to disown you, Jaskier. Isn’t this” - he shook the letter for emphasis - “the life you’re used to living, anyway? You should go home and be with...with someone like you .”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Geralt? You think I belong with someone foppish? Loud? Annoying?” The bard was spitting mad already. The Witcher had touched on a sore spot, apparently. “Should I be with someone more breakable and human and petty?”

“Don’t you want- aren’t you-”

“C’mon big boy, use that fantastic Witcher brain of yours. Figure it out.”

Geralt didn’t understand.

“Wouldn’t you be happier with her than on the Path with me?”

Jaskier looked...hurt. His expression changed from indignant to heartbroken in the measure of time that occurred between split seconds. It did something awful in the Witcher’s gut. Something unfamiliar and painful. The bard’s next words were barely above a whisper. Even with his enhanced hearing Geralt had to focus hard: “Would you prefer me to be married off and out of your way?”

“No, that’s not what I-”

“I don’t even know what we’re even getting at here, Geralt. I’m sorry. I can return home if you’d like. If I send a messenger first thing tomorrow then the family’s hired mage can portal me back in time for the wedding.”

“Jaskier,” the Witcher was pleading. He didn’t know why or for what, but the pitch of his voice left room for no other possible interpretation. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

“Then don’t ask me to marry her, Geralt.”

The Witcher dropped the letter back onto the refuse pile and shoved it deeper with the tip of his boot. Jaskier’s bright smile returned and the soft notes of his lute filled the air once again. For some inexplicable reason Geralt felt triumphant. As if he’d won a battle he didn’t know he’d been fighting against an enemy he’d never met before.

---

“Are you Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf?” a well-dressed stranger asked, approaching the table where the Witcher was seated. It had been a week since his and Jaskier’s argument over the summons. Neither one had brought it up again and the bard had seemed almost unusually affectionate since. The amount of casual touching they did had significantly increased, even when the sun set and it was growing close to bedtime. Jaskier seemed to be happy touching Geralt and the Witcher had no reason to complain; he liked knowing that his best friend wasn’t scared of him.

He regarded the messenger with a suspicious gaze, “Aye. I am Geralt of Rivia.”

“I have a contract for you.” The man slid a piece of paper across the table and folded himself into the chair across from Geralt’s. The pattern stamped into the red wax seal was familiar but the Witcher couldn’t quite remember where he’d seen it before. His strange visitor smiled benignly, “It doesn’t even involve killing.”

“Then why hire a Witcher? That’s kind of our schtick.”

“This agreement is of a more personal nature,” the man shrugged, leaning back in his chair and waiting for Geralt to read his missive. The Witcher took the delicate stationary in his large hands and unfolded it until he could see the printed words:

To Sir Geralt of Rivia,

Witcher and Friend of Julian Alfred Pankratz

We, the Pankratz Family, come to you and offer this agreement:

Return Julian safely to our ancestral home within two weeks and you shall be paid the sum of 1500 crowns. Consider it a bodyguarding mission, if you so desire.

You are also formally invited to attend the wedding of Julian Alfred Pankratz of Lettenhove to the Countess Ainsley DeStael of Rinde, which will occur three days after your mission ends.

In order to complete the job and claim your payment, however, you must leave the wedding party without Julian at your side and return to your Witcher duties alone. He isn’t cut out for such a hard life on the road. He is of noble blood and has responsibilities here at home. Please return him to his kind of people and claim your coin in recompense.

Sincerely,

Francois Reginald Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove

Constantina Charlotte Pankratz, Lady de Lettenhove

Geralt glanced up from the contract and out into the main dining room where Jaskier was currently jigging atop one of the surprisingly sturdy tables. The bard’s smile was bright, his voice was strong and clear as he sang of lovers meeting in secret, and his blue eyes twinkled with joy. He loved the attention of performing. How could Geralt take that away from him, even if he would be safer at home? Even if he would be married to another, spending his time with another, caring for another…

But didn’t Geralt care about Jaskier? Isn’t that why he’d risked life and limb over and over to keep the bard safe? Because Geralt loved him? He pushed the thought away with haste and tried to keep his expression neutral. His amber eyes strayed to the upturned hat at Jaskier’s feet. People had been depositing coins there all night and a rather decent pile had sprung up but -

But he could be doing better, Geralt thought. He could be taking a warm bath every night and buying expensive oils from real apothecaries and not sketchy traveling salesmen. He could be dressing in silk every day and never complain about having to wear a woolen doublet for warmth again. He could sleep next to a fire in a real feather-bed. With blankets. He could stay healthy and safe and never go near another angry monster for all his days.

Something in the Witcher’s heart withered and died when he realized just how much he’d been holding Jaskier back; something important. Something the bard had helped him cultivate over six long years of traveling together. In an instant the Witcher had hidden it away in a dark corner to die.

“Alright.”

“Huh,” the messenger smirked. “They thought it would take more bribery to get you to agree, Witcher.”

“It’s not about the crowns,” Geralt shrugged, gaze flitting back up to Jaskier. The bard’s twinkling cornflower-blue eyes met with his and Geralt quickly glanced away, already ridden with guilt and shame over his decision. “It’s about making him happy and keeping him safe.”

“If I didn’t know any better about your kind and their lack of feelings,” the messenger snorted, “I’d say you might even love the Little Lord Pankratz.”

“If I didn’t know any better about myself,” Geralt replied, “I might agree.”

“See you in two weeks, then. Hope you can make it to Redania in time.”

“Why not just portal us there? Jaskier said his family had a hired mage.”

“Busy with wedding preparations,” the man shrugged. “Anyway, I must be going. The Viscount and her Ladyship are eager to hear your reply. See you soon, I’m sure.”

The stranger stood, bowed, and disappeared back to Lettenhove with the signed contract. Geralt swallowed back a mouthful of bile. He hated himself. He really did. But this is what’s best for Jaskier.

---

“Who was that, earlier at the table?” the bard asked. He was lounging on the bed with a tin of lute polish in one hand and a rag in the other. “Did he have a contract?”

“Yes. In Redania, actually.”

“Oh, lovely! It’s almost time for the summer festivals to begin; I can show you the best alehouse in all of Novigrad while we’re there.”

“My job is near Lettenhove. Do you want to go with me?”

“Sure. Might be fun to swing by my old stomping grounds. This doesn’t have anything to do with my canceled wedding, does it?” the bard shot him a pointed look. Geralt schooled his features into some sort of passivity and shook his head.

“Vampires rarely attend the weddings of minor nobility,” the Witcher lied through his teeth.

“Vampires, huh? Nifty. Haven’t had one of those to write about in awhile.”

“Hmm.”

---

“Geralt, help! Geralt, please! GERALT!”

The Witcher tossed and turned, unable to sleep. He kept hearing Jaskier’s raw, heartbroken voice ringing in his ears. He could still smell the desperation and panic that clung to the bard’s soft skin as he struggled to get away from his captors. To get back to where the Witcher stood with Roach and the gatekeeper. Geralt kept imagining those eyes, those fucking beautiful eyes, brimming with tears of betrayal as a liveried servant handed him a velvet pouch stuffed fat with crowns. Oh gods, the way his bard had looked at him…Geralt shoved his head out the window and vomited. There was nothing but the sour sting of bile against his tongue and the back of his throat. He heaved in a breath but choked back the sob threatening to come with it.

“Please don’t leave me here, Geralt! Don’t take the money! I’ll be better, I promise! I won’t talk as much, I won’t touch Roach again, I won’t write any ballads about you, Geralt please, I lo-”

The guards had dragged Jaskier inside and slammed the heavy oak door shut before he could finish his sentence, but the Witcher had gotten the general idea. The bard thought he was doing this out of hatred and not out of the sincerest, purest love Geralt had ever felt. He thought this was a punishment and not a slightly backwards form of rescue. If only the bard could understand.

Jaskier’s love wasn’t unrequited.

