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luverofralts · 4 months

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"Still? When's this going to be over?" Adrienne shouted at the cards on the floor. It was nearly Winterfest, which meant that it was time for the Helios family birthday party. Noelle, Adrienne, and Luciana all had the same birthday and their grandparents wanted to celebrate it the most economical way possible. By combining the three birthdays into one party, Elaine saved time and money. It also usually meant that her children wouldn't feel obligated to show up at her house on Winterfest itself. The less time she had to spend with Nathan and whoever he was bringing home that day, the better.

Theo had absolutely no interest in answering Roman. Instead, he and Adam were texting, since Theo had been unable to ditch the family event. They'd been texting non-stop about all the interesting things Adam was going to do with his own family on the school break. Adam was going snowboarding, and shopping in the high-end magical stores while Theo watched his little sisters blow out candles and his father argue with his siblings for an entire afternoon. They wouldn't get to see each other until after Winterfest, which felt like an eternity. How was he supposed to manage without Adam for so long?

"Theo? Can you help your father set up the living room? He needs a second pair of hands."

"Theo! Now. Go help your father. When you're done, you can come help me make dinner in the kitchen."

"I don't get it!" Adrienne shrieked, shouting at the unresponsive deck of tarot cards on the floor. "They can't just show up here, I told them that! Victoriana is supposed to know and then they come. They'll mess up everything!"

"Rien, put your cards away. Just because it's your birthday doesn’t mean that you can shut yourself away with them. Go celebrate with your sister and cousin. Make a friend, I don't care who. Please, Rien, please."

"Yes, Dad," Adrienne sighed. "But-but it's important that I see what's coming. There are huge plans in motion that-"

"Give me the cards," Roman snapped, cutting his daughter off before she could mumble strange prophecies again. "You're not getting these back for at least a week. No one can accurately predict the future, and even if you could, what's the point if you're not living it? Let whatever happens happen and we'll deal with it then."

"But Dad-"

"Now it's two weeks," Roman declared, glowering in the direction of his son. "Theo! Get off your ass now and help your father or Adam won't be allowed to come over for three months. Now mister, go."

Theo grudgingly stood, no doubt telling Adam how cruel his parents were via text. Roman didn't care what the teenagers thought of him, so long as it got Theo off the couch and helping his family set up.

Elaine passed her youngest son in the hall, deliberately avoiding him as best she could. The last thing she needed was to deal with Nathan's drama while the Bellamys undoubtedly brought enough of their own drama for the day.

"Ugh, Kaeileen is obsessed with me," Nathan grumbled, scrolling through his messages. "'Your child support didn't come in this month, why haven't you signed the form for Naethan's school trip?' Doesn't she have anything better to do with her time than bother me?"

"Happy birthday!" Luciana exclaimed, hugging her grumpy cousin. "What's wrong? We're getting presents and cake today."

"I don't want to talk about it," Noelle replied. "You wouldn't understand. Your parents care about you."

"Oh, what did Aunt Lucy do now?" Luciana asked. "Dad hasn't yelled about her for a long time. Did she get an important case? Is she suing the school so we get a longer break?"

"No, none of that. I found out who my other mom is and...and I can't talk about it."

"Okay!" Luciana chirped, ignoring her cousin's moodiness. Today was still going to be awesome even if Noelle was grumpy. Cake and presents always made things better. "Have you seen the presents on the present table? There's so many of them!"

"I don't care," Noelle sighed dramatically. "It's our birthday and I'll never see my other mother here. I've been abandoned. No one wants me."

"I can get you some pretzels," Luciana offered. She didn't have the focus today to put up with her stepcousin's drama. "Dad hasn't got the desserts out yet, but there are pretzels."

"Hard or soft pretzels?" Noelle asked. "I love the soft ones that just came out of the oven."

"Both," Luciana replied cheerfully. "You know my dad doesn't skimp on anything. Let's go find some before dinner. It'll be fun."

Noelle paused for a moment and considered her options. Her absent mother wasn't a priority to anyone else, and the one mother she did have in her life was completely distracted with her attention seeking behavior. No one wanted to listen to Noelle, so she might as well join her friend for a birthday pretzel.

"Hey, how are things going? Busy? I'm pretty busy. I don't get back to Arkhelios as often as i should," Nicholas said.

His old friend and stepbrother, Nathan, had been erratic their entire lives and didn't often call Nicholas to hang out, so this was probably the only time they'd see each other for a while. From what Nicholas understood, Nathan spent his life jumping from job to job, country to country. He spent days with royalty in Crystal Cove and then weeks hanging out with a vampire coven in Strangetown. Anything to avoid the typical life his mother wanted for him. Anything to avoid paying child support to Kaeileen, not that he held a steady enough job for her to collect from. He had Gareth and his boys for the length of the party, after which, Naethan would be returned to his mother and Gareth and Garth would return with him home, until Nathan had another impulse to disappear again. It wasn't exactly parent or partner of the year behaviour, but no one fought Nathan on it. He always came back, didn't he?

"Yeah, things are busy," Nathan replied dismissively. "I travel a lot, do a little work here and there. I can't complain. You're still where? Strangetown, right? You fled one desert for another. At least they have good clubs there."

Nicholas shrugged.

"I guess so. I wouldn't know, we're expecting our first child soon. All I've been doing is fixing the nursery and reading book after book. It's the greatest thing to ever happen to us. We're so excited."

"Eh, I guess," Nathan replied, rolling his eyes. "They're expensive and whiny too. Don't have too many."

"I can see why Gareth keeps you around," Nicholas remarked. "You're such a romantic."

"Oh, Gareth! Good to see you."

Abe waved to his ex and Nathan's fiancé as he walked down the hall.

"Hey Abe! How's the birthday girls? Excited for their party?"

Abe paused to consider his answer. Noelle had been sulking all day while glaring daggers at her mother and Rien was busy crying on the stairs because Roman took her tarot cards. Luciana at least was running around, shoving food in her mouth and laughing. At least one of the kids seemed to be enjoying the party.

"You know those three, always off doing something," he settled on. "God only knows what Theo's up to too. He's spent the whole morning texting and now I can't find him. He's supposed to be in the kitchen helping, but I can guess what he's actually doing. Just wait until your boys are teenagers; everything you ask of them will suddenly be the end of the world."

Gareth smiled politely.

"I can imagine. Is...uh, is Roman here too? He'd not like, running errands or anything?"

Abe cringed, remembering the first time Nathan had brought Gareth to the family house and how Roman had lost his mind threatening him for having slept with Abe a few times in college. Roman had been better with prolonged exposure to the man and the fact that Gareth was now engaged to Nathan. There was still hostility when Roman went anywhere near Gareth, but Gareth believed that there would be large consequences if Roman threatened him again. He'd lost Elaine's automatic support from his affair with Ulyssa, and Lucy tried not to indulge in petty pranks when her high profile wife was nearby. With all that protecting him, Gareth had downgraded the threat Roman posed enough to just be nervous of the man.

"Roman's in the kitchen, or he will be once he hunts down our son," Abe assured him. I doubt that you'll see him until dinner."

"Gareth? Gareth! Did you send Kaeileen money yesterday? My account is mysteriously missing the amount she wanted. I told you, Mom's going to draft something to get her off our backs."

"Sorry, I should talk with him," Gareth apologized. "He doesn't understand that child support is not optional, and that his mother can't just make his responsibilities go away."

"Yeah, of course," Abe said, watching Gareth storm off to yell at his partner.

He had no idea how Gareth tolerated Nathan. He was Abe's little brother and Abe couldn't stand to be in a room with him for more than ten minutes.

Naethan and Garth were well behaved, unlike their father. They were only half siblings, but they seemed to be inseparable and weren't too impacted by their shared father's inability to be a functioning adult. Abe didn't see them often, as he didn't willingly spend any time near his brother, but it looked like Gareth and Kaeileen's parenting was making up for Nathan's.

Elaine scoured the living room for her missing grandson. Roman was getting pissed off in the kitchen with Ironman, which made Elaine pissed off that her first grandson, with at least some of her DNA in him, was being a lazy slacker. For all the money she helped his parents pay to his fancy school, Theo certainly hadn't been taught manners or responsibility.

"Theodosius Bellamy, you come here this instant. You have been summoned to help with dinner, and if you don't get in there in the next three minutes, there will be consequences. Ironman knows how to block cell reception and take down the wifi network. It'd be a shame if you couldn't call anyone, wouldn't it?"

"God, I have to go, Adam, my bitch grandma is yelling at me for some reason. Yeah, I know. I miss you too. I'll try calling you later."

On his way to the kitchen, Theo's eyes spotted his grandmother's new karaoke machine in the living room. He loved to sing and play guitar, and it was there for the party guests to use, right? One little song wo wuldn't be the end of the world before he was trapped, cutting onions and peppers with his father.

He scanned a few songs in the catalog, while Noelle was already prematurely booing his future performance.

"Boooo! No one wants to hear you sing, leave the machine for the people with talent!" Noelle called out. Teasing Theo was almost too easy, but it helped ease the hurt she felt when she thought of her mothers.

Theo glared back at her, completely unshaken. It would take a lot more than heckling to rattle him. He could be just as petty as her.

"Her name is Noelle, I have a dream about her," Theo sang, making sure that his voice was extra obnoxious for his cousin. "Something something, I've got gym class in half an hour."

"Shut up already!" Noelle shouted, stamping her feet. "It's my birthday, and I'm sick of that stupid song everyone thinks is funny. There are other songs with Noelle in them! You're stupid! This whole party is stupid! Don't make me break your stuff. I'm still a kid, no one will blame me."

"THEODOSIUS ULYSSES BELLAMY. Get in the kitchen now, or I swear to god-"

"Coming," Theo groaned, putting the microphone away angrily. "This whole party sucks. I wish I were with Adam. His parents would never make me help with dinner."

#sims 2 #arkhelios #roman bellamy #abe chun #sim: theo bellamy #lucy chun #elaine helios #noelle helios #sim: noelle helios #luciana bellamy #Adrienne Bellamy #nathan chun #nickolas fontana #theo bellamy #arkhelios adventures

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dadvans · 2 years

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just read the excerpt of the long sid/nate fic and i am fucking gasping! that last sentence was Serotonin injected straight into my veins! thank you for that glimpse, seriously amazing stuff

i'm getting very emotional about this, thank you so much. as just mentioned in my last ask, writer's block has been kicking my ass solidly for the past two years. in the past month i've probably written more than i've written since 2020, and i'm going to try and harness these vibes to keep going and finish some fucking things soon.

here is a snippet of an unfinished PWP from when sid and nate were in Cannes together: (inspired by this photo)

Nate had been to yacht parties. This wasn’t a yacht party. Nate didn’t know what the fuck this was.

He’d slept in his seat most of the first leg of their train ride to Cannes, half-drunk with a gold medal around his neck until he woke up to the train slowing to a stop somewhere in Germany, where everyone shotgunned warm tall boys of beer on the platform waiting for the next train. The next leg of that trip had been the longest, their entire group dividing time between the bar cart and wrestling in the too-small sleeper compartments. There was a third train after that, but Nate didn’t really remember it. He hadn’t been sober since they started drinking post-win in the locker room, and now he was finally hitting the plateau where the world felt warm and fuzzy and hilarious, albeit slightly out of reach. Which was entirely how he wound up here: on a superyacht bigger than Rhode Island surrounded by movie stars with the World’s Feistiest Twink climbing him like a tree.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about me,” said Feisty Twink, affectionately patting his chest. Mike was there too, not even trying to bite back his laughter. “Now tell me more sexy hockey words, my Canadian prince.”

“Uh.” Nate looked at Mike for a life line, but Mike just looked back at him, smile as wide as his face. Fuck him, Nate thought, and nodded toward him. “Ask this guy. Goalies are the dirtiest guys in the sport. They tape the ends of their sticks up for a better grip with a bigger knob, you know.”

“Nathan, I’m a Christian woman, you can’t just say these things to me without putting a ring on my finger,” Feisty Twink slurred, his dull fingernails scratching from Nate’s chest to his stomach through the thin cotton of his t-shirt just enough, before turning to Mike. "Enchantée, baby.”