The bard stole the very breath from Geralt’s lungs every time their eyes met. Every time Jaskier crowed with pride after finishing a new song about their adventures together the Witcher felt his icy heart melt a little more. Each casual brush of their hands as they walked side-by-side sent his emotions reeling. The way his exuberant bard looked as he strolled beside Roach, the sunshine bringing out streaks of dark red in his chestnut hair and lightening the embroidery on his travel jerkin, it was ethereal. Magical. Overwhelming in all the best ways.

And he’d given it all away for a measly pouch of a coin and a slightly clearer conscious. Or was it?

Geralt retched again as he came to another realization.

He had forced Jaskier into something he didn’t want. Geralt had always given his friend free reign. The younger man came on and off the Path like a bee between flowers, visiting and traveling with the Witcher when he pleased and leaving again for odd jobs or festivals when Geralt wasn’t in the mood for company. But he’d given him no choice about the marriage. No, he’d wrestled Jaskier to the ground and bound his hands. He’d gagged him. He’d flung the bard into Roach’s saddle and tied his crossed wrists to the pommel so he couldn’t pick the knots free and escape. He’d passed Jaskier off to the guards and watched them drag him away as he spit out the gag and started yelling.

As he confessed his love to Geralt after six long years on the Path together.

Fucking hells, what have I done to him?

The suddenly panicked Witcher tumbled from his rented bed and reached for his boots. There was no time to spare. There was no time to waste.

There was only Jaskier.

---

Jaskier couldn’t believe it.

After all this time. After all their adventures. After all the songs he’d written and rooms he’d gotten them at comfortable inns, this is how the Witcher repaid him. Trading him back to his parents for a bag of coin like he was some sort of slave or whore.

He was a bard.

He was Geralt’s bard.

Well, he used to be Geralt’s bard. Now he was going to be Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove and Lord of Rinde by marriage.

He wished he could just stop breathing and disappear. His heart thudded dully in his chest and it felt as if he was floating several feet below the surface of deep water. He was unable or unwilling to surface; maybe both. There was no point anymore, really. Geralt, the only person he’d ever really loved, had trussed him up like a market goose and traded him for silver.

The food his family’s servants brought him laid mostly untouched. He knew how to eat just enough to keep from dying. He’d been in plenty of dungeons and bandit camps before. Jaskier had spent six years following the Witcher’s Path and surviving off of whatever Geralt caught or he traded for. There was no reason to eat any more than what he needed to keep his body alive. There was no reason to get out of bed. Or bathe. Or change clothes. These clothes still smelled like the road. Like lute polish and chamomile oil and Roach and mud and Geralt.

“Please,” his mother begged, clasping his limp hand in both of hers. She’d been sitting at his bedside for maybe an hour, watching him stare listlessly up into the green velvet canopy above him. “Just eat something substantial. Say something. Do something, Julian. We know you aren’t happy with us or our decision but you can’t just lay here all day and wallow in self-pity. You have responsibilities to take care of; Ainsley has grown worried and her father is impatient.”

“The wedding is tomorrow,” he’d replied. There was no emotion in his voice and the monotony was soothing to his own ears. Geralt didn’t like it when he got too excited. Best to be calm and quiet like a good little noble. “I will be presentable. I will be at the altar. I will do my duty for the family.”

“Thank you, Julian.”

“But I will not love her.”

“You never have to love her,” his mother smiled. She gave his hand another small pat before standing and moving towards the door. Her job here was done, after all. “We only need you to marry her.”

---

Geralt pounded up the steps of the keep two-at-a-time. His usually slow heartbeat was now pounding in his ears like a warlord’s drum. He had to save Jaskier, he had to - the door slammed open and something hard went flying into his chest, knocking him back a step. The Witcher reached out a hand to steady the person he’d collided with but his amber eyes were still focused on the castle’s front door. He moved to step around the stranger and into the building when they suddenly spoke. The bard’s voice was pitchy and low from crying all morning: “Geralt?”

“Jaskier?” the Witcher gasped. His grip tightened around the younger man’s upper arm. “Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” Jaskier looked truly flabbergasted. His expression shifted from shock to anger quickly, however, and the hurt in those blue eyes nailed Geralt to the ground where he stood. “Am I OKAY? You absolute fucking moron; of course I’m not okay. The love of my life tied me up, handed me over to my horrible fucking family like a Beltane offering, and disappeared into the night with a fat bag of crowns. The one person I love most in this world, the only person I’d ever trust with my life or my lute, treated me like a transaction of some sort. I am very much not okay, Geralt of Rivia! Now pick me up, take me to Roach, and get me the fuck out Lettenhove before I have to marry that horrible, terrible, hideous woman!”

The Witcher cracked a smile. Jaskier jabbed a finger into his chest and frowned even more deeply. “Why the fuck are you smiling, Witcher?”

“Because I missed the sound of your voice.”

The bard blushed, his righteous anger faltering.

“I love you too,” Geralt added. Jaskier’s eyes somehow grew even rounder and more watery. “I’m so fucking sorry but I didn’t know how else to protect you. I thought that maybe after coming home and seeing how much nicer it was than being on the Path you might want to stay here and be safe. Live your life normally. I thought you’d be happier here than you were with me. You’d certainly wouldn’t be hurt as often.”

“Did you just say that you love me?”

“Yes.”

“Did you hear me say that I love you, mere moments ago?”

“Yes.”

“Then why the fuck would you try to get rid of me?” The Witcher tried not to flinch when Jaskier placed a gentle hand against his cheek. He’d expected a slap. A kick to the shin. A knee to the groin. Screaming. He hadn’t expected that look of soft understanding to dawn on Jaskier’s boyish face. Despite the knowing sparkle in his eyes, the bard’s voice was sad. “Caged birds never sing, Geralt. What an awful cage it would have been; I'd never see my handsome Witcher again. I'd never attend another royal wedding as entertainment. I'd never write another line of song, much less be able to sing it. I would have been miserable Geralt. I probably would have died much sooner here than I would on the Path.”

“Can you ever forgive me?”

“As soon as you do as I say and get me the hell out of here, then yes, I’ll consider forgiving you, Witcher.”

“Well I suppose we shouldn’t waste any time.”

Geralt flung the bard up and over his shoulder and took off back down the steps at a sprint. He wasn’t going to let those people have his darling Jaskier back. Not if they tried to cage him and take his voice. He knew better now. He understood.

They loved each other.

The bard was laughing brightly, bouncing along as Geralt made for the stables. He could see his family exiting the Great Hall and making their way in his direction. It didn’t matter. They’d never catch up with his Witcher. He shot them several naughty hand gestures and grinned widely when Geralt swung them both up into Roach’s saddle. “Sorry girl,” he apologized. “Time for our daring escape into the woods.”

---

"Fifteen hundred crowns, huh?" Jaskier asked, eyeing the hefty purple velvet bag.

"Actually there are only fourteen hundred left," Geralt shrugged. He reached into his saddlebag and brought out a small leather pouch, which he handed to Jaskier. The bard opened it, peered inside, and gasped in very genuine surprise.

"Geralt..."

"Do you like it?" the Witcher was worrying his bottom lip between his teeth in the cutest way. Jaskier wanted to answer but his heart was caught somewhere between his throat and his stomach so he couldn't quite form words. He nodded.

"Can you help me put it on?"

"There's no clasp. They aren't meant to have clasps."

"I know."

Geralt's heart soared as he lifted his gift for Jaskier out of the bag and lowered it over his head. The medallion rested just between his collarbones, framed by a tuft of the bard's chest hair. It was a copy of Geralt's wolf medallion, only this wolf held a flower in its mouth. Gently, as if unwilling to break the stem or let it go.

"It's perfect," the bard beamed. His eyes were watery and he blinked the tears free to keep staring at his new jewelry. "Thank you."

"Hmm."

"What do you want to do with the rest of the money?"

"I don't know," the Witcher shrugged. "Maybe go to the coast?"

"I've always wanted to go there!"

Geralt pressed a tender kiss against Jaskier's lips, reveling in the sensation of his bard melting against his chest. They'd spent the last few nights wrapped around each other, whispering secrets and stories into each others mouths until sleep overtook them. Tonight would be no different, except that now Jaskier felt truly safe. He felt loved. He felt utterly surrounded by the happiness that came with being on the Path next to his Witcher. "What are you thinking about, little lark?"

"I'm glad you came back for me. I'm glad we're together now."

"Hmm. Me too."

#geraskier fic #geraskier #geraskier fanfic #geralt x jaskier #geraskier whump #geralt of rivia whump #jaskier whump #geraskier hurt/comfort #hurt/comfort #geralt/jaskier #emotional hurt/comfort #h/c fic #the witcher fanfic #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher netflix

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jokertrap-ran · 3 years

Photo

(光与夜之恋 Light and Night) Main Story Chapter 2-5: 时间针脚 The Patchwork of Time Translation

“What are you standing around in a stupor for? See a ghost?”

*Light and Night Master-list *Spoiler free: Translations will remain under cut *Join the Light & Night Discord (＾▽＾)~ ♪ *Main story tag will be #For Light and Night

Behind the glass wall were several blurry figures busying around.

MC: This should be Team A's area.

Mya had suddenly called a few minutes ago to give me directions to the place I was supposed to report to.

I ran what I was going to say to everyone, in the form of an introduction, through my head once more before gently clearing my throat and opening the door.

❖☆———————————★❖

MC: Hello everyone, I'm—

Thunk!

The sound of metal heavily hitting the floor cut my words short as the handle of the door completely fell off.

MC: !?

Did I break it? No way! I broke the office's door on my first day here!?

I didn't quite know what to do for a while. One of the figures closest to the door turned slightly around at the noise.

He had a head full of spiky hair, like that of a hedgehog. He didn't spare even a glance at the door handle; instead, his gaze fell directly upon my person. He shot up from the seat of his workstation.

??: Yoooooou!!

MC: Sorry! It wasn't on purpose, I swear!

??: You're the newcomer that's supposed to be coming in today, right? Sister Zheng Lin, we've got an extra hand!

He excitedly yelled at the other end of the office.

This isn't quite turning out like how I imagined it to be...

Summoned by his yell, a plump woman speed-walked towards us. Her smile was friendly, but there was a sort of unconcealable exhaustion marring her features.

Zheng Lin: Hello. Welcome to Team A. I'm the leader, Zheng Lin.

MC: Hello. Um… I accidentally broke your door handle just now… Sorry…

??: Aw, that thing's been dead half a month ago. We just didn't have time to call someone down to fix it. Don't mind it, yeah?

??: C'mere. I'll bring you to your workstation. Your stuff looks pretty heavy. I'll take it for you, yeah?

He enthusiastically takes the office appliances I'd brought in from my hands and continues walking straight ahead.

Zheng Lin: That works too. I'll leave you to bring her around to meet the others then, Brother Mao. I'll come over once I'm finished up here.

I nodded, following after "Brother Mao".

Brother Mao: I'm Mao Ge, but you can call me Brother Mao! The best rock singer among all Designers here!

He grinned, pulling out a chair and gesturing for me to sit. He then magicked out a rag from god-knows-where and quickly gave the table a wipedown.

Brother Mao: You were 2nd place in the contest, right? We all watched the broadcast; it was absolutely brilliant.

Brother Mao: Especially when you chose Director Qi of all people. Boy, that was a killer! How did you dare to pick him?

Brother Mao: Forget his face, even his breath alone is an icy sub-zero.

Brother Mao: Ever seen an iron tree bloom? I'd say even that's slightly more common than seeing Director Qi smile.

Brother Mao: I'm not talking about his cold smiles, of course. We see that way too often.

MC: Eh? … I just thought getting him to review my work was a rare chance that I couldn't pass up on.

Brother Mao: You go, girl! Looks like we've finally got a competent person in Team A! Feel free to ask me anything if you face any problems in the future! I've gotcha covered!

He grinned, patting himself on the chest to further emphasize his point. He'd already assembled and laid out all of my office appliances on the table at some point in our conversation.

Brother Mao: Alright, everyone! Put everything down. Let me introduce to you our new buddy, (Y/n)!

All the people around me nodded in greeting as Brother Mao introduced them to me one-by-one.

Brother Mao: The one dressed in a Cheongsam is Li Man'man. She came here a minute earlier than you and braved through 3 interviews just to enter Warson.

Li Man'man: Hi, nice to meet you.

Brother Mao: And that's Chen Che, our team's tailoring genius. He's been here for nearly 4 years and has just been promoted to a Senior Designer.

The guy named Chen Che raised his head from the multitude of fabric surrounding him. He adjusted his glasses and gave me a wary look.

Chen Che: Hello.

It was at this moment in time that a guy sporting a quiff hairdo walked past us. His head was haughtily raised and his expression was one of utter disdain.

Man With Quiff Hairstyle: Hmph.

MC: And he is…?

Brother Mao: Don't mind him. He's an annoyance. He just failed the promotion test and is being the green-eyed monster to everyone right now.

I only nodded, not knowing what to say.

Brother Mao: That one over there's Hao Shuai, the trendsetter of Team A and also the King of Werewolf games.

Hao Shuai: Wanna play Werewolf? I'll host one next time, but not now...

Hao Shuai buried his face with a sullen expression as Brother Mao quietly pulled me aside to a corner.

Brother Mao: He's not been in too jolly of a mood these few days. He didn't manage to get promoted to Senior Designer, so he's been pretty depressed about it.

MC: Sounds like it's very hard to get promoted up a rank...

Brother Mao: Precisely! Although Warson has a rank promotion system in place, the way things are being assessed in them makes it scarily hard! People normally have to do it five or six times before they manage to get themselves promoted.

Brother Mao: And, you might even get demoted a rank if the work you turn in doesn't make the cut!

MC: That strict!?

Brother Mao: I'm a Junior Designer like you. I've already taken the assessment around…

Zheng Lin: 10 times.

Brother Mao: You remember all so well, Sister Zheng Lin.

He gallantly retrieved another chair for Zheng Lin to sit on, seemingly paying no heed to the embarrassing number of tries he'd gone through.

Brother Mao: Don't they say that failure's the mother of success? I just have to get a couple more of those and it'll net me a great success!

I laughed at his joke along with Zheng Lin.

Zheng Lin: Our assessment system is just stricter than others.

Zheng Lin: Even though everyone is free to design whatever they like with their creativity as the limit, becoming an actual Fashion Designer is some serious business.

Zheng Lin: Those capable of joining us here in Warson are all talented individuals. Hence, what's really being tested in those assessments are your passion and perseverance.

Zheng Lin: I've welcomed hundreds upon hundreds of rookies during my 10 years here in Team A, but most of them drop out after failing the assessment 3-4 times.

MC: Eh?

Zheng Lin: Firstly, everyone who first comes here holds high self-esteem, so they're a bit more sensitive to criticism. And it is only natural for people to find it unbearable, especially after having been criticized a lot.

Zheng Lin: Secondly, there's a limit to the type of jobs that can be given to Assistants and Junior Designers, so things often end up being boring and repetitive

Zheng Lin: It's hard to go on like that if you don't have the right sort of determination.

MC: ……

Zheng Lin was about to say more when the door slammed open with a "bang!". Several people stood at the entrance, worry written all over their anxious faces.

Colleague A: Can someone consolidate all of Sliver's Autumn-Winter fabrics into a document?

Colleague A: I still have to go down to the mall and conduct surveys and research so I won't be able to do that in time!

Colleague B: Some trouble cropped up regarding the visas of the foreign models who're slated for a shoot next week, so we need another 18 new ones!

Colleague B: What should I do, Sister Zheng Lin!?

Zheng Lin gave a helpless sigh.

Zheng Lin: I'd originally wanted you to let you get used to things around here, but we have our hands full… Do you mind helping us?

MC: … Sure thing!

Zheng Lin: Then, could you first help us by going to the warehouse and picking up Silver's Autumn-Winter fabrics and consolidating them into a sample book after?