Nate’s stomach stirred, and he was ninety percent sure it wasn’t the post-win bender he was on. Feisty Twink was cute in his own way, and Nate wasn’t opposed to sneaking away with him at some point, somehow. It would be great to finally deal with the blue balls he’d been nursing since breaking up with Logan in February.

In a bout of second thoughts, he was reaching out to pull Feisty Twink back by the hem of his shirt when Sid appeared, two beers in hand. He handed one to Nate, and Nate took it, pretending that he hadn’t just been caught. “Oh, hey bud.”

“Hey,” Sid said, grinning. He absolutely knew what was up.

Nate continued to feign cool, collected, and not horny enough to make dumb decisions, instead leaning back against the railing of Deck Whatever on Megafuck Superyacht. “What’s up?”

“Not much. You?” Sid took a sip of his beer and licked at the foam caught up in the prickly stubble that was beginning to gather on his upper lip.

“Oh,” Nate said, which was the same second that Feisty Twink got bored with Mike and turned back to him. “You know.”

Feisty Twink did a once over of Sid, said “Twirl for me,” and watched as Sid indulged him, doing a 360 turn with his hands raised. Feisty Twink sucked in a breath. “Girl, is that for real?”

“It’s real, yeah,” Sid said, and smugly took another sip of beer.

“Fuck, what are they feeding you boys?

“Not enough,” Sid replied, a little too serious. He nodded at Tyson, standing twenty feet away and way too drunk. He was staring dreamily up at Uma Thurman, who was holding her heels in hand like a weapon. “Hey, see that guy over there? He’s been talking about you all night.”

Feisty Twink took the bait and bid them farewell, slinking over to Tyson. Nate leveled a look at Sid he hoped had some heat, like not cool, man.

“It’s not like I was lying,” Sid said with a little more humor in his voice, sliding closer. “He was talking about you guys. Mostly to me though, telling me to stop pouting and let you get your dick wet.”

Nate’s scowl melted away into something shy and fond. “Wow, jealous much?”

It wasn’t so much of a question as it was a teasing accusation.

“You weren’t going to actually leave with him, were you?”

“Honestly, man, I was thinking about it.”

Sid hummed. “Your breakup was that bad?”

“Hey, he’s kinda cute.”

“You can do better.”

“Is that an offer?”

Sid shrugged.

Nate got a little bit closer, turning his back to Mike, who was trying to get a server’s attention. “Sid, was that an offer?”

Sid licked his lips. “You know it’s always on the table for you.”

#dadvans replies #sidnate #hockey rpf

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highwaytothedangerzone502 · 1 year

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Ghost Story - Chapter 35

Pairing: Rooster x Female OC

Word Count: 1747

Warnings: None

Summary: No one will miss a ghost. It'd been a running joke for as long as anyone could remember, something Ghost herself started, and she always said it with a smile on her face or with mirth in her voice. The untouchable stealth pilot in every sense of the word, no one could've predicted the depth of her turmoil over recent events, nor the extremes she would go to in order to protect the man she loved, not even those closest to her. Now, all that was left of the young aviator for Maverick, Hangman, and Rooster were the memories of the past, which would slowly fade with time. She'd come into their lives and made an unforgettable impression, and then, like a ghost, she was gone... Then again, ghosts can't die a second time.

Notes: The chapters/large parts in italics are flashbacks.

Chapter Songs: You're Where You Belong/Give 'Em Hell Champion

****

Ghost

Maverick's crestfallen, almost downright despairing expression when Ghost announced him as her lead spare nearly broke her and made her recant her decision, but then she reminded herself of why she'd gone that route and held firm. Still, it haunted her dreams, and before her alarm went off, Ghost found herself already dressed for the day and eating a small breakfast, not wanting to aggravate her already upset stomach even further. She couldn't drink enough water either, her mouth constantly feeling dry. Ghost had never felt this way before a mission, nor had any of these symptoms occurred, so why were they happening now?

A sinister voice in the back of her head had the answer: Because you're not planning on making it out of this alive.

The harsh truth nearly made Ghost hurl. She chucked the remaining breakfast in the trash, unable to eat any further, and allowed her feet to lead her to a destination unknown, needing to just move. They inevitably brought her to the main hangar. She could hear the commotion above of the crew ensuring everything on the top deck was ready for launch.

"This is it, Ghost," she whispered, staring out over the empty ocean and oddly calm waves. She took a deep, steadying breath and gripped her dog tags. She ached for the comfort of her mom and the optimism of her sister because Ghost could've used a hefty dose of both right now, but most of all, she missed her dad. Nathan Winchester had always recognized what his daughter needed to hear in order for her to get the job done. She'd found ways around it since he passed, remembering the old adages and advice he used to give, but none of it worked for now. With the critical nature of the mission, this was unlike anything she'd faced before, and Ghost needed him now. "Talk to me, Dad."

"I was wondering where you were," Maverick said, coming to stand beside her. He stared out over the ocean with her, hands clasped behind his back. "How are you feeling?"

"Nervous," she admitted, dropping her hand from her dog tags. "How are you doing?"

"I'm doing okay."

A silence fell over them, and the look on Maverick's face when she chose him for her lead spare burst into her mind. Guilt flooded her chest at the sudden epiphany of why he reacted the way he did. She felt the need to clear the air. "Look, it wasn't personal why I chose Rooster over you. On paper, you were the best candidate, and in training, you and I were undefeated. For all intents and purposes, you were the one I should've chosen as my wingman, but I didn't because if something happened to one or both of us up there, I didn't trust Rooster and Hangman to push aside their egos and work together. They listen to you, and I need a spare leader with that ability. And I promise I'll bring Rooster home. Nothing will happen to him as long as I'm up there."

"I'm not worried about that," Maverick said quietly, shaking his head ever so slightly. "I'm worried about you."

Ghost snapped her body to face him, unnerved by his statement. "You don't think I can do this?"

Maverick's eyes widened, and he turned to look at her. "No, no, that's not what I meant. I could've phrased that better," he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "There's no doubt in my mind that you'll succeed with the mission-"

"Really? Because your expression says otherwise."

He offered the smallest of smiles, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come. "I do believe in you, but I'm worried about what you'll do to make sure Rooster gets home. He's the last bit of Goose I have left, that's true, but you're the last bit of Charlie I have left, and no matter what happened between your mom and me, no matter how much we fought or how much time passed, I loved her."

"Mav-"

"I need you to come home, Ghost."

She frowned, her nervousness shifting to concern. What had gotten into Maverick? "What brought all this on?"

"Because I see so much of myself in you, the good and the bad, and that scares me, Ghost, more than anything. You and I are phenomenal fighter pilots, the best of the best, but we have self-destructive tendencies, too, that are amplified when we are emotionally invested in the outcome of the mission. Your decision to choose Rooster as your wingman was a logical one, but I know you still love him regardless of the fights you've had with him recently, and you can't push those emotions down when he's in danger, believe me."

Ghost nodded, a weight settling on her shoulders as she realized Maverick was afraid of her perishing on the mission. "I don't plan on dying today. That being said, if something does happen to me up there, I need you to convince Rooster to return to the carrier instead of hanging back to save me because I know he would try. You're the only one he'll listen to about it. You're the only one he'll prioritize over me."

"Ghost-"

"Please, Mav. Promise me you'll get him home if I can't."

Slowly, he nodded. "Fine, but on one condition. You promise me that if you have to eject and land in enemy territory, you will fight your way back to us, do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," Ghost said, slightly taken aback by the sudden passion in his voice. "I promise."

His shoulders sagged in relief at her words. "Thank you."

"Of course." She looked him up and down. "Hey, are you sure you're all right? You've been acting strangely since we left port."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good." Maverick smiled warmly at her, his green eyes full of adoration. "Come here."

To her utter shock, Maverick opened his arms and pulled her into a tight hug. She willingly returned the embrace, burying her face in his shoulder and thinking it hadn't been words of advice she needed but a simple gesture that screamed, "I love you, I care for you, I've got you."

****

Rooster

Ghost and Maverick were already in the hangar for the training when Rooster and Hangman arrived. They lined up for the briefing, and Cyclone wasted no time getting everything started. The screen visualized the target run and area as Warlock began speaking. "Your mission today is to eliminate a terrorist base deep in Russian territory. With the fragile relationship with the country, we cannot send missiles for assistance to destroy most of the base ahead of time, as they would risk being seen. Therefore, we are having two F-35s fly low through the ravine to avoid detection since you will be shedding your stealth capability for the max ammunition capacity. Once through the ravine, you will arrive at the enemy base nestled in a shallow valley. The buildings are tightly clustered together, so your bombs, when dropped, should eliminate multiple targets at one time. This part of the mission should be relatively easy. However, your biggest threat will be enemy fighters, so we recommend destroying these buildings-" Cyclone pointed to four hangars on the left-hand side of the map- "first to avoid having enemies launch. Be mindful that some may already be in the air. Once all targets are destroyed, you will return to the carrier through the ravine. Any questions?"

Maverick, Hangman, Ghost, and Rooster shook their heads. Cyclone nodded. "Very good. As a reminder, because of the location of the enemy base, if you are shot down, the chances of us being able to conduct a rescue operation will be almost impossible due to the location and nature of the mission, so make sure you come back home."

Rooster hung his head at the admiral's words, unable to shake the sinister sensation creeping up his spine. Judging by Hangman's pained expression, he was experiencing the same. With the briefing done, the four pilots strode to the elevator and took the short ride to the top deck. Their F-35s waited for them. Reaching the first plane, Rooster and Ghost faced Maverick and Hangman, and the latter said, "Take care of each other up there, and you give 'em hell."

He clapped them both on the shoulder, lingering a little longer on Ghost's, then strode off. This left Rooster and Ghost alone with Maverick, who told them, "Whatever happens, make sure you two get back home. Some destruction and having you both return is better than complete decimation and having you both dead."

"Understood," Ghost said. "We'll see you soon. Bye, Mav."

"No, no, no, don't say bye. That's too final."

"It's a temporary goodbye. Ghosts can't be killed a second time." Smiling playfully, Ghost started walking off, Rooster at her side, when Maverick called out their names. They turned around. He wore a proud smile when he said confidently, "You've got this."

Rooster nodded appreciatively at the encouragement, the nervousness settling in, but he reminded himself of the words that had helped so much last time: Don't think. Just do.

Rooster escorted Ghost to her plane and shook her hand, barely refraining from pulling her toward him and crashing his lips onto hers because, for all he knew, this might be the last chance he ever got to kiss her. What if she didn't make it back? Or he didn't? Or-

"Hey," Ghost said, snapping her fingers in front of his face. "You with me?"

Rooster blinked, clearing his downward spiral of thoughts. "Yeah, I'm with you."

"Good. Looked like I was losing you for a second."

"No, no, I'm here. I-" Rooster paused, so much he wanted to say with no time to do so, and saying I love you hardly sufficed for everything he felt for her. Instead, he went with, "I'll see you up there."

Without another word, Rooster stalked off toward his plane, glancing around at the commotion surrounding him. Crew members ran around and shouted in preparation for the launch, the sun shone brightly down on him, and in the distance, Hangman- wearing a pensive expression- watched Ghost climb into her plane.

Rooster slid into his jet and put on his helmet, checking everything was functioning correctly, and then put down the canopy. When it sealed shut, and he could hear only the roar of his engine, the reality settled in. It was time.

****

Tags: @supernaturaldawning @shanimallina87 @polikszena @lgg5989 @callsign-milano @bradshawsandbridgetons @harper1666 @shadeops21 @double-j @copaceticwriter @rotating-obsessions @sharkprestige @thedarkinmansfield @lapilark @mickeyluvs @starshipfantasy @bennypears00 @mandowife221b @the-navistar-carol @getmyprettynameoutofyourmouth @carmellasworld @0hb0llocks @nicangelinee @summ3rlotus @3picklesinajar @magentamistress @the-other-hawkeye @elisha-chloe @emilymarie105 @persephone11110 @luckyladycreator2 @boogdleyboo @k0k3 @bibissparkles @lilmonstrjedi @stinkyrat09 @cocoag19 @suburbzchick @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @goodstuff28 @georgiasimpson95 @horselovers2016 @tanithpriad125 @davidshawnsown @sowolfstudentme @agagafafa @callmemana @sec17 @brxklyn15 @h0ppy0the0sheep @tomanybandstolove @abigailannz @mini-bee-bee

Chapters: Chp 1 Chp 2 Chp 3 Chp 4 Chp 5 Chp 6 Chp 7 Chp 8 Chp 9 Chp 10 Chp 11 Chp 12 Chp 13 Chp 14 Chp 15 Chp 16 Chp 17 Chp 18 Chp 19 Chp 20 Chp 21 Chp 22 Chp 23Chp 24 Chp 25 Chp 26 Chp 27 Chp 28 Chp 29 Chp 30 Chp 31 Chp 32 Chp 33 Chp 34 Chp 35

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imthejudge · 2 years

Text

make sense of me

Warren Graham x Nathan Prescott

Chapter Three Word Count: 8,700

Chapter Two

Tags: fluff, hurt/comfort

Read on Archive

https://archiveofourown.org/works/41111322/chapters/106002777#workskin

Chapter Three: without you

When Warren opens his eyes there are a lot of things that run through his brain. Most prominently among them, and at the forefront of his mind, is a simple: huh. Warren blinks his wide, disbelieving eyes owlishly. There’s nothing. No wind, no rain, no lightning…no storm. And it’s somehow daytime.

Okay then.

He’s strangely calm about it, until a fact that comes rushing back to him makes him launch himself forward in his seat to peer at the ground in front of his car. Oh shit. Yup. He definitely hit something. With a still blank mind, Warren’s body reacts for him, fumbling clumsily at the door handle to let himself out and almost trip his way around to the front of his car. Shiiiiiiiit.

There’s a soggy, red heap on the ground.

No—a person.

Oh no, not a person.

Nathan Prescott.

He hit Nathan Prescott with his car.

Are you kidding me?

Warren might have laughed for the sole reason that this was some cruel twist of fate, except he might’ve just killed Nathan Prescott. That will definitely affect his chances of getting into Stanford University, he might as well throw his 4.0 GPA out the window at this point. Oh my God I killed Nathan Prescott. He’s spiralling, quickly. And he doesn't realize he hasn’t taken a breath since leaving the car until the red heap—that he has deduced is Nathan—stirs and lets out a long groan.

Crouching down next to him, Warren immediately has a grip on each of Nathan’s shoulders as he rolls to his side, “oh fuck, you’re alive!” Okay, that was a little dramatic to yell in his face.

Warren’s sure Nathan is barely conscious enough at this point to even know what’s going on, but it doesn’t stop him from swatting away Warren’s hands and spitting like some feral cat. “Getthefuckoffme!”

Straightening up, Warren can’t help the relief that floods through him at Nathan’s reaction. He didn’t kill the guy, after all. I can still go to Stanford. “Oh my God, you’re okay. I mean–are you? Are you okay?”

Nathan’s now standing up beside him and Warren realizes how close they are. Only inches apart, really. Nathan seems to notice, too, as he gives Warren a quick yet scrutinizing once over before jabbing a finger into Warren’s chest. “You? Again? How–no, I’m not okay. Ease the fuck up though, would you?”

Stumbling back a little, Warren rubs the spot that Nathan so forcefully prodded him with, “right, yeah…uh, sorry.” He’s able to properly take in Nathan’s appearance now, still completely dripping wet as if walking straight out of a storm–which he had–to the point where a puddle has begun to form beneath his feet. That varsity jacket he always seems to wear has somehow grown, its arms sagging way past Nathan’s hands and overall looking much more weighted than usual. His dark blonde hair sticks to his temples and neck in a wild fashion, droplets of water running down his cheek…and his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt–

“Can you stop looking at me like some freak science experiment that you’re trying to analyze?”

Warren’s attention immediately snaps back to the situation at hand, his eyes averting back to Nathan’s hard stare that bores into him, “right, s-sorry!” Warren apologizes again, mentally cursing himself for making the already awkward situation ten times more awkward. He thinks of a way to rectify it, though it’s on impulse that he suddenly shoots out a hand in offering to Nathan, “I guess first things first, I’m Warren Graham.”

At first, Nathan doesn’t do anything, then his eyes narrow to slits and Warren thinks he might get decked in the face by him. Again. “I know who the fuck you are, dumbass.”

“You do!?” Warren doesn’t mean to sound as surprised as he is, clearing his throat after a second, “I, uh, didn’t think you did.” He still holds out an extended hand, which Nathan looks down at as if Warren just offered him a cake made out of dogshit. But before he has the chance to retract it, Nathan turns one eighty degrees and proceeds to stomp away. “Uh… wait, where are you going?”

“Away.” Nathan responds without turning around.

“Away?” Warren repeats, trying to catch up. “Where?”

“I don’t know, to get some dry fucking clothes for starters.”

Warren supposes he has a point, the guy was sopping wet. He gives a slight shrug while continuing to follow behind Nathan. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea. But I’m also slightly concerned over–well–pretty much everything that–”

“Without you.” Nathan reels back around to face Warren, making him come to a sudden halt and try his best to avoid crashing into him. The words, full of venom, cut Warren off. “I don’t know what the fuck just happened, or why the storm we were caught in two minutes ago has somehow miraculously disappeared and it’s fucking daytime,” he digs a finger into Warren’s chest again, forcing him to take a couple of steps backwards, “but I do know that you’re right at the centre of it all. So stay the fuck away from me.”

Ow. This time Warren doesn't bother to say anything, or follow, when Nathan continues walking away from Warren and out of the parking lot. Suits me just fine, he thinks to himself. After all, he had been trying to avoid the guy since the whole incident earlier that day. If Max could have seen the complete and utter trainwreck that occurred just now–with Warren stupidly trying to introduce himself, nonetheless–he can’t bare to think it. He brings a hand to rub over his face, letting out a strangled groan. How embarrassing.

But embarrassment aside, Warren is finally able to ponder upon the very strange occurrence of the storm and its sudden disappearance. He drops his hand, casting his gaze upwards to the cloudless sky, no hint of a storm ever having happened. Something is off… There’s no way he could have been imagining it, not when he’d been driving in it mere minutes ago. Not when Nathan was proof of how badly it had been raining due to his soaked and dishevelled state.

It made no sense.

“You okay, my dude?” Beside Warren stands a guy who’s currently stopped to check him out and Warren doesn’t have to glance over to know that it’s Trevor, judging from his cropped black hair and baggy skater clothes that can be made out in his peripheral vision.

“Oh, hey Trevor. I’m okay, it’s just been a…strange day.”

“Trevor?” The guy questions, prompting Warren to actually look at him. The Trevor he thought was Trevor wasn’t Trevor upon closer inspection…Though he looked strikingly similar. Too much so for it to be a coincidence. Does Trevor have a brother? No, he would know that… “Sorry dude, you must have me confused with someone else. Pretty tubular name tho, if I do say so myself, so I’m not mad about it.”

Tubular? Warren hasn’t heard that one… pretty much ever before in his life.

“And I’ll say, strange indeed, my dude. I was just asking since you’re staring into space and your car’s smokin’ away.”

Not Trevor certainly talked as much as actual Trevor, wait–“my car’s smoking?” The guy shrugs, pointing behind Warren and sure enough, when whipping around to face his car, there’s a cloud of smoke forming at the back end.

Oh shit. Warren’s running over to his poor old Chevy, dancing on his feet a little in his hesitation to even touch it in case the whole thing goes up in flames. Shit shit shit. It dawns on him that the smoke doesn’t actually look like it coming from the car but rather within it. He furrows his brows together, curious at what that could possibly mean when a thought occurs to him. He tentatively reaches out a hand to pull open the door to the back seat, confirming that it is indeed not his car, but rather his time machine–thesis project–that was to blame.

Warren stares at it open mouthed like an idiot, because he doesn’t understand. A creeping suspicion forms in his mind, one that he’s quick to shake off because no. But it’s hard not to piece together the storm and how he was sure he’d been struck by lightning–which happened to be enough energy to power his time machine–right before being launched into a stormless, bright and sunny day.

But no, no way.

Out of curiosity–and if only to squash any lingering doubts on the ridiculous idea–Warren pops his head out of his car to zero in on not Trevor, who has luckily hung around and is toeing his skateboard idly. “Hey,” he calls out, “uh, what year is it?”

If it’s a weird question to ask, not Trevor doesn’t let it show as he barely even blinks when responding, “1983, my dude.” He waggles a ‘hang loose’ gesture with his hand, but Warren can’t fully comprehend it. His eyes drift back to the time machine, almost laughing because no. No, no, nope. Nahhhhh. That’s a joke, not Trevor’s just messing with him.

But then his gaze focuses on the digital interface of his time machine, which still glows with the date he’d set it to back at the lab. The date he’d insisted on wanting to travel to. The date October 7th, 1983.

Fuck.

He has to tell Nathan.

…right? Would it really be so bad if Warren didn’t? On one hand, the guy kinda deserves walking aimlessly around a Blackwell 30 years prior to their current time. Or future time. Especially since Warren still doesn’t feel inclined to go anywhere near Nathan, who will most likely rip Warren to shreds once he does mention the fact that they’ve been launched back in time. If Nathan believes Warren, that is.

Warren barely believes it himself, still wrestling with his own mind at the sheer impossibility of it all. The idea of him dreaming all of it up definitely crossing his mind, but Warren rarely dreamed and never this vividly. Things were too real.

And on the other hand…there’s no way that Warren, in good conscience, can let Nathan go about like this unknowingly. As much as Warren hates the guy, he can’t leave him stuck here. He considers that Nathan might not have been involved in the accidental time travel were it not for Warren in the first place, having hit him with his car at the exact moment it got struck by lightning which Warren presumes is when they got spat back out in 1983. It’s only right that he tries to amend Nathan’s unintentional involvement.

So when Warren finally snaps out of his dissociative state of acceptance, he goes after Nathan. Except…he doesn’t know exactly where he’s run off to, no way of knowing in which direction to head past leaving the parking lot. All Warren has to go on is that Nathan intended to find a change of clothes. Naturally, his dorm room is the most likely place he’d want to go. The only issue is that Nathan’s room…isn’t his room anymore. He can only assume it’s vacated by a student attending Blackwell during the current time they’ve been sent to.

Rolling the back windows of his car down just enough to let the remainder of the smoke escape, Warren clicks his car keys over his shoulder to lock the Chevy as he bolts out of the lot, waving a tentative goodbye to not Trevor as he goes. If he’s right, and Nathan’s headed to the dormitories, then Warren has to catch up. Quickly.

As much as the fact remains that he’s been sent back in time 30 years ago, it’s very much still October with the same notorious chill in the air. Warren makes haste across the school grounds, taking in the people he passes as he does so. Blackwell Academy itself looks exactly as it does 30 years in the future, its tall, orange-bricked building standing ageless while nestled at the foot of Arcadia Bay’s hilly forests.

What really strikes Warren are the students that loiter around campus, their image alone a true representation of the '80s. Neon and denim donned by nearly every person around him, with hair so voluminous or slick with gel he wonders how early each student has to get up before classes just to style it. The amount of gel some of them use would give Nathan a run for his money.

If he wasn’t in such a rush, Warren might have ogled the people he passed more thoroughly. He’s glad that at the very least, the layout of the school is the exact same, so he doesn’t have to worry about getting lost in his frantic race to the dormitories as much as getting lost in the crowd of people. Warren narrowly manages to break through the crowded steps down to the courtyard, squeezing between a couple of guys carrying a ridiculously large boombox that he thinks is a bit too on the nose for the setting with a strangled ‘scuse me!' before seeing a flash of red at the building's entrance.

“Nathan, hey, wait up!” but he doesn’t. Because of course he doesn't. He’s out of breath when he finally catches up, planting himself in front of Nathan like a roadblock in his path, arms spread out on either side of him. “Listen, I know this is going to sound crazy, but this isn’t the Blackwell we know. Somehow we’ve been sent back in time to 1983…”

Nathan’s stopped now, and Warren waits for him to react. But all he does is stare blankly back at him. Then something like heated annoyance flashes behind his eyes. “Oh gee. No way.”

“You’re.. strangely calm about it.” Warren drops his arms, taking on a slightly skeptical expression.

“Yup.”

Warren’s face falls, “you don’t believe me.”

“Nope.”