Zheng Lin: You can get Brother Mao to help you check it through once you're done.

I nodded and joined the fray.

Time went by. And finally, I finished my very first task after an hour. Brother Mao told me to take it up to the Team A representative who was in the meeting after checking through it.

❖☆———————————★❖

It was clearly noon soon, yet the doors of the meeting rooms on both sides of the corridor were still tightly shut, I could occasionally hear the sound of loud discussions coming from within.

❖☆———————————★❖

MC: Excuse me, I'm here to deliver the fabric samples.

Pushing the door open, I saw a Designer who was in the middle of loudly explaining his idea while Sariel held a pen, looking down at the document in his hand.

All the other Designers were either listening intently or hurriedly sketching out their new ideas, having been struck by a sudden wave of inspiration. It was almost as if the very air itself was crackling with ideas, going head to head with each other, gathering and merging into a brand new storm of ideas.

I’m going to be taking part in meetings with everyone in the future too… I couldn’t help but jump for joy at the exciting notion.

Placing the fabric catalogue book down, I couldn’t stop myself from taking one last glance at the meeting room before I left.

❖☆———————————★❖

Brother Mao: Oh, right. Don't forget to retrieve the catalogue book once the meeting upstairs is done.

MC: Okay.

❖☆———————————★❖

Everyone left after the meeting ended. I picked up the scattered pieces of fabric, stacking them neatly into a pile. It was only then that I noticed a pen lying on the ground.

The pitch-black pen was see-through, slender, and sturdy, with three gold-stamped petals at the very end.

MC: This is...

An image of Sariel wielding this pen with his head bowed in thought appeared in my mind.

MC: Is this pen his? It certainly suits that icy countenance of his...

❖☆———————————★❖

I bent down to pick it up, but the moment my fingers brushed against it… I suddenly felt an inexplicable sharp jolt of pain piercing my head.

My heart clenched violently, almost as if a nightmare that had been buried deep within its depths was about to be awakened. The stifling feeling of sadness and despair washed over me together with the odd feeling of my heart having been impaled by something.

What’s going on?

I pressed against my chest, trying to get through this sudden bout of pain that came out of seemingly nowhere.

Sariel: What's going on here?

There seems to be a faint voice ringing through my ears. The pen was taken away from me the next moment. Gone with it were the odd sensations.

I blearily looked at Sariel who had suddenly popped up from nowhere, still slightly woozy in the head.

Sariel: What are you standing around in a stupor for? See a ghost?

MC: I don't know what happened to me earlier…

Sariel: That's what I'd like to ask you.

☆Light Choice: Explain what you felt earlier

I shook my head, trying to recall that odd sensation you felt earlier.

MC: I… My chest and head just suddenly started hurting.

MC: I know I’m in the meeting room right now, but it kind of felt as if I wasn’t here at the same time…

MC: Like a nightmare, you can never wake up from…

Sariel’s expression changed minuscule bit upon hearing the word “nightmare”.

Sariel: How about now?

MC: I'm fine now, and the uncomfortable feeling's also gone.

Sariel: Has this happened before?

MC: Once…?

★Night Choice: Conceal what you felt earlier

MC: I just felt a little light-headed… I'm okay now.

MC: Oh, right. I picked up your pen.

I pointed towards the pen that he'd already reclaimed, which was now in his hand. Sariel only frowned.

Sariel: You felt light-headed after picking up this pen?

It was only when he mentioned it that I realized that that seemed to be the case. But what would a pen have anything to do with a bout of dizziness?

Sariel coldly grabs my hand, making my heart stop cold in my chest. However, all he did was stare at it in silence for a few seconds before releasing me just as quickly.

MC: What are you looking at? Is there something wrong with my hand?

Sariel: Nothing. It's well and fine.

What's up with Sariel? Grabbing my hand out of nowhere like that and not even telling me the reason why...

So, I ended up giving my hand a thorough check as well. There was nothing off about it, but I couldn't help feeling a little worried.

I'd also experienced some "auditory hallucinations" back then at the rooftop…

MC: Maybe I should go get myself a check-up at the hospital just in case…

Sariel: You look pretty peppy on your feet to me. Doesn't seem like there's anything physically wrong about you.

His gaze smoothly slides up from my face to the top of my head as he spoke.

Sariel: Though, I can't say the same about the other parts of you.

MC: ……!

I was fuming, yet I didn't dare to express it with a vehement glare. Seeing how riled up I was at it, yet unable to do anything about it, a flicker of a smirk made its way up to a corner of his mouth.

This was my second time seeing him smile today… The iron tree has bloomed…

Sariel: Are there flowers growing on my face?

I shook my head.

Sariel: A ghost then?

I shook my head again.

Sariel: Then why are you looking at me as if you've just seen a monster?

MC: You just smiled. It's too rare of a sight.

Sariel: … How stupid.

He put on a straight face as he pocketed his pen and turned to head out.

Suddenly remembering something, I hurriedly pushed the door open and ran after him.

MC: Wait a minute, Director Qi! Are you free right now?

❖☆————— ⊹ For Light & Night⊹ —————★❖

Previous Part: (Chapter 2-3) | Next Part: (Chapter 2-8)

#光与夜之恋 #Light and Night #Otome #Translations #Tencent #萧逸 #Osborn #齐司礼 #Sariel #陆沉 #Evan #查理苏 #Charlie #夏鸣星 #Jesse #For Light and Night

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makoodlesarchive · 4 years

Text

(this beat is)

pairing: kirishima eijirou x reader

word count: 2648

warnings: NSFW, drunkenness, dry humping

Tip Jar!

[[PART 2]]

»»————-　♡　————-««

The music in the club is so loud that you can see the reverberations disturb the surface of your drink where it sits on the table. You have to move it every couple of minutes to avoid Mina’s flailing limbs as she tries to tell a story to Jirou; she doesn’t seem to realise that no one can hear her over the music, though Jirou is smiling and nodding along anyway.

The alcohol has turned your thoughts soupy and slow, and you sprawl comfortably in your seat with your head cradled in one hand. Across the dance floor, you watch as Kirishima begs the DJ to play One, Two Step for the fourth time that night. Judging by the poe-faced DJ, it’s not going well. Suddenly your view is obstructed by a pink hand waving in your face, and then Mina is. pressing right up into your side and yelling into your ear, “Oooooooh, who are you looking at, huh?”

You flush, and pray that she can’t see in the darkness of the club. “No one.” you say quickly, but Mina can’t seem to hear you over the pounding bass. Either that, or she’s ignoring you.

“Did someone cute catch your eye?”

“No!” you insist, louder this time. You lunge for your drink and take an exaggeratedly large gulp of it -- it has the desired effect of distracting Mina, who cheers loudly and encourages you to chug it.

Someone thumps down into the seat next to you, and you don’t even have to look to know that it’s Bakugou. He crosses his arms and scowls so fiercely that it looks for a moment like his face is about to collapse. “Kirishima is totally fuckin’ wasted.” his snarl carries over the music, and he directs his frown over to where Kirishima is still heckling the DJ.

“Yeah.” you agree with a little laugh, following his gaze. The way Kirishima’s red shirt clings to his broad shoulders should be illegal, and those black pants make it hard for you to tear your eyes away from his ass. He looks so good that it feels physically painful to look at him. When you finally manage to look away from him, you realise Bakugou is watching you watching Kirishima with a raised eyebrow. “Fuck off.” you say reflexively, despite the fact that Bakugou hasn’t actually commented yet.

His raised eyebrow morphs into a smug little grin that you’d love to smack off his face, but you also like having your arms connected to your body so you decide to let it slide. “None of my business if you want to admire the view.” he says, a little mockingly. You glare at him, totally ineffectively, because he barely seems to notice. A few moments pass where neither of you speak, and then suddenly Bakugou says, “He’s so drunk that I had to take his keys.”

You blink at him, a little confused. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. He’ll need help getting back to his place.”