“Okay, okay, I can explain–” Nathan’s already pushing past him, even as Warren continues to ramble on in some sort of attempt at convincing him, following him up the set of stairs that lead to the dorms. Nathan slips inside the building, and Warren almost has the door slam in his face behind him. “My thesis for science class, that thing that you smashed to pieces? It’s a time machine I’ve been building–and then fixing. Not a real one! Or–it wasn’t supposed to be. But there was a storm, right? And then there wasn’t, because what I think happened is the energy from a bolt of lightning from the storm hitting my car somehow launched us–since I, uh, hit you with the car at the same time–all the way back to–”

“Stop talking.”

Warren does, only because Nathan’s suddenly halted and reached out his arms at their full length to keep Warren from running into him, holding him in place. The contact jolts him and keeps him quiet after Nathan drops his arms and begins to dig in his pocket for something. It’s a key, his dorm key, Warren assumes, making him look around where they’ve stopped in front of Nathan’s room. And parallel from it across the hall, Warren’s room. Future room.

It’s eerie how similar everything looks. Part of Warren can’t blame Nathan for taking literally anything he’s said as true, considering the two of them aren’t even friends to begin with. They’re barely acquaintances, Warren wanting next to nothing to do with the guy before today. “Nathan, I really don’t think you should–”

“Hey, Prescott!” Whatever Warren was going to say dies in his throat when he’s interrupted by the booming shout that echoes down the hallway toward them. Both boys whip their heads in the direction it came from to see a big, burly guy. Hardly someone Warren might suspect to be a student attending Blackwell from the looks of him. Maybe students in the ’80s were just built different.

Instead of facing them like Warren expects, the guy is forcefully pounding at one of the doors a couple rooms down from where they stand. It comes to an abrupt stop when the door suddenly whips open and reveals the student Warren can only assume whose room it belongs to. He has blonde hair, styled out of his face in a way that represented the current time period they were in yet also maintained a certain air of maturity to it. He’d answered the door with a scrutinizing demeanour, offering a slightly demoralizing, “what is it?” Kurt and equally commanding. “Did my father send you?” it comes out as a scoff more than anything else, and Warren almost flinches on behalf of the dude at the other end of the interaction from how harsh it sounds.

“Yes, family business.” the burly guy gruffly responds.

“It’s about time, I’ve been waiting for ages. I swear sometimes I think I’m the only competent one in this damn family.” The student’s ushering burly guy in with an impatient motion of his hand, glancing down the hallway to assure their discretion before deeming it relatively good enough–Warren assumes–when he slams the door shut once more.

“I totally thought he was talking to you for a second, almost crapped my pants–” Warren’s breathing out in relief but cuts himself off after turning back to Nathan. His face has drained of all colour, resembling that of a sheet of white paper, and his eyes have blown wide with some sort of disbelief, gaze still fixed past Warren.

It clicks in place for Warren then, his rational mind finally catching up with the rest of him as he quickly sucks in his breath, “was that…? Is that your dad!?” He says it under his breath, fixing Nathan with a pointed expression, but the guy is clearly far from the conversation at hand. Without warning, Nathan’s pushing past Warren back the way they’d come in, leaving Warren dumbstruck before calling after him yet again and willing himself to follow. “Where are you going now!?”

But of course, there is no answer, just a frantic Nathan to follow after as he launches out of the building. He walks right up to the first person he spots, an unsuspecting student lounging against the railing of the dorm steps who is chatting with some of his friends. The guy eyes Nathan intensely when he corners him and points a finger at his raised hand. “Give me one.” His cigarette, that’s what Nathan had been interested in, and now extorting this poor guy over. Warren thinks he’s gone feral.

“Uhh…” the guy starts, his and his friends' laughter immediately cut off by the unexpected disruption that is Nathan, who remains rooted to the spot, eyes narrowing further.

“Now.”

Warren’s shocked to find the guy start rooting in his pocket, fumbling as he brings out a pack and then a single cigarette from within it. Nathan snatches it and walks off without so much as a ‘thank you’. Warren offers them an apologetic smile as he runs past, their frozen state of shock imprinted in his mind.

“What was all that about?” Warren’s caught up with Nathan now, who’s ceased his alarmingly fast pace to stop and dig a hand into his still soggy jacket.

“Neededa fuckin’ cigarette,” Nathan mumbles around said object now sticking out of his mouth.

“Right.” Warren’s pretty sure he could’ve figured that much out himself. “You good?”

“Mm’fine.” He produces a lighter, cupping a hand over the flame as he ignites it and brings it to the end of the cigarette. Warren watches as Nathan hastily sucks in, the action greedy as if he was using an inhaler after having an asthma attack. It accentuates his already prominent cheekbones and Warren realizes he’s staring for a socially unacceptable amount of time again when Nathan’s eyes flick up to his under heavy lids.

“I, uh–I, are you sure?” Warren devastatingly stutters out. “Just because, you know, that was your dad and all, which pretty much proves what I’ve been trying to say…” he trails off toward the end, unable to hold Nathan’s penetrating stare.

“I’m fuckin’ dandy, alright? So you can leave me alone now.”

“What? No–come on, dude! We need to get back, and the best chance of that happening is if we stick together.”

“I said, fuck off, Graham.”

“Listen, I get it, this is all pretty fucking crazy. At first I thought this was…” Warren reflexively runs a hand through his hair. “At first I thought this was some insanely detailed dream my mind managed to conjure up. But it’s not! Somehow we’ve both ended up in 1983–”

“No thanks to you.” Nathan hisses out.

“I know, and I’m sorry! But we need to try to get back, so please!” His hands motion erratically in front of him, “please try to be a little more helpful with this. Try to be less–” he cuts himself off, not knowing exactly how to express what it is he’s trying to say.

“‘Nathan’?” Nathan suggests, eyes narrowing and lips pressed down into a thin-lipped frown. “Less like myself? Less crazy?”

Warren’s quiet because, yeah. That’s basically what he’d meant, without fully thinking it, at least. He’d never openly admit that, though.“No!” Warren sighs, finding his own frustration building and trying his best to let it fizzle out. Of course it has to be Nathan Prescott of all the people he is stuck in time with. It would have been manageable with literally anyone else, hell, it might have even been fun with Max. The thought of trying to figure it all out on his own the only thing motivating him to pursue Nathan so fervently at this point. “I need your help, Nathan." Warren finally admits.

He scoffs at that, which comes out eerily similar to when his dad had done the same.

Just then a noise that sounds like a smothered animal of some sort erupts in the air between them. Startled, Warren can’t help the way his attention snaps to the culprit, which happened to be Nathan’s stomach. He then looks back up at Nathan, “you…hungry?”

“No,” Nathan immediately retorts. An awkward silence follows, Warren not exactly knowing what to do in this sort of situation with a guy you kinda hate but can't walk away from like you want to do ‘cause you need his cooperation but his stomach just growled at you and now you’re just staring at each other and no one wants to break the silence because what do you say after something like that, not to mention he’s still wet from the storm they’d escaped, though, not dripping like he’d been previously but still damp enough to the point where Warren thinks it must be uncomfortable and even his hair has dried somewhat, making the ends curl, a detail that Warren is strangely hung up on, since when did Nathan have slightly curly hair–

“You’re doing it again—“

“—I’m sorry.”

An idea then crosses Warren’s mind, grabbing at his butt pockets with both hands in search of–yes. He still has his wallet. He’s thankful that he’d come to the past somewhat semi-prepared with a few necessities. Extracting it, he unfolds the wallet and finds two twenty dollar bills inside. Nathan’s eyeing him skeptically all the while, brows drawn together with scrutiny but not without interest at what Warren is doing.

“How about this,” he holds the bills up, “we go to Two Whales to get some food in you–”

“You trying to get in my pants? I can buy my own dinner, thanks.” Nathan’s smirking triumphantly at what Warren can only assume is a successful attempt at a jab at him. Warren tries not to roll his eyes at his stupid interruption.

“Yeah? You don’t really strike me as the type of guy who’s carrying wads of cash in his drenched-through jacket.”

The realization dawns on Nathan’s face, smirk promptly falling away. He takes another drag of his cigarette, scowl back in place. “Fine. So what’s in it for you then?”

It’s Warren’s turn to smile now, flashing Nathan his teeth when he responds, “I get you some food, you spend the time it takes to eat going over ways we can get back to our time with me. Deal?”

He can tell that Nathan isn’t overly fond of the idea, his mouth pulled down with an air of disgust. But then he rolls his eyes. “Fine. Whatever."

Warren opts to use his car to drive the two of them to the diner. As much as taking a bus may have been preferred, saving the little bit of cash won out in favour over having to sit in a still somewhat smoking car. To be fair, the smoking came primarily from the reactor still buckled in the back seat, not the car itself. That and a still smoking Nathan, who salvaged the rest of his cigarette right up until the butt, which Warren tells him to finish outside the car before getting in.

“Why? Your car smells burnt to shit anyways.”

“Burnt metal and plastic can air out, cigarette smoke becomes part of the car.”

“Doubt it…” Nathan says under his breath as he finishes his cigarette, dropping it to the ground to crush under his heel. Warren gets in behind the wheel of his car and Nathan slips in on the passenger side. There’s something so odd about it all, Nathan sitting in his car beside him. It’s weird just being around the guy without being targeted in some way. He can’t recall many times in the past that they’ve crossed paths, really. The only interactions consisted of passing each other in the halls where Warren altogether avoided looking his way. It was always brief, and Warren never felt the need to linger. Nothing like the physical alteration that now feels like ages ago. Taking place in the same parking lot that they’re currently sitting in now. Yeesh.

Driving isn’t so bad, if not a little awkward. The smoke actually stopped a while ago by the looks of it. The slight hazy aftermath all that was truly left in its wake, nothing a brief roll down of their windows didn’t solve. Warren’s internally thankful he’d opened the windows earlier, too, before chasing Nathan down so as to avoid hotboxing the interior of the vehicle.

They eventually make it to the Two Whales diner, finding the lot to be relatively busy. Nathan’s eager to exit the car, and Warren scrambles to follow after him in what is quickly becoming routine for the two of them, but not before collecting his backpack from the back seat.

The light jingle of the diner door opening is quickly drowned out by the crowd of people inside. Warren feels like he’s just stepped foot into a movie by the look of the place and the people that inhabited it. Not to mention a much more loved jukebox that is in full swing. The diner had its busy days, sure, but Warren has never seen it like this, so lively and full of other teens. It must have been the hotspot for Arcadia Bay back in the day because the place was packed.

It all seems to be dawning on Nathan by the looks of it, too, standing beside Warren in the entryway with a slightly overwhelmed look about him. Warren has no idea how he’s taking the whole ‘travelling back in time to the 1980s’ thing internally, but externally he’d been holding up pretty well. Almost too well, other than when he’d seen his father, which solidified what Warren had been trying to tell him.

After the brief moment of being blasted by this past version of the diner, they walk over to what looks to be the only free booth–which happens to be Warren’s booth of choice whenever coming here– towards the back of the room. Warren and Nathan slide in opposite of one another, and Warren can’t help but notice the almost new condition and vibrant colour of the seats.

Two Whales has always been a place of sanctuary to Warren, spending countless nights studying for his classes over a constant flow of their signature coffee. Or even the occasional visit with Max for lunch to chat about the latest movies they’ve watched. It’s safe to say Warren was familiar with the worn and graffitied tables, the wear of pleather on the faded booths, and even how the Jukebox would glitch and play a song unprompted after sitting idle for a solid couple of hours. Warren’s aware of how time had taken its toll on the old diner but continues to hold a certain fondness over even these minuet flaws. So when he’s sitting there now in the days of its prime, Warren can’t help but find himself a little emotional at its pristine condition. All that’s missing is–

“Welcome to the Two Whales, can I start y’all off with some coffee?” Warren peers up from his seat to see a young waitress giving him an all too familiar warm smile and a quirked eyebrow. Her long, blonde hair is pulled into its usual high ponytail as she leans on the table with one hand on her hip and the other branding a coffee pot, steaming and waiting to be poured.

Warren is staring with his mouth gaping open, noticing that Nathan is surprisingly mirroring his expression, the both of them fully gawking at the girl. The girl that Warren has no doubt is Joyce. Her complexion is much more youthful, though she still has the same easygoing glint in her eyes.

When the two continue to stare in stunned silence, her brows crease together in concern, “did y’all…need some time to think it over? I can come back…”

“Uh…” Warren dumbly responds, aware of how his mouth still hangs open, which he quickly snaps shut.

“I’ll come back,” she concludes, giving them a wink. And then she’s gone.

The two immediately lock eyes for a split second before frantically lowering their heads closer together within the booth,“did you see–!”

“Was that–!?!”

“No way that was–”

“–Joyce!” Warren finishes whisper-shouting between themselves. The excitement in the air quickly dissipates as Warren clears his throat and Nathan’s already leaning back in his seat. “First your dad, then Joyce, not to mention all the wack fashion and technology,” Warren’s counting on his fingers as he lists all the proof he’s seen since leaving his car after the storm, “you have got to believe that we travelled back in time now.”

“80’s fashion is better than whatever you call that,” Nathan nods at Warren, looking him up and down.

Warren frowns, “what’s wrong with my clothes?” It’s not that he disagrees with the statement, hell, Warren totally nerds out over all stuff 80s. The video games, the movies, the old world tech, but he can’t deny himself a good graphic tee.

“Where to begin…”Nathan mutters from behind a menu that he’s conjured up like a wall between them.

In a stroke of courage, Warren places a hand on top of the menu to press it flat against the table, “but you believe me right? About–” he throws a cautious glance around them, lowering his voice when he turns back to Nathan, “about ending up in 1983…”

Nathan takes a second before he replies, his expression suddenly unreadable, “yeah. I believe you.”

Warren exhales in relief, sinking back into his seat. Nathan believes him. And Warren believes Nathan when he says he believes him. He doesn’t realize how desperate he is for the justification. Perhaps it’s only for the sake of knowing he isn't losing it. They really did get sent back in time.

Oh fuck, we really are stuck in 1983. A new wave of anxiety washes over Warren, Nathan confirming what he already knows hitting him with the reality and severity of the situation all over again. How the fuck are we going to get back.

“I can’t choose between the waffle or house special.”

Blinking, Warren stares at Nathan, who is back to looking over the menu in his hands. This whole thing is crazy, sure, and Warren still doesn't understand how it is at all plausible, but at least he isn’t alone. At least he has someone to keep him grounded, someone who is in the same boat as he is and assure him he’s not going crazy.

“You look crazy.”

Nathan’s now staring at him and Warren hadn’t realized he’s pressed his fingers into his hair on either side of his head, elbows leaning against the table edge. He drops his hands if only to retain some semblance of keeping up a totally sane appearance. “Yeah, just…freaking out a little.”

“I can see that. Anyways, I can’t choose between the–”

“You can have some of my Belgian waffle. I usually don’t finish it anyway… That way you can order the house special.”

Joyce makes her way back to the table and they order their food, she mentally notes everything while pouring their coffees before passing it along to the kitchen. They down their coffees in unison. Warren can’t remember the last time he had something to eat, thinking back to the coffee shop he’d driven to to fix the reactor before the storm and how it was the last place he’d consumed anything. The smell of bacon frying is enough to make his mouth start watering but the anticipation of digging into the diner’s famous waffles manages to hold him over.

“Okay. Let's go over what we know…” he takes a deep breath, crossing his hands on the table between them. Nathan looks back at Warren with little to no interest when breaching the subject, so Warren begins. “We got sent 30 years into the past. A fact most likely due to my totally not meant to be real reactor I built for my thesis project…which then became an actual time machine, with my car as a vessel, when activated after absorbing enough energy from a well timed lightning bolt brought on by the storm.”

The words come out in a rush, left to hang in the air between them. Wow. Some people say it can be cathartic to voice everything out loud, but Warren only comes to the conclusion that this whole situation is completely fucking bonkers.

“So, how come my ass came along for the joyride?” Nathan questions, to which Warren is thankful of. Anything to keep him from internally spiralling on the matter.

“Honestly, I’m surprised it didn’t kill you,” Warren blurts out, the image of Nathan in lump formation in front of his car flashing before his mind. It sends a shiver across his whole body which he tries to shake off. “It makes no sense, but none of this really makes any sense. I think I’ll go crazy if I try to make sense of it.” Just thinking about it is enough to make his head hurt, putting his thoughts out in the open becoming a whole new level of weird.

The sweet and savoury aroma of their food hits Warren before he actually sees it, turning his head just as an incoming Joyce places their heaping plates of food down in front of them. He’s ravenous at this point, not holding back with knife and fork already equipped in each hand as he begins to demolish the generously garnished waffle before him. It’s topped with strawberries, blueberries, chocolate sauce, ice cream, and whipped cream which he haphazardly cuts himself a piece of with the attempt at getting a little bit of everything in one bite. He fails, naturally, as the blueberry he’d forked on falls away and the dollop of ice cream dejectedly plops in the space between the plate and his mouth. But he doesn’t care, it’s still the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted in his entire life.

“I suppose it doesn't really matter.” Warren thinks aloud, the words muffled from speaking around a mouth full of waffle. He swallows to continue, “we don’t have to figure out why we came here, all that’s important is how we get back.”

Nathan, who’s taken a much more retained approach to eating his own food, shrugs in response. “Sure.” He’s far more interested in his meal than the conversation, so Warren lets him indulge.

Inhaling the rest of his waffle, Warren makes sure to leave a solid quarter for Nathan. “Time to devise a plan,” he pushes the remainder of his waffle beside Nathan’s plate, making room for all the things currently in his possession. He begins by taking out his car keys–adorned with a keychain of the millennium falcon–his wallet, phone, and the USB drive Max returned to him, placing them down on the table. Once his pockets are empty, he swivels to begin unpacking his bag. There isn’t too much within, namely his pencil case consisting of the tools he’d taken to the coffee shop to fix his reactor and his notebook full of notes on the machine as well as a list of materials he’d used to build it–coming in more handy now than ever.

“What are you doing?” Nathan’s finished his food, moving onto the bit of waffle Warren has left him and sending a furrow-browed look over all the items Warren has placed on the table.

“Taking out everything I have with me. Maybe something here can help us.” It was a long shot, but Warren thinks it's worth trying. At the very least, it couldn't hurt.

To Warren’s astonishment, Nathan starts doing the same. He digs into his pockets to produce a lighter, a set of keys, a folded up flyer–thoroughly dampened by the way it flops on the table–and his own cell phone. He places them adjacent to Warren's pile in a substantially neater fashion. Upon doing so he proceeds to shed his varsity jacket and cardigan–equally as soggy–underneath it so he’s left with only a black tee. Warren notes how he doesn't think he’s actually ever seen him without his jacket before, being a staple to who Nathan is in his mind.

Then Nathan’s back to eating, leaving Warren to freely examine everything in their combined collection. There isn’t much to go over–lighter, USB, dorm room keys–most of which are items of little use to their predicament. Their phones, too, which are nothing more than digital bricks in this time. Upon further examination Warren can’t help but notice the poor shape Nathan’s is in, a spider web-like crack covering more than half of the screen. Must be nice to have the money not to care over safeguarding such things, Warren thinks to himself with slight disdain. He tries not to let it fester, but it’s difficult when he’d spent the entirety of the summer before moving to Blackwell Academy working a shitty part-time job just so he could afford to upgrade his own while people like Nathan just got whatever they wanted whenever they wanted.

His eyes travel back up to where Nathan sits quietly crouched over the remainder of his meal–or, the leftover meal Warren gave him. It’s a stark contrast to the angry, spitting, frantic version he’d been stuck with for the last 12 hours. His focus migrates to the still-angry looking scratch marks on his cheek, then lower to a bruise that’s beginning to form along his jaw. Was that from punching him earlier? Warren presses his lips together, he’d never been one to get into physical altercations, he might have still avoided doing so were it not for Max being involved. The thought of his friend walking away from the confrontation with a bloody nose more terrifying than it happening to himself, and all because of some stupid run-in between them in the bathroom.

Warren still doesn't know what went down in the bathroom between him and Max, and what caused Nathan to go full rage after her like that. Although, he supposes it doesn't take much for someone like Nathan. Warren still wants to know, desperately, but part of him convinces himself now’s not the time. Especially with how calm Nathan is for the time being. Warren doesn’t want to risk setting him off again.

As if suddenly aware, Nathan shifts under Warren’s quickly-growing noticeable gaze, darting his attention back down to their things strewn about the table. He latches onto the first thing–which happens to be the flyer–reaching over to pick it up and unfolding it under the guise that he’d sought to do so in the first place.

Written across the back, smudged but still legible enough, is a neatly printed list of…drugs. Ah. Of course. The lettering is too neat to be Nathan’s hand, though other than that fact there’s really nothing else of significance to the paper. That is, until he turns it over to examine the flyer itself. The list of drugs aptly makes more sense now as Warren realizes it’s a poster for the upcoming Vortex club party. The same poster he’d seen in the hallway what seems like eons ago, all crazy fonts and neon graphic design. Horribly done, in Warren’s opinion. He wonders if Nathan had any involvement, but before he can ask, something catches his eye.

Holding the poster a little further away from his face, Warren takes the time to properly read it.

Enter the Vortex Club: Struck by Lightning Party. It’s Going to be Electric! Don’t miss out. October 10th.

October 10th. Of course! Warren wants to laugh–or cry–with joy. That feeling of eureka! hitting him as if theorizing in class or taking a test and suddenly finding the exact answer he’d been looking for. Eureka! like he’d been Archimedes exiting the bathtub, but instead of discovering volume displacement in regards to water, it’s of how they’ll get back home.

“Why are you grinning like that?”

“Like a genius?” Warren offers, smiling as he lets the poster fall on the table.

“Like an idiot.”

“Because this is it! This is how we get back home! Look,” Warren smooths out the poster in front of Nathan so it’s facing the right way for him. “Do you see? October 10th.”

Nathan tilts his head down to study it, going from a deep frown to a slightly-less-furrowed frown. “The anniversary of when the statue outside Blackwell got struck by lightning…30 years ago.”

“Exactly! That's in 4 days. Another bolt of lightning, another bolt of energy to send us on our way.” Warren excitedly explains, though Nathan doesn’t seem to share his enthusiasm.

“What about your thesis thingy? Isn’t it fucked from getting us here in the first place?”

“It is, but luckily I have all my notes with me right here,” he pats his notebook fondly.

“Okay… but how are you actually going to fix the thing?”

“I have an idea for that, too. Who’s to say we aren’t still students attending Blackwell Academy? We simply gain access to the science labs and I’m positive I can get the reactor back up and running.” Nathan lets out a reserved hmm while Warren’s already running through the process in his head. “We might need to replace some materials, but I’m sure it’s doable. Then all that’s left is securing a proper line of power from the impact of where the lightning is supposed to strike on the 10th.”

Something dreadful occurs to him then, halting his burst of elation in its tracks. In order for this to work, they need to know not only the place but the precise time the lightning strikes. They didn’t exactly have the option to wait it out for the entirety of the day, not without raising suspicion, at least. How the hell are we going to figure out the exact time it will happen? There’s no way they can even figure something like that out–

“10:04 P.M.”

Warren blinks.

Nathan rolls his eyes, “I could see you freaking out.”

“But how? How do you know?”

Nathan taps the poster, “it’s a Vortex party. Vic and I had to come up with the theme. She does most of the planning and research behind them, but,” he shrugs, “I thought of the idea after going through one of my father’s books on the history of Arcadia Bay.”

If Warren didn’t have more self-restraint–or a table between them–he might have hugged the guy right then and there. This was going to work. Their plan was going to work. His excitement from before comes rushing back. So much so that he doesn’t get the chance to be hung up over the fact that Nathan Prescott took the time to read a history book. “That settles it then! We have 4 days to fix the reactor and be sent back into the future. This is going to work.”

Nathan’s gone quiet again, prodding at a lone blueberry halfheartedly. Warren’s too distracted to notice from the anticipation bubbling within him. With a plan ready to go and their food long finished, he flags down Joyce for their bill. She takes their plates and tells them she’ll be back in a minute, leaving the two in each other's company once more. A silence falls between them filled only by the clanging of cutlery and distant conversation from the diner’s other patrons. It leaves Warren with difficulty at finding something to say. He has the option of staying silent, though he’s never been one to sit comfortably in it.

His focus shifts erratically around the diner’s setting but eventually finds its way back to Nathan, clearing his throat when he does so. “How’s your cheek?”