“Probably.” You agree; Kirishima has given up on trying to coerce the DJ into playing classic early 2000s pop hits and is now weaving his way back to the table. It’s slow going, as he keeps misjudging his own size and bouncing into people only to ricochet backwards, barely keeping to his feet. He’s an absolute disaster, and you can’t believe how attracted to him you are.

Your crush on Kirishima is an embarrassing thing that began back in your UA days; you were in the General course, so you figured there was virtually no chance of him ever even noticing you. It got better when you befriended Mina, because apparently her entire group of friends came as a package deal, but you definitely were still stuck pretty firmly in the friendzone.

You’d be able to cope with it just fine -- it’s not like it’s the first crush you’ve ever had, and nobody even knows about it. Except for the fact that Bakugo fucking Katsuki of all people seems to have somehow found out about your secret crush. Normally that wouldn’t be such a huge deal. Bakugou really isn’t the kind to give a shit about trivial things like who has a crush on who. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, he seems to get great enjoyment out of watching you pine after his best friend. It’s uncomfortable and embarrassing, and you mostly try to pretend that you don’t notice his stupid shit-eating smirks whenever he catches you ogling Kirishima’s abs in his Pro Hero costume.

“Guys!” Kirishima yells as he finally reaches your table, swaying dangerously. “Guys! Let’s do more shots!”

“Hell no.” Bakugou shoots him down instantly before Mina gets the chance to cheer. “I’m going home.”

“Bakubro.” Kirishima affects a ridiculous pout which somehow manages to look really endearing on him. “C’mon man, one shot for the road!”

“No.”

Kirishima rounds on you immediately and just about blinds you with his grin, “Y/N! Shots!”

“Okay.” you hear yourself agreeing, which is stupid because you were supposed to agree with Bakugou. You blink rather stupidly as Kirishima yells and fist pumps the air before disappearing again, then turn to stare at Bakugou.

“Idiot.” Bakugou says, and you’re not sure if he means you or Kirishima. “Whatever. I’m leaving.”

“Yeah.” Mina agrees with a yawn. “I’m pretty tired too.”

“Will I tell Kirishima to forget the shots?” you ask, scanning the club for spiky red hair.

“Yeah.” Bakugou says slowly, “Why don’t you do that?”

His tone is a little weird, but honestly you’re too drunk to think much of it so you wobble your way to your feet and take off towards the bar. Kirishima isn’t difficult to spot, even if you weren’t as ridiculously attuned to his presence as you are. You push your way past people and wiggle your way into the bar to his side. When he notices you he grins, his teeth gleaming under the neon club lights. “Hey! I got the shots!”

“Bakugou says-- whoa, how many did you get?” you blink down at the five shot glasses lined up on the bar. “I think we’re the only ones that are actually going to be taking them.”

“We can split them, then!” Kirishima says happily, totally unbothered.

You eye him a little uncertainly as he leans heavily against the bar. “Are you sure? You’re… you’ve had a lot to drink.”

Kirishima nods along as though he thinks you’re talking nothing but sense, then pushes three shot glasses towards you and pulls the remaining two towards himself. “There we go,” he grins, “Fair! Now drink!”

You were intending on telling Kirishima that you didn’t have time to do the shots, and that you both were already drunk enough without adding shots to the mix, and plus Bakugou’s getting real antsy about getting home. Instead, you take one look at the way the corners of Kirishima’s eyes crinkle when he smiles and you toss back the three shots like the dumb bitch you are.

Kirishima cheers you on, laughing delightedly, then loops his arm in yours and tugs you back toward your friends. The problem was, when you got to the table there was no one there.

“Is this the right table?” Kirishima asked, confused, swaying a little.

“Yeah.” you say, frowning deep. What the hell? Where did everyone go?

You think of Bakugou’s weird tone, of him looking from you to Kirishima and saying ‘he’ll need help getting back to his place’. Oh no. He wouldn’t. Except he was Bakugou, and he absolutely would.

“That bitch.” you blurt, disbelieving. He really left you both here, knowing that Kirishima wouldn’t be able to get home without the keys that Bakugou had taken from him.

“Hey, are we going home now?” Kirishima asks, leaning his chin on your shoulder and talking right into your ear.

You shiver a little at the proximity and at the hot breath against your neck. “Um,” you say, a little helplessly, “I think you’re gonna have to stay at my place.”

“Great!” he says cheerfully, still swaying as he loops an arm around your waist and begins to escort you out of the club. His balance is shot and yours isn’t much better, so it ends up taking an embarrassingly long time for the two of you to weave your way out of the building.

The fresh air outside hits you like a slap, but instead of sobering you up it just makes you realise exactly how drunk you are. You trip on a curb and nearly overbalance, but then Kirishima is wrapping an arm around your waist to steady you and giggling into your ear and you realise that you are totally, totally screwed.

You can honestly say that you have no idea how this happened.

One minute you and Kirishima are giggling drunkenly and getting ready for bed, and the next you’re perched in his lap on the bed kissing so heatedly it feels like he’s about to swallow you whole. The shots had hit you like a train when you were halfway home; you can’t even remember who kissed who first.

He’s really warm and he tastes like rum, and you find your hands winding into his hair; it’s softer than you expected, a revelation which nearly knocks you flat. You’ve wanted to touch him like this for forever, and the heady sensation of his warmth pressed against you is making your head swim even more than it had been already.

His hands skim up your bare thighs -- you had stripped down into a sleep shirt and panties, thinking it was time for bed. He pulls away from your mouth and you make an embarrassing sound, like a whine pulled from the back of your throat. “Are you-- this is okay?” he asks, nipping along your jaw.

“Yes.” you breathe, clutching at his shoulders. You can feel the firmness of the muscle under your fingers as you press down. “Definitely okay.” The nipping continues at your jaw, then travels down your neck. “I-I really like you.”

Kirishima looks up, eyes wide and a little bloodshot. You can’t imagine that yours look any better. “You do?” when you nod, his face breaks out into a grin. “I like you too! Can I-?” he begins, and you feel his hands sliding inside your over-sized shirt, thumbing at your hips. Feeling bold, you lean forward and capture his lips again. He groans softly and pulls you closer to him, his hands sweeping over your waist and then down to the swell of your ass. His touch feels good, even through the drunken fuzziness.

“You can do whatever you want.” you mumble into his mouth. A part of you is a little mortified at your boldness, but it’s a small part that’s quickly washed away as Kirishima surges up into you. In a movement too swift for you to follow, he has you flipped onto your back as he leans over you. His hands feel hot as they pass over your skin, and you press up into him as he leans down to kiss you again.

The kiss only lasts a moment, and then he pulls back to look down at you. His breath comes in light puffs, hot against the side of your face, but he doesn’t say anything. You’re just about to ask what he’s doing, suddenly worried that he’s come to his senses and wants nothing to do with you anymore, when he moves. Suddenly he’s pressing right in between your legs, and your mouth falls open as you feel the hot, hard press of him against the inside of your thigh.

You’re afraid to make a noise, because you don’t want to interrupt the moment -- it feels fragile, like a soap bubble -- but then Kirishima’s hands are stroking over your ass and hiking your body higher, and then pulls you so you fit right up against him. Despite the alcohol, his movements are sure and strong, nothing like his wavering movements from earlier. It’s so easy to feel him; he had stripped down to his boxer briefs and shirt when you had first gotten home, so the only barrier between you two is the thin material of your underwear. When he moves against you again, you can’t stop the long, low, quiet moan that comes spilling out between your lips.

It’s as though your moan was some sort of signal for him, because suddenly he’s gripping your waist tighter as his own hips jerk against yours. He gasps in your ear as he thrusts himself against the warmth between your legs, then kisses the side of your head. That easy little display of affection has your back flexing, pushing you down to meet him as he humps against your core.

“You’re so warm,” Kirishima whispers into your hair, “You look so good- I wanna- really good,” he continues, a little nonsensically.