“It’s alright. How’s your nose?” he counters flatly, making Warren wonder how he can remain so calm after everything they’re currently going through. Calm in the sense that he isn’t freaking out about the whole time travel thing even half as much as Warren is. Nathan still retains his anger–as dormant as it may be at the moment–but that’s just who he is.

“Okay.” He answers. It was true, the pain had long subsided since getting smashed into at the parking lot. It only really stings when he touches it. Safe to say it isn’t broken. He thinks all things considered, Nathan probably has it worse. “I’m sorry, by the way.”

Confusion is evident on Nathan’s face, amongst the usual scrutiny.

“For hitting you with my car. I’m sorry, I never apologized for, uh…that.”

That same blank stare turned into something venomous that Warren received earlier is back as Nathan’s eyes narrow and stare daggers toward him.

“W-what?” Warren stutters out, slightly taken aback by the sudden flip, and harsh expression pointed his way.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend to care. About my fucking cheek or getting me back to 20fucking13 or apologizing for shit like we’re friends or something.”

Warren frowns, not having anticipated the sudden lash of anger from Nathan, “I wasn't–”

“Wasn’t what? Trying to help me? Don’t act all fucking selfless, Graham. Why bother helping me at all?”

“I guess I…feel like you’re my responsibility.”

As capricious as ever, the anger momentarily melts away when Nathan’s face contorts back to confusion.

Warren sighs before deciding to elaborate, “It’s my fault you’re here, isn’t it? I accidentally brought you with me, so it’s only right that I try and get you back to our time, too.”

Nathan’s face drops, Warren finding it hard to get a read on him as he grabs his phone and turns away to shrug his varsity jacket back on. “Well, don’t worry about it. I’m absolving you of any responsibility. You’ve got your plan, now you can leave me the fuck out of this.”

“Why?” Warren demands, stone-faced and trying hard to sound commanding when he directs the question at Nathan. It’s enough to gain Nathan’s attention back. “Why won’t you try to figure this out together?”

“Because we’re not friends!” Nathan shouts, jolting up from where he’s sitting to lean over the table, and by extension, into Warren’s face. “I’m not your problem. So don’t act like it, okay?” He doesn’t give Warren the opportunity to respond this time, storming off to leave Warren as the sole occupant to their booth before he even gets the chance to fully process what just happened.

Whatever Warren expected to transpire from the conversation, it definitely isn’t the turn of events he’s now faced with. And yet after everything he can’t help thinking back to what Max said about Nathan during their phone call. How she felt bad for him and that something was going on with him. Warren’s sure Nathan wouldn’t appreciate her pity, but he’s starting to understand she might’ve been right. That there is more to Nathan than he’d originally thought.

“Everything all good, hun?” Joyce returns to the table, bill in hand and a look of concern creasing her features. He gives what he hopes is a reassuring nod. She returns one that’s just as convincing before leaving the bill with him. Warren places his money on top and begins to put all his stuff from the table back into his bag, making sure to grab the Vortex club poster and Nathan’s lighter that he left behind.

Waving his departure to Joyce behind the counter, Warren finds Nathan standing at the curb just outside the diner, his frame illuminated by the harsh neon light of the Two Whales sign. He approaches, though hesitantly, offering a thin-lipped smile in hopes of it acting as an olive branch when Nathan looks over his shoulder. He looks back to the road in front of him, somehow not running off or turning around to clock Warren in the face like he half expects him to, which he considers a win.

Nathan fidgets with a cigarette in his hands, Warren not having the faintest idea of how he managed to get another one. He then takes out Nathan’s lighter, holding it out to him. Warren decides to let the silence linger this time, seeing if Nathan will be the one to initiate anything between them.

Nathan takes the lighter from Warren’s hands, sticking one end of the cigarette in his mouth to light the other. He takes a drag, exhaling slowly, then shuffles on his feet. “You’re my ride back to school.”

Ah. There it is.

“Listen, I’m sorry–” Nathan throws him a warning glance more threatening than any glance Warren has received before,“–I mean, no more apologizing, right–I just want to say that I get we’re not friends. And though you don’t actuallyreally need to be friends with someone in order to apologize to them–”

“I swear to God, Graham.”

“Not the point, right,” Warren takes a deep breath. Right now is not the ideal time to be rambling, taking a second to try to collect his thoughts and put into words what it is he wants to articulate. He’s not even a hundred percent sure what it is that he wants to say. The only thing he knows for certain is that he wants to try. He wants to try and help Nathan. He’s not going to leave him behind. “We’re not friends,” he repeats, “and I’m not saying we will be, but that doesn’t mean we can’t work together. If we stick it out, then I think we can make it. I just know I can’t do this alone.”

Nathan’s still looking ahead as Warren speaks, letting the exhale of smoke out in breaths to cloud around them. He has no idea if anything he’s saying is even being absorbed by Nathan, or if he’s choosing to blatantly ignore him. It’s with a last ditch attempt and a swell of courage in his chest as he holds his breath that Warren offers a single question.

“Are you with me?”

There’s a long, existential pause that seems to last for an eternity between them. Until at last Nathan responds. “I’m with you.”

#life is strange #grahamscott #warren graham #nathan prescott #nathan x warren #nathan Prescott x warren graham #warren graham x Nathan Prescott #lis #lis fanfiction #happy arcadia bay being destroyed week #mywriting

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writefightandflightclub · 2 years

Text

Am I the asshole? (Nathan Bateman x fem!reader)

Summary: the gift you opt to give Nathan for Xmas has him wondering if he’s the asshole. Spoiler: duh.

Genre: light-hearted angst, eventually fluff.

Author’s note: based on the sub-Reddit(?) “am I the asshole”, where users post a scenario from their life and ask whether they are the asshole (but make it sorta Christmas).

(This took me an inexplicably long time, and for what?! 😂)

Also I made up the user names! I hope they’re not real!

Rating: 18+

for off-screen smut, smut mentions, and some light on-screen steam/smut.

Word count: no idea

Warnings: Nathan is an asshole; verbal meanness to reader; casual fucking with one idiot who catches feelings but goes about it all wrong; boss/subordinate relationship; alcohol; brief blow-job + cum mentions; p in v mentions; erections; dry-humping; kissing; steamy undershirt touching; implied oral sex (f receiving); Nathan says “holes” a lot, it is what it is; language; porn mention.

No man is an island.

Well…

Except maybe Nathan Bateman.

Nathan doesn’t need anyone.

He most certainly doesn’t need you. He likes to make that pretty clear, at least 3 times a day.

There are other, more sordid things he likes to do to you three times a day too -which is probably the only reason you tolerate his reliably consistent reminders that he wants you out of his hair.

Despite the obvious benefits of having you around -he certainly praises you profusely enough when he’s buried up inside you- Nathan seems to find an endless list of reasons to complain about your presence at other times throughout the day.

Your “mess” cluttering up his minimalist interiors (Come on, anything looks like clutter in this concrete house, you swear to god. Even just standing in a room is a statement.). Your “shit music” (Okay. Just because it’s not disco, and was actually recorded this millennium, it’s trash according to him). Your “incessant” talking (Really? Because you prevented him from hearing the sound of his own voice for one second during dinner?).

Suffice to say, Nathan couldn’t make it clearer that he only wants you around for sex and accounting.

“I only want you around for sex and accounting.”

Oh.

Okay…

That’s how it is?

“If I wanted you to interrupt my train of thought every five minutes I would have put it in the job description, sweetcheeks. Do you know how much my thoughts are worth? Is it really worth depriving the world of a fucking majestic development so I could hear you spout your trivial shit about… whatever.”

That one had made you cry. A lot. A stuttered, bubbling cry which had made Nathan actually seal off his lab with an emergency protocol override.

Asshole.

An asshole who’s dramatic as all hell too.

Whatever though.

It’s not as though you’re planning on anything serious with the dude. He’s such an ass that you don’t want him for anything besides a pay check and a (rather satisfying) bone either.

At least that’s what you tell yourself.

That’s why, as you begin to draw up your Christmas present list, trying to decide who’s been naughty or nice and pondering what to buy for the boss who already has everything (and would likely hate whatever you got him anyway), you land on the perfect idea for a gift for Nathan.

An idea you think he’ll truly appreciate.

You flip over to a fresh page in your note pad, and a giddy smile slowly inches over your face.

***

Nathan’s alarm sounds as usual, at the usual time.

He gets up, as usual, and plods to the bathroom. Then, to the punch bags out on the deck. Then to the weight room. The fridge. The shower. The coffee machine. His desk.

Everything is highly usual. Except one thing which is very unusual indeed.

Nathan scrunches his face up.

“Wait. Where the shit are you?” he asks under his breath, folding his arms and looking around the room as though he might just not have noticed you standing there.

Well… it has happened before.

But, this time, no sign of you.

His eyes hurriedly scan the monitors next, looking for you on the security cameras. It’s very unusual for you to oversleep. Almost unheard of - you like to bother him from the moment he wakes.

Still… Nothing.

So, Nathan tuts. And Nathan ignores the fact you are missing for as long as he can. That is, until his curiosity gets the better of him. Or, more accurately, until his cock twitches in his pants, a little needy without the usual morning relief you provide him.

He looks down towards his crotch and there is an echo of you. A memory of you on your knees by his desk chair, bobbing your head on him until your tongue is swiping hot seed from your teeth. He recalls the delicious, self-satisfied glint in your eyes. The way you invariably make some comment about “breakfast”, which he told you got old after two days - that had given you all the more reason to continue making it.

But today, you aren’t there.

And it’s…

-Nathan’s frown deepens-

… inconvenient.

Starting to get a little exasperated that the usual interface of his world is not operating exactly as he had so carefully programmed, he scratches his buzzed head and leans over into the intercom.

“You sick or just tardy, Princess?”

When Nathan still gets no response from you, to his surprise, he finds his heart rate spiking just a little, the unexpected dose of panic enough to have him surging up from his chair and padding towards your room, brow crumpled and face increasingly stern with something smack bang in the middle of concern and outright frustration.

You’d better not be sick because then I’ll get sick and-

When he gets there though, what he finds surprises him all over again.

The door is already ajar and your bed empty, the covers smoothed and tucked.

No sign of your existence; and Nathan wonders for a brief, rather hideous moment if you were ever real, or if the isolation has, in fact, finally got to him. It’s not outside the realms of possibility that he would’ve begun imagining a hot piece of ass like you, he supposes.

However, the crisp white envelope propped against the pillow puts that theory to bed, and that’s probably for the best.

Nathan hesitates before leaning over to scoop the envelope up, another dull pang of unease spiking in his chest - an altogether unfamiliar feeling which he can’t quite decipher. Despite this feeling, Nathan sets his jaw and rips the seam, revealing a couple of leaves of paper inside.

He pulls out the first, stiffer, coloured piece of paper, your writing scrawled on it in thick black marker.

“One gift certificate for time alone. Recipient: Mr. Nathaniel Bateman. From: Figure it out, ya bastard.”

The frown on his brow deepening, Nathan huffs out a gust of air then slips out the second leaf, unfurling it slowly, an involuntary swallow trailing down his throat as he reveals a wall of scrawled text in your hand.

He braces, mentally cycling through things that happened yesterday which might have pissed you off. Turns out, he can easily come up with a whole damn list. After all, he was there. That’s usually enough to provoke ire.

He shakes those thoughts away and quickly decides to refer to the evidence rather than speculation.

He begins reading.

“Nathan,

“Happy Christmas Eve Eve from your favourite only human.

“You may have put two and two together by now. Probably came looking for me right about the time your cock started to feel lonely? (Either that or it’s been a week and you have no idea I’m gone yet. Could go either way with you.).

I’ve gone home.

I wasn’t planning on it - kinda assumed I’d stay here through the holidays, but I had a moment of realisation. You never actually asked me to, and you never bothered to ask what I had planned to do either. So, given that you complain about me being here / breathing / existing at least three times per day-

“-Oh. Wait. I’m sorry… Am I going on too much? Should I talk about my tits to keep your attention? You know. In case my thoughts are too trivial for you.

“Wow. Still reading? Well, Nathan, if you keep going to the end, you might even hear about my asshole…”

Okay.

He’s not entirely proud of it but his cock obediently swells a little beneath his grey sweats.

“Anyway, given all the wishing you do that I’ll get out of your hair the tangle of your ego, I figured I would give you the best gift of all.

“Some alone time.

“Hurrah! Now you’re finally free of me like you wanted. You can wank on the couch again in the dark, or whatever it was you did which was so damn compelling before I came here.

“Enjoy the quiet, Nathan.

“Guess what? You deserve it.

“Merry fucking Christmas.

“Lots of loathe, Bunny x

“P.s. I told Santa you’ve been bad, so expect coal on Christmas morning. I know that you divested from fossil fuels, so if Santa comes down your chimney you can give him a piece of your mind. With a brain like yours there’s plenty to go around anyway.

“P.p.s Oh yeah! I did promise you could hear about my asshole, didn’t I?

“Well, guess what, Nathan?

“YOU’RE THE ASSHOLE.”

Nathan finishes reading and tuts indignantly, his jaw writhing, expression perturbed.

Then, already over it, he screws up the letter, tosses it in the trash can by your bed and…

Carries on as usual.

Except… increasingly, throughout the day -loathe as he is to admit it- Nathan begins to notice that usual now feels very unusual without you.

It’s… incredibly inconvenient.

***

You’re cosied up in your apartment, shovelling chips and dip into your mouth and shaking in laughter at some mindless tv show, a fleecy blanket nestled around you.

Your place, although only a few states over, is a million miles from Nathan’s home. Here, everything is warm and soft instead of cool and smooth. Everything is bright and chaotic and cluttered instead of minimalist and organised. The familiar blare of car horns and sirens from five floors down pervades the room, a welcome relief from the overwhelming quiet of his serene valley compound.

You could swear that you are more than content to be free of Nathan. From his grumpiness and moods and teasing…

And yet, a mere moment later you instinctively turn to your side, to where Nathan would usually be whenever you watch movies together, and the empty space makes you crave that bubble of solitude and routine you’d painstakingly developed alongside him, little by little.

Annoyed at yourself for missing the asshole of a man - who can actually be sweet sometimes, you rationalise - your attention zones away from the screen.

That’s lucky too, as it enables you to hear the soft footsteps and shuffling outside your door that you likely would’ve missed otherwise. Startled, and not expecting anyone, you hit mute on the remote and creep on tiptoe towards the spy hole in your door, brandishing a hastily scooped up fork as a weapon - for all the good it would do you.

In the dimly lit hallway, through the dusty lens, you can just about make out a bald, bearded figure - getting smaller, starting towards the stairs.

You gasp in a sharp breath.

No wait… it couldn’t possibly be…?

You crack the door, leaving the chain on, just in case he has a doppelgänger more prone to B&E, but you’re pretty sure you’d know that distinctive profile anywhere. “Nathan?”

He spins, running a hand guiltily over his buzzed head. “Fuck. Kinda hoped you wouldn’t see me.”

A dumbfounded expression finds your face, and yet despite your surprise you manage to release the chain and crack the door open a little wider. “Well,” you offer. “There are better ways to accomplish me not seeing you than flying to my city and knocking on the door of my apartment, Bateman.” You normally bite your tongue around him - maybe that’s part of the problem - but you’re no longer on the clock.

He doesn’t seem to object to your slight sass though. Perhaps you’re imagining it, but his lips even appear to tip up into a small smile at your gentle teasing, and it diffuses some of his grumpiness.

You study him carefully, still sceptical, honestly, that he’s actually Nathan. It’s simply so unlikely that he would come all the way out here to your apartment, that you find yourself looking for signs he’s sent an android replica of himself just to piss you off. It sounds far fetched but… honestly? With this guy? It’s worth giving every far fetched option due consideration.

However, you are quickly satisfied he is indeed himself when he looks up at you darkly from beneath his lenses, sending that familiar thrill zipping down to your core.

A robot could never.

(You hope.)

“Honey,” he clarifies. “I didn’t knock.”

You roll your eyes and dismiss his technicality. “Well?” you demand, folding your arms across your chest and jutting out a hip, trying to look as intimidating as your Christmas pudding PJs will allow. “Then what the hell are you doing here?”

Nathan’s eyes sweep over you then -in your adorable festive sleepwear- and you swear his rather infuriating smirk grows just a touch wider.

“Didn’t like your gift,” he says plainly, and you wait for him to go on.

Aaaand, he doesn’t.

He said it so casually, of course. Like all of this is normal - as though he’s even capable of such a thing. Like he was just talking to you five minutes ago in his kitchen and he’s simply continuing the conversation - despite having flown hundreds of miles to… not knock on your door.

“Rude,” you complain with a scowl. “Also, you could have just texted.”

He stands still and firm, his lips twitching in a smug display and now, it is your turn for your eyes to give him a subtle once over, sweeping up and down over his pleasing form.

Nathan is wearing a snuggly coat and scarf, and, so help you, he looks not only hot but also cute and cuddly.

However, whilst he may look soft - quite literally, all bundled up - he still retains that familiar, disgruntled edge about him. He huffs out air and pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, his raven beard animating as his jaw writhes with standard, low-level frustration.

You’re not surprised any longer. You always seem to have that effect on him.

Well, whatever.

You still don’t understand why he’s here, not even a fraction of that mystery solved, but that doesn’t matter to you so much. The chill from the hall is starting to curl around you, your show is running on, and you’re quickly losing patience. Unless he’s sick or experiencing a personal emergency or something, you’re damn well about to close your door.

“Is that all, then?” you ask abruptly, preparing to do just that if his response is insufficiently inspiring.

For a rare dumbfounded moment, Nathan has nothing more to say, and so, you motion to shut him out - quite literally. That is, until -in the nick of time- he says something drastically out of character.

“I missed you,” Nathan says with a chop of his open hand through the air and an obvious discomfort, his face contorting as though the words taste sour in his mouth. His eyes even flutter slowly shut as though he’s upset with himself for feeling -never mind expressing- the sentiment.

Oh?

Wow, okay.

Your eyebrows shoot up to the top of your head and you are far too taken aback to school your expression into anything else but shock. And, perhaps it’s not the response you should have to his unexpectedly earnest confession, but your secondary reaction is that you feel… smug as all hell.

This feels like the best comeuppance you could have wished for for Christmas. “I thought you wanted me gone, Nathan,” you sing-song, feeling suddenly giddy even from such minimal flattery. “Aren’t I insufferable and annoying and-“

“-Well. Yeah,” Nathan emphasises in a grouchy tone. “You are.”

Your shortlived bubble of satisfaction bursts, and your jaw drops open in indignation. The fucking audacity! “But, turns out,” his lips tip up into a lopsided smile. “I missed you annoying me.” He scratches the back of his neck, and for some reason, continues digging himself an even larger hole. “I missed your incessant, stupid questions and your mess and your god awful music. I missed you buzzing around me all day like a fucking caffeinated mosquito. And,” Nathan says, extending his pearly flash of teeth in a misplaced gesture - as though this is his idea of charming. “I missed your sweet little holes.” He wears a pained expression now. “Fuck, I miss those, Princess.”

Your expression, which had been gradually gathering gloom throughout his confession looks positively stormy now -a fact which Nathan appears oblivious to- and you grip the door edge, once again preparing to slam it closed. You’re fairly sure you’re annoyed at him; however, when you respond your voice is lacking the bite you intended. In fact, it sounds startlingly sad. “Nathan. Why the hell are you here? Really? Shit. Is there anything you actually like about me, beyond my convenience?”

Nathan’s eyes glisten as he searches yours, and for a moment -the briefest of moments- you think he might actually come through; but then, a devious spark engulfs his umber eyes. He opens his mouth to speak but quite frankly you’ve already had enough, and you can’t help but lose your temper just a little, your voice raising and echoing around the bare halls. “I swear to god if you mention my holes one more time-“

You stop abruptly, instantly folding your arms against your chest and looking sheepish. Nathan is confused as to why, until he realises that your neighbour - a sweet looking, elderly lady- has chosen that moment to emerge from the door opposite.

Your embarrassment is plain, and Nathan watches you visibly cringe, stifling his amusement beneath a palm raised to smooth his raven beard. “Good evening, Mrs. Nesbit,” you call weakly as you watch her cross from her door to the elevator, a shit-eating grin developing on Nathan’s face as he allows you to squirm.

You huff.

Oh, fuck this.

You’ve had enough of him already. Had already had enough. That’s why you flew in the opposite direction. And, if he can’t muster anything except back-handed compliments and talking about your “holes” then you are through.

In fact, this time, you do close the door in his face, but infuriatingly that doesn’t even stop him. He just continues talking through the paper thin wood, and it barely makes any difference at all. “So,” he calls. “What are you doing for the holidays?”

“Fuck off, Nathan,” you yell in the general direction of the spy hole.

You await his barbed response, or at least some kind of riposte, and, surprising you for another time today, there is nothing further from Nathan.

Trust him to find the most infuriating response possible at every juncture.

You wait a moment, and still, nothing. You saw your jaw back and forth and stamp your foot, and still there is nothing.

You sigh. He’s gone. You’re pretty sure.

Your anger cresting and subsiding as soon as you realise that, you dejectedly lean your forehead up against the door, suddenly wishing you hadn’t been quite so hasty or hostile (Well, he started it. At least… you think he did.).

You even go so far as to press your palm tenderly up against the smooth, cool wood. “I… I missed you as well, Nathan,” you admit in a low voice you know he can’t hear, followed by a self-pitying laugh. “Tragic as that is.”

***

For the next hour you feel entirely discombobulated. You simply can’t decide whether to be pissed off by Nathan’s unsolicited interruption, or regretful that you didn’t take your chance to pull him inside and make short work of those clothes. And, in less sordid thoughts, it would be kinda nice to watch Christmas movies together, even if he’d do nothing but grumble beside you.

Safe to say, you’re now in a slump, and none of your prior activities suddenly inspire quite the same joy they had earlier in the day.

You’re thankful when your wallowing is eventually interrupted by a soft rap at your door, and, startled again, you open it to find Mrs. Nesbit outside, back from her engagement earlier in the day. “Sorry dear - I didn’t want this to sit out in the hall all night.”

Mrs. Nesbit points down to the floor, and that’s when you notice a small manila envelope propped against the skirting outside your door, the name “Bunny” scrawled in Nathan’s distinctly spidery hand-writing.

You gasp when you see it, and stoop to pick it up, thanking your kind neighbour and distractedly waving her goodnight. You turn the envelope over in your hands, a crease developing in your brow as you wonder if, perhaps, Nathan really had meant to avoid seeing you after all.

Your heart drumming in your chest in anticipation, you slot yourself back into the cosy corner of your couch as you peel it open. Inside is a thick, folded hunk of paper, as well as another smaller envelope nestled behind that.

You exhale a huge breath and wonder briefly if you should trash the whole thing, before Nathan can infuriate you further with whatever is inside, but, of course, your curiosity inevitably gets the better of you. You unfurl the bundled leaves of paper, chalky beneath your fingers. It’s… print-outs?

Your eyes skim over the page and you realise that it is, in fact, a print-out of a whole Reddit thread, specifically the sub-Reddit; am I the asshole? The contributor for this particular thread appears to be none other than a user named “CodeDaddy100”, and you quickly gather that must be Nathan. You know, from the fact he is describing your very own life anonymously on the internet.

“Am I the asshole for fucking my live-in accountant three times per diem?”

Well. Firstly, congratulations to him for continuing to miss the point entirely.

It’s not the fucking that I ever took issue with, honey. That’s the one thing you have going for you.

You prickle - an angry heat slipping up your neck as he describes the scenario further - of course, in exceedingly blunt terms. The insight into his thought process is… illuminating to say the least, and not necessarily all that flattering to him.

You wonder what his play is here, and if he has done this to try to the pin blame on you, somehow, for whatever sleight he has concocted in that impossibly complex brain of his.

Your eyes scan the text.

Hmm.

Yes, in fact. It does seem that his initial position -unsurprisingly- is that he is infallible and you are in the wrong. However; as you keep reading, he elaborates more and more on the scenario - reluctantly, and in response to other users’ persistent prompts - and, shockingly, there is evidence that Nathan (eventually) begins to adjust his conclusions.

Opinion is mixed. This is the internet after all, and you can find just about any opinion going.

There are those defending Nathan’s actions religiously - he is simply being honest, and he never promised you more than sex and accounting anyway so how dare you get on his case; especially when he sounds like such a stellar fella.