You cling to his shoulders, squirming as you feel the thick outline of his cock pressing right against your clit. “There,” you blurt, gasping as he presses there just right, “Yes, there-”

“Okay, okay,” he breathes, “Whatever you want-”

It’s a little embarrassing, how good it feels and how much of a mess you’ve turned into when you’re both technically still clothed. You’re basically just dry-humping, but the feel of Kirishima all around you and his breathy little moans right in your ear are winding you tighter and tighter, and every time he rubs up against you like that it feels like you’re boiling.

“Please,” you gasp. You don’t even know what you’re saying really, only that the feel of him rubbing against you like that, just right, is driving you insane. As you gasp, he starts to go harder, faster, “Like that, yes, yes, yes.”

One of Kirishima’s hands plants itself by the bed, the other wrapped around your back as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. He’s making small choked-off moans, and the sounds shoot heat straight to your core. You tug at his hair, and his moans get a little louder.

“Oh,” he says suddenly, gripping your hips tight, “Shit-”

He shudders hard, then warm wetness is soaking the front of your panties. The realisation that Kirishima has flooded his boxers just from dry-humping has you following over the edge, whining as he keeps grinding the way through both of your orgasms. His hands clench hard into your skin as hips thrusts turn clumsy and even, his hips jerking sporadically.

The force of the orgasm takes you by surprise; your toes have clenched so hard they’re starting to cramp, and your legs flop bonelessly to the bed as Kirishima lowers your body back to the mattress. He rolls to the side just enough so that his weight isn’t entirely on you, before curling right up into your neck and kissing your sweaty forehead. “That,” he says breathlessly, “That was really- yeah.”

You laugh, feeling a little winded. “Yeah,” you agree, then curl into him. A big arm wraps around your shoulder, and you’re pretty sure you could die happy exactly like this.

“You’re so great.” Kirishima mumbles, slurring a little. A glance at his face reveals that he’s already half-asleep, and you can’t help but laugh a little. He’s got the right idea; you feel like you’ve just ran a marathon, which is a little embarrassing, but you can blame the lack of stamina on the shots.

You’ve just closed your eyes, intending on following Kirishima’s example, when the aggravating buzzing of your phone goes off. You groan unhappily, reaching out to grapple with the bedside table until you find it.

Bakugou: You’re welcome, asshole

You glare at the text and click your tongue.

You: you’re such a dick

Kirishima snuffles in his sleep, and you smile as you watch his nose scrunch a little. Fuck, he’s so cute. You guess Bakugou’s not the worst wingman you could have asked for, even if his methods were less than conventional.

You: but thanks ;)

#kirishima x reader #kirishima eijiro x reader #kirishima imagine #mha x reader #mha kirishima #mha imagine #bnha x reader

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fighterkimburgess · 3 years

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I read your mini-prompt for 5x11. On the show, who do you think Kim was talking about? I’ve always thought Kim was talking about Adam. Roman had so gotten in her head, and she let him, that I think Kim was convinced Adam was playing her when she broke off their engagement. I’ve always wondered if that’s what holds her back from being with him now. Some inexplicable, deep-seated, irrational doubt.

Honestly I think she was talking about a mixture of boyfriends. Partly Adam, partly Roman, partly that she’d just ended things with Matt because of work, and partly people we don’t even know she’s dated. I don’t think she thought Adam was playing her, but I think she thought he was content for them to remain as they were, and she wanted the wedding, the move in, the everything. She wanted him to fight for her, and the stupid push tests Roman made her do just meant he thought he was doing what she wanted. It’s the epitome of bad communication.

As for what holds her back from being with him now? I think it’s actually doubt in herself. Let’s look at her two most recent non Adam relationships, Matt and Blair. She ended things with Matt because she gave him work related information that she should rightly have been demoted for disclosing and putting Intelligence’s case in danger. It wasn’t exactly serious, but she had to introduce him to her boss because of that fundraiser. It was definitely heading that way, but when she could end it she did.

And then with Blair, she was about to end it when he was killed. They were only together a couple of weeks - he asked her out in 6x14 and died in 6x19 - but she was ending it anyway. Even though she thought she could fall in love with him. And I know there’s the deleted scene where she said it was because of how she felt when she was with Adam (Marina tweeted about it before but look it’s nearly 11pm and I didn’t exactly sleep last night I’m not going searching), but I honestly think it was her relationship with Roman.

She was engaged. She was going to get married. And a couple of episodes later she’s in a relationship with her partner, who filled her with self doubt and unsure feelings about her engagement. The guy who lets remember, got her shot and is the reason she didn’t take intelligence. The guy who she killed a man to save his life WITH A KNIFE. Like Badass Burgess moment, yes, but also that has to be super traumatic. Let alone Justice and nearly going on trial for shooting someone.

It wasn’t shown on screen, but I’m pretty firmly of the belief that if Brian Geraghty didn’t decide to leave the show, that relationship would have been shown as abusive. There’s too many red flags not to be. The emotional affair Roman engaged in when he was going to donate his bone marrow. The way he acted around women. His dislike of Kim because she was a woman and his partner from day one. The way he acted towards Jenn when she rode with them, the way he talked about her fiancé and acted at her engagement party. I could make a longer list, but again, coming up to 11pm.

The one thing abusive relationships do - even in their infancy - is make you not be sure what happened when. You think the behaviour is normal, so you think it happens all the time. I think part of that is happening with Kim, that the relationship with Roman, the “I love you, probably” moment and all of that, is nearly melded in her brain with her relationship with Adam thanks to the proximity in time of the relationships and how insanely stressful that entire year was. And part of me thinks that’s why she’s so nervous about being with him.

She had her chance with him. She ended things. And I think she deeply regretted ending it from the very moment she handed back the ring. I think Kim thinks she doesn’t deserve another chance with Adam, because she blew it up before, of course she’s going to do it again. How could he want to date her when she broke his heart? Yeah he proposed, but that’s cause she was pregnant and he’s a good boy from Canaryville who’s going to always make sure that he looks after his kid, no matter what. I honestly think she rationalised his entire behaviour in s7 as because she was going to have his baby. I really, really do.

I just hope that this season shows that they’re good together. Not just sexually (but they know that, she wouldn’t keep sleeping with him - AND INITIATING IT - if it wasn’t (seriously look at every single one of their kisses after they split up with the exception of the just back from undercover kiss, Kim’s the one who Adam gets to initiate everything)), but they’re coparenting her daughter together. They’re parents now. He’s sleeping on her couch. She feels safe enough to sleep in the same room as a load of windows and the door to the hallway when she’s surrounded by his scent, even with how traumatised she is. That means a hell of a lot.

Adam’s been ready to jump back into something with her since s5, but I think it’s only now that Kim will realise she wants it too. And when the truth about Walton comes out, I think Adam’s going to be her main support through it. And I hope that friendship, that relationship that they’ve built, is going to show her that she can be in a relationship with him. That he wants her, and he wants Makayla, and he doesn’t care about the baggage or any of her excuses. Because they love each other, and in Kim’s words, they’re supposed to be a family.

#cíara wrote a meta #cíara answers #burzek #Jesus Christ this is long #i probably went way more in depth than you expected anon i hope this is ok!!

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thefeelswhale · 3 years

Text

I've had this kicking around in my Google drive for a minute. I'm still pinned down with You and What Army for the moment, but here's a bit just for fun.

The Nervous Energy in Everything

Untitled Shindeku Soulmate AU

On a Wednesday of no particular significance, at age fourteen and after hoping seemingly without hope for his entire life, Shinsou Hitoshi received his soulmark.

As a third year who’d switched schools too many times, Hitoshi’s class schedule was a mess. He was ahead in some areas and behind in others. He’d been enrolled in schools both good and bad. The one he was looking to graduate from was strictly mediocre. All of that combined with the faculty’s general uneasiness with his quirk meant that he had ended up with a free period at the end of the day. Since no club he wanted to join would have him, he usually just went home at the end of the day.

Home was better than school although not by much, but his parents didn’t actively seek him out so that put them a rung above Hitoshi’s classmates. His uncles were all right, but they were busy more often than not.

The pain hit him in the sternum as he reached the top of the stairs like a punch or a palm strike. By a stroke of luck, he didn’t topple backwards although it was a near thing. He dropped his book bag and crumpled to his knees wheezing and clutching at his chest.

At first he thought; ‘I’m having a heart attack before I even turn fifteen.’

Then he thought ‘No, it’s not a heart attack.’

It felt almost more like a panic attack. His head was swimming. He couldn’t quite catch his breath. His eyes watered. His heart felt inexplicably like it was breaking.

The pain and sadness winked out almost as soon as it arrived like a radio signal passing out of range and left behind a palm-shaped patch of throbbing skin. Hitoshi could feel it radiate warmth even through the thick fabric of his uniform jacket.

“Please.” He rasped as he wrestled out of his top layers, too scared to hope and unable to keep from hoping at the same time. The bathroom door banged hard against the wall as he shoved into the bathroom. He heard a concerned shout from deeper in the house.

One of his uncles was home; good to know, but not the important issue at that moment.

The important issue was the dark handprint on his chest; a few shades darker than his normal skin tone, like he’d missed a spot with sunscreen only in a very distinct shape.

Hitoshi held his own hand just over his mark. His soulmate’s hands were smaller than his with small palms and long blunt fingers. Were they a girl or a boy?

“Hey, everything all right in there?” Mic, his uncle by marriage, stuck his head in through the open door and stopped as he took in the little miracle now living right over Hitoshi’s heart. “Is that…?”

He didn’t mean to, but Hitoshi let his fingertips brush against the center of his mark. His heart throbbed hard and after a second he felt ghostly fingertips touching his cheeks. Those were his soulmate’s fingers. The touch came with a faint sense of wonder, lingering unhappiness from whatever had just happened, but also this brilliant thread of tremulous hope.

Whoever they were, they were happy to feel him.

“Yeah.” Hitoshi wasn’t a smiley person. He wasn’t a very nice person in general, but he couldn’t have fought the grin spreading across his face if he’d wanted to. He could still feel a persistent little touch on his jaw, like his soulmate was gently brushing their thumb back and forth across the skin just below his ear. “I have a soulmate.”

Mic crushed him into a hug, picked him up, and spun him around. Then he stopped and said, “Wait.” Then he whipped out his phone and started dialling. “If you have a soulmate then something real bad just happened. Soul bonds persist even through death. We need to get a report into the registry. They might be able to locate them. Can you tell where their mark is?”

A lance of shame shot through Hitoshi. Mic was right. Soul bonds didn’t just break. Most people were born with their marks and died with their marks even if their soulmate predeceased them. Marks repeated through history too; tangible evidence of reincarnation. Some were even famous.

If he had gained a soulmate then they’d just lost theirs.

He rubbed his chest, worried. The feelings he’d gotten right at the beginning made sense, but there wasn’t much of that bone-deep sadness left. His soulmate was still petting his jaw and they felt kind of tired, but also… it was hard to describe the feeling. He felt like they were clinging to him as hard as he was clinging to them, but not like they were in immediate danger.

“It’s um… I think it’s on their face?” Hitoshi winced as Mic slowly turned to look at him with one eyebrow raised.

Soulmarks appeared wherever soulmates touched each other for the first time. It had to be at the same time and most people didn’t really remember it. Higher brain function sort of temporarily went offline once you got in a certain range of your other half and you went into a fugue state that only ended once you either found each other or got out of range. Fortunately it stopped happening after that first successful touch. The handprint on Hitoshi’s chest made sense in that context, but apparently he was going to touch their face.

He looked down at his big, broad palms. Maybe it was just a little touch and wouldn’t leave too much of a mark?

Just then he felt another ghostly touch on the other side of his face coupled with a sense of vague alarm from his soulmate and he realized it was even worse than he’d thought. Both of his cheeks lit up with sensation in the shape of two handprints.

“I’m so sorry!” He groaned. “Not you!” He added when Mic turned away from his phone call in alarm. “I think I’m gonna end up…” He mimicked cupping someone’s face with both hands.

“Well.” Mic said after a while. “At least he’ll be easy to find.”

#shindeku #shinsou x midoriya #wip #soulmates #bhna fluff #erasermic #The Nervous Energy in Everything

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laws-yellow-submarine · 3 years

Text

Uhhhh hi? Lol I dunno if anyone remembers this, but this past May I mentioned I was going through quite a lot, and at the time I had a Hazel-focused Mother's Day angst one-shot half-written, that never got finished.

Well, it's 3:30 am, and it's finished! 😃 this was written on my phone, so it may not be well edited, and I can't guarantee it's 100% in character; but it was cathartic as hell. I won't be including this in Together With Fruit (it just doesn't fit anywhere), but I will say it's 100% canon to Hazel’s character/story. That being said, you don't have to read it if you don't want to - it's a little heavy, imo, and I won't be offended if people skip it.

But without further ado, I present: The Problems with Mother's Day

TW/CW: Parental angst, estranged parent relationships, mentions of death, feelings of inadequacy (if I need to add anything lemme know!)

Word Count: 2,052

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From the moment Hazel opened her eyes, she knew it was going to be a long day. The skies were cloudy, the waves choppy, and her roommate’s face was about ten inches away, smiling a little too sweetly.

“Ahh!” she yelled, jumping back in bed. “Nami, what the hell?!”

“Oh good, you’re up!” Nami chirped at her, doing nothing to alleviate the suspicion in Hazel’s gut. “I need a favor!”

“I told you before: if Luffy gets his head stuck between the railings, it’s better to just leave him there or he’ll never learn his lesson.”

“No, no, not that, silly!” Hazel glared further at the young woman, suspicion thoroughly piqued. “See, it’s Mother’s Day! Normally, Nojiko and I have a tradition of cooking a big breakfast, but since she’s obviously not here, I was wondering if you’d like to join me?” and then she flashed the biggest pair of puppy dog eyes Hazel had ever seen. Which was saying something, considering how often Ace had tried to use that on her when they were kids.

There was just one issue.

“It’s Mother’s Day?” Hazel groaned, rubbing one hand over her face. Nami took her groaning as a sign of tiredness, and enthusiastically nodded her head.

“Please, Hazel? My sister and I do this every year, and I’d really like to share it with you!”

Guilt gnawed at Hazel’s gut. How could she possibly say “no” now?

“Sure, Nami...just,” she sighed, “give me a second to get dressed.” And then Nami let out a squeal, of all things, hugged the purple-haired girl around the shoulders, and bounded up the stairs.

Left alone, Hazel took a deep, shuddery breath. Then she took another one. Then another, on and on until they became steadier, and the world didn’t feel like it’d swallow her up right there. She stood up, padding over to the closet the girls shared, and quickly threw on a plain t-shirt and shorts; something she wouldn’t be upset about getting messy. She threw her curly hair into a messy ponytail, squared her shoulders, and with a firm nod of her head, she followed after Nami.

It was early, enough so that the sun had barely peaked over the horizon. With all the clouds in the sky, the seascape remained a rather dull blue, the orange of the sun’s rays blocked from view. Even Sanji, who normally woke up pretty early to get a start on breakfast, was still nestled deep in his hammock down below.

“How’d you manage to secure the kitchen for the day?” she asked as she entered the galley, deftly catching the apron Nami tossed her way.

“I told Sanji-kun I had something special planned, batted my eyelashes a bit, and he was convinced to sleep in for a day,” Nami explained, pulling the last of the ingredients from the fridge and setting them on the counter. “I’ve got the pancake batter covered, if you wanna get a start on the bacon!”

Hazel slid up to the counter, eyeing the array of food and utensils the navigator had set out. It had been a while since she'd made bacon - Luffy had a habit of stealing the still sizzling strips from the pan - but she dutifully set to work at the stove as Nami chatted on.

"One year, Belle-mere wasn't able to afford our usual breakfast ingredients, so Nojiko and I had to improvise," the younger woman was saying as she steadily dribbled pancake batter onto the skillet. "We snuck into the tangerine grove and picked as many as we could find, but we stuck to the smaller ones so they wouldn't be missed." Hazel hummed in acknowledgement, gut churning. "Nojiko set up an entire tray of tangerines cut into different shapes, but when Belle-mere tried to eat? Her face puckered up like this!"

Nami's face scrunched into an expression that resembled a dried up pufferfish, cheeks sunken in and eyes screwed shut, before she bust out laughing at the memory. Hazel smiled good-naturedly, piling more bacon onto the plate beside her, and Nami launched into another story.

"Oh! And then there was the year I tried to make the pancakes by myself for the first time! Normally that was Nojiko's job, but I convinced her to let me try," the navigator said, eyes far away as she expertly flipped another pancake. "The entire kitchen ended up covered in batter! I'm not even sure how it happened - I thought Belle-mere would be furious! I was so scared I hid in the closet, but I didn't realize I'd tracked flour behind me." Nami shook her head, smiling. "Belle-mere opened the closet door, took one look at me, and grinned this huge grin. She said it was the 'best year ever'..."

Hazel bit her cheek as Nami sighed wistfully. "Belle-mere was always saying that: it was the 'best year ever', no matter how much we ruined breakfast."

"Hm."

"Hazel, are you ok?"

"Huh?" Hazel glanced at her in surprise, then quickly resumed her task, tension coiling in her gut as she nodded. Just breathe, Hazel…

"Are you sure?" Nami asked, worry ringing in her voice. "You don't seem to be having much fun."

"I'm fine, Nami," Hazel grit out, flinching back as a drop of grease jumped out at her.

"No you're not! What's wrong?"

"Look, I said I'm fine, alright?!" Hazel snapped, turning from the bacon to glare at the young girl. "I just don't really give a shit about Mother's Day!"

Nami's gasp was accented by the galley door opening, their crew's footsteps halting as Hazel’s statement hung in the air. All at once, her anger fled, replaced quickly with burning shame at Nami's watery gaze. Swallowing against the lump in her throat, and the warmth growing in her cheeks, Hazel muttered a quick "sorry" before bolting from the room.

The others watched her go, breakfast momentarily forgotten, until the familiar thwap thwap of their captain's flip flops broke the silence, punctuated by Luffy’s excited cry: "Sanji! Food!"

--------

"I just don't get it!" Nami yelled as she sat at the table, anger, embarrassment, and guilt all warring within her. Hazel still hadn't returned to the kitchen. "It's just Mother's Day. It should be a day to celebrate!"

"I'm sure Hazel-chan has her reasons, Nami-san," Sanji said around his cigarette, unhappy that "his girls" were at odds. Luffy scratched under his hat.

"What's Mother's Day?"

Luckily for him, Luffy was used to the incredulous stares his crew often bestowed on him. Even Zoro was looking at him like he'd grown a second head. Wait. Could he do that?

"Even you should know what Mother's Day is," Nami scolded the boy as he inexplicably began to pull at the skin on his shoulder.

Luffy shrugged. "Nope!"

"It's the day you celebrate your mom!" Nami was met with a blank stare. "You know, the one who provides for you, even if it means she goes without."

"The one who encourages your dreams, and loves you unconditionally," Sanji added, a wistful look in his eye as he flicked his cigarette.

"The one who tells you stories, and tucks you into bed at night," Usopp chimed in, face alight with happy memories.

But Luffy merely raised an eyebrow in confusion. "Hazel already has a birthday, I'm supposed to give her two parties?!"

And then the room grew silent once more as the weight of his question settled on the others' shoulders. Nami felt her stomach clench, threatening to evict a breakfast she hadn't even eaten as she realized what had happened. She pushed herself to her feet, rushing out of the kitchen with barely a word to the others.

She had to find Hazel.

-------

Nami found her standing against the railing, on the complete opposite side of the ship. Hazel’s arms were crossed in front of her, the wind blowing through her loose, purple curls as she gazed out at the sea. The navigator approached slowly, suddenly nervous now that she was here. But before she could utter any apology, Hazel beat her to it.

"I'm sorry for snapping at you. That wasn't very fair, and you didn't deserve it."

Nami's brown eyes snapped up to the other woman's face, still not facing her, and swallowed against the growing lump in her throat.

"I'm the one who should be sorry," she said, leaning on the rail beside her. "I should have asked you first. I shouldn't have assumed you'd be OK with it."

Hazel shrugged. "You had good intentions, at least. It's the thought that counts."

"Is it?" But Hazel didn't answer, and the two slipped into a heavy silence broken only by the crash of waves against the hull. "What happened to her?" Nami finally asked, shoulders tensed as she waited for the older woman to either answer or scold her.

Hazel only sighed. "Honestly?" she clicked her tongue, shrugging her shoulders and biting her lip. "No idea. Don't really remember her."

"But if you don't remember…" Nami started, eyes lighting up as an idea struck her. "Then she could still be out there somewhere! Maybe we'll find her-!"

"I hope she's dead."

The finality of the statement struck Nami dumb, mouth hanging open in shock at the woman's deadened expression. There was no waver in Hazel’s tone, no room for any doubt that she meant it. "What…?"

Hazel laughed through her nose, a bitter sound. "Sounds horrible, right? Especially today of all days? But it's true." Hazel’s jaw clenched, her fists curling around the Merry's railing. "If she's dead, then it wasn't a choice. If she's dead, then she didn't decide to -! She didn't just -!" Her shoulders shook, breaths coming out in ragged gasps, unable to finish the statement.

Nami reacted without thinking, pulling the shaking woman into her arms without hesitation. Hazel's voice broke, heartache echoing between them as she gasped out: "why wasn't I enough?"

"Now you look at me!" Nami cried, pulling back to lock her eyes onto Hazel’s. "Don't you ever think you aren't enough! Just look at everything you've done! We're all here because of you, Hazel!"

Hazel rolled her watery gray eyes. "You're here because of Luffy - I'm just emotional support." But Nami shook her head.

"Luffy may have brought us together, but he only got to where he is because you supported him! He thinks the absolute world of you, he loves you - we all love you! And you've done all of this without her! Screw her!" Hazel dissolved into a new round of tears, and Nami pulled her back into her warm embrace. "New tradition: from now on, let us show you how much we appreciate you, whether that's through breakfast together, or leaving you the hell alone."

Hazel choked out a wet, shaky laugh, fingers clutching tightly to Nami's t-shirt as the tears flowed through her. Finally, they subsided, and as she leaned back Nami helped wipe the remaining tear tracks away. Hazel took a deep breath, then another, feeling lighter than she had all day. Then, her stomach growled.

"I think I'm ready to go back to breakfast," she murmured, too drained to be embarrassed. Nami just smiled, linking their arms together as she led the way back to the others.

When they entered the galley, the pair were separated when a rubbery figure launched itself at Hazel. Luffy wrapped his limbs around his sister, squeezing so tight it was a wonder she didn't break a rib. "Hazel! Sanji made you coffee! He wouldn't let me try it but I did anyway - how do you drink that stuff?!"

Hazel just smiled at his rambling, wiggling her arms free of her brother's embrace, surprising the boy when she hugged him back (almost) as tightly, and kissed him on the forehead. "Heeey!" He whined, pulling away to angrily rub at the spot she'd kissed. "What was that for?!"

"Nothing, just…I'm proud of you, Luff." The boy's face broke into a grin.

"Shishishi! I'm proud of you, too! Now, let's eat!"

Finally, the Straw Hats gathered around the table, digging into their meal with an excited frenzy. Sipping her coffee, Hazel nudged the woman beside her. "Thanks, Nami," she said, smiling easily after the events of that morning. "But, for future reference? On Father's Day, you may just wanna let me stay in bed."

#monkey d. hazel #one piece oc #one piece original character #together with fruit #one piece #one piece fanfiction #one piece fan fic #monkey siblings #monkey d. luffy #black leg sanji #roronoa zoro #usopp #cat burglar nami #straw hat pirates #yes it's a mother's day fic in October - sue me lol #leyna go to bed at a decent time challenge

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