Boy, are they bad judges of character.

There are others taking a hard-line against him and arguing the whole scenario has been fucked from the get-go, owing to the fact he’s your boss.

Yeah. Maybe they have a point.

There are those vehemently defending you, and emphasising that common decency is hardly too much to ask for. After all, you sound swell.

Agreed.

And, of course, there are those criticising you, and saying you should be better able to “take a joke”, or stating how you’ve never actually stepped up and asked him for more - do you expect him to be a mind reader? The first point is shitty, and the second… no, you’ve never asked for more, but why would you have?

All in all, it’s a mixed-bag, but the verdict definitely sways in your favour. After all, Nathan’s characteristic bluntness - even through this online format - is a bit of a dead giveaway that said bluntness likely translates to the real world too.

You’re less interested in that though.

You’re more interested in Nathan’s take. More interested in following Nathan’s conversation with one user in particular, called GoldMedalAesthete74. This one seems to have gotten under Nathan’s skin, for sure, and you devour the thread, wishing you had some damn popcorn.

GoldMedalAesthete74: “CodeDaddy100, you are undoubtedly an asshole. Whether you are the asshole is debatable, but I think you have bigger problems. I think, regardless of your asshole status, you are clearly an idiot.”

CodeDaddy100 replies: “the fuck for, shitstain?”

Nathan, everyone. Ever the charmer.

GoldMedalAsthete74: “Hello? You clearly have feelings for her, idiot. You may even have feelings for each other (if she doesn’t feel that way for you, I beg you, leave her the fuck alone). But if you do like her, how about this: try saying something NICE to her for once? Oh and stop hiding the fact you’re an emotionally constipated coward behind this pretentious drivel about your unwavering “honesty”. While you’re at it, stop using every technicality under the sun to disguise the fact you’re incapable of talking about feelings that don’t involve your schlong. Finally, while we’re on that, we all know it’s likely average at best and she’s definitely had better. Get over yourself, or she will. By the sounds of it, pretty fast too. Good luck, buddy.”

You actually gasp and laugh out loud at the takedown, your palm coming up to cover the shocked “o” of your mouth. Christ. You must remember to find this user and send them a large fruit basket. Maybe monthly.

Then, finally, the thread ends with Nathan’s reply, a full four hours later.

CodeDaddy100 says: “i dont like you. but i drank… some amount of vodka and hacked you.”

You cover your face with your spare palm, and peer at the page through your fingers, feeling second-hand embarrassment. “Jesus Christ, Nathan.”

“you look happy with your wife man. so. mayyyybe you know what youre talking about with all this fucking relationship shit. also I watched a bunch of footage back (don’t come at me, she knows about the fucking cameras) and then… well, i had a pathetic failed wank. but THEN i realised maybe i am a bit of an asshole. it’s pretty fucking obvious i do like her. so, thanks for the straight talk, bro.”

“Edit: get off my back about the fucking cameras.

“Edit: yeah, im gonna do something about it. what the fuck should i do?

“Edit: all your suggestions are bullshit. i’m embarrassed for you. she wouldn’t like that shit anyway.

“Edit: no obviously i won’t let you know what goes down.

“Edit: i can’t make any promises not to talk about her holes, no.

“Edit: those of you waiting for me to land on my ass? fuck you! sadistic bastards. For those of you who helped me, check your bank accounts. bad santa has been good to you.”

You exhale a breathy, low whistle from the circle of your lips.

Well, this is a lot to process.

You pause there to take a breath.

Nathan’s whole method is highly questionable, but he… likes you?

You are a little annoyed with yourself when the admission reliably makes your stomach flip. Annoyed that out of everything -this entire hot mess- that’s the one sentiment you have chosen to zone in on. Despite yourself, the revelation sends a pleasant, tingling warmth humming through your body.

Gathering yourself, you turn over the paper, expecting a continuation of the thread, but instead of printed type, you see Nathan’s chaotic, biro scrawl over the whole next page.

You begin reading.

“Bunny.”

Your heart is in your mouth right now.

“Yeap. I’m the asshole. And an idiot.

“Full disclosure, I’m also a little drunk and hopped up on disco bops and donuts. I also have my cock out of my pants because I tried to jerk off to footage of you but it felt kinda wrong and now I can’t get it up.

“One more warning - I’ve been called emotionally constipated by a lot of jerk-offs on the internet tonight. Well, I’m pretty sure I’m about to take a huge emotional shit all over the page, so proceed at your own risk.

“Bunny. Inexplicably, I like you. A fucking lot, actually.

“I know I have a fucked-up way of showing it. Can I retroactively tell you that anytime I spunked on you it was actually me trying to be romantic? ‘Cause then you’d have a lot to work with. Nah. I know. That’s thin. Scratch that.

“How am I doing so far?

“Bad, right? Well, if you think this letter’s bad you should see the earlier drafts.

“On second thought - no, you shouldn’t.

“Let’s face it though. I’m a dick. I’m not good at telling you things I like about you, besides the obvious (in fairness those sweet holes are the best I ever had, Princess. Fucking unreal.).

“I’m sorry about that. You deserve better.

“For the record, there are a shit ton of things I like about you. I just have trouble expunging warm sentiments from my mouth rather than my dick (or apparently, coming up with any metaphor lacking in references to genitalia).

“I can get better, I think.

“For you, I’m pretty sure I can pull my head out of my ass for long enough to be better.

“I pride myself on… well, lots of things. You know that. Also being honest. Sometimes it’s pretty brutal. I get that. Honestly though, now that I’ve had you around for longer than I thought I could tolerate, it’s pretty fucking shitty out here without you.

“So, Bunny?

“I never asked you - or if I did I never fucking listened. What are you doing for the holidays?

“I get it if you want some time away or, Christ. Maybe you’ve had enough of me altogether. Could have seen that coming.

“I’m hardly easy to be around.

“You’re so easy to be around you I had to fuck it up somehow, didn’t I?

“I got you a gift too. Spoiler: mine’s better. Not trying to buy my way out of this, I swear. I think you’ll like it.

Feel free to tell me to shove it up my ass. That’s your prerogative, and probably what I deserve for treating you like shit.

“Nathaniel “Asshole” Bateman; genius, but a little bit stupid for you. X

“Edit: Fuck. I’m rereading this sober and excuse me while I barf in my mouth. Fuck it though. I’m gonna schedule my plane before I regret this whole thing and fire you instead of actually dealing with my feelings. How do people do this? I feel sick.

“Edit: Yeah, that could be the hangover I guess.”

With a lump in your throat, and your eyes slightly misted over, you stare down at the paper in disbelief.

Okay, he’s crude as hell and hardly a poet, but Nathan’s words mean so much to you all the same. They mean that you weren’t imagining this. That you weren’t crazy for thinking that something deeper was brewing, beneath the abrasive comments and general fuckery of Nathan Bateman.

For a moment, you even let yourself indulge in some of your own feelings. The ones you’ve crushed down because you didn’t think you had a chance in hell of him ever reciprocating, or stepping up to treat you some kind of way.

You consider it.

All considered, do you like him back? Do you want more from him than he’s been willing to give so far? Are you letting yourself in for a world of pain if you answer that question with a “yes”?

You nibble on your lip as you think it through, and you realise that, yeah, maybe you do want more with him. At least, maybe you’d like to give that a go.

Maybe… perhaps depending on how misjudged his second envelope is?

With your curiosity piqued even further, you slowly peel it open, your suspense building.

You honestly don’t know what to expect anymore. If nothing else you’ll say this about the man - Nathan reliably keeps you on your toes, unpredictable and singular as he is.

You pull out two strips of card which seem like tickets, and your eyes quickly skim over them to decipher the text. Two airline tickets… to… Florence? Dated… fucking hell. Tomorrow?

A surge of excitement and joy blooms in your chest and you can’t help but laugh, happy tears pooling in your eyes.

You don’t need a gesture this huge at all. Quite frankly it’s ridiculous, but it does move you. Not because the gift is a big gesture, no. Not because it’s showy or flashy or cost money. It’s because it makes you realise that Nathan actually listens to you. That he knows you, and that despite the pains he might go to to have you think otherwise, that he actually might be more invested in you than you realised.

You’d talked about wanting to see the famed Venus whilst on one of your numerous hikes with him from the compound - art and culture and travel one the many topics you found Nathan to be fluent and informed in, regularly enjoying his take when he deigned to offer it. You’d made an offhand comment, before the conversation he segued. And, despite his stern, non-plussed expression, you guess that, apparently, Nathan had actually been listening.

What’s more, he can’t have recorded that very particular conversation on the mountainside. This wasn’t something he could have gleaned from playing back his ethically questionable footage. However, when that thought crosses your mind, that’s when your bubble briefly pops. When you realise that’s something you even need to consider as a possibility. This is Nathan after all. Maybe -as low a bar as this is, that he listened to you- you’re still giving him too much credit.

Perhaps he simply hacked your browser history? Picked your most BlueBooked destination?

Shit, well. If he did that, you hope he didn’t also see the porn searches since returning home for the holidays. Yikes.

Or, fuck, maybe he doesn’t recollect a thing and he took a stab at one of the most popular destinations in the world.

Regardless, you scramble for your phone from the coffee table and you call him, needing to know one way or the other. You’re not certain how to feel right now, about any of this. You’re unsure that this gesture lets him off the hook either. Turning up here uninvited when you’d signified you might want space? And, maybe it’s a dick move - an attempt to overwhelm you with a grand gesture instead of doing the actual work.

Still, you can’t help but cling to the possibility that maybe it’s thoughtful. Maybe it’s sweet; or at least half-way there.

He picks up.

“Nathan?!”

He doesn’t even say anything. Not even hello - not for a moment. “You know, there are better ways to have me fuck off than calling me on my cell.”

Shit.

That was the last thing you’d yelled at him, after all. He sounds fittingly grouchy.

You swallow, a ball of nerves and butterflies in your belly.

“I’m sorry about that,” you concede.

He grunts. “Okay.”

“So… my family are all out of state for the holidays,” you respond quickly, tentatively. “And I didn’t make any plans.”

“Okay,” Nathan says plainly, with more than a hint of hope crept into his voice this time, his tone brightening.

“I have to know one thing though.”

“Okay.”

“Did you hack my Pinterest or something?”

“Your… fucking…? Fuck no. Why would I wanna see…” he sighs exasperatedly, and you can imagine that slow blink he does. That swipe of his opened palm through the air. “What do you mean? Did someone…?” He tuts loudly. “Have you even got virus protection on your machine? Do you need me to take a look at-”

You shake your head as he entirely fails to get it. “-Florence. You picked Florence, Nathan.”

There’s a beat as Nathan catches up. Reads between the lines. “Obviously. You mentioned wanting to go to see the Venus. Remember? Bucket list shit. We were crawling up the mountain and you wouldn’t stop blabbering about the Uffizi, mispronouncing stuff left right and centre.” You roll your eyes at his moaning, even if you are starting to realise it’s, at least in part, affectionate. You’re still getting used to the atypical ways he demonstrates his affection, though, and so it reliably causes you to bristle a little. That is, until he says a little more softly: “It was cute. That was… a good day.”

You exhale a soft breath, like a happy sigh, a relief; however, a part of you can’t help but remain sceptical. You carousel through your memories, trying to recall if you’d fucked him that day - if that’s the sole reason he has such good memories of it… but no. You hadn’t even. You had simply spent time together. Walked. Cooked. Ate. Actually talked, even if it had been a little terse, a little stunted, at times - on Nathan’s side.

What’s more, Nathan rarely touches you outside of sex - a strategy to give some semblance of boundaries, maybe, to illustrate you weren’t ever anything more than fuckbuddies - but, that night, he had casually pulled your head into his chest while you watched a documentary together. Had quietly smoothed his palm over your hair, your cheek, and down your arm, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath your cheek.

An ache swells in your middle. A feeling you can’t put into words.

That day was your favourite day with him so far. That day, out of all of them, was one that you clung on to. The day that you had most enjoyed his company. The most connected to him you’d felt. Despite other days harbouring more physically intimate entanglements, you felt like this intimacy was of a deeper kind. Like his walls fell just a little.

You’d also, after the fact, convinced yourself you had imagined it. That he was merely tolerating you - because the next day, his walls were up all over again; even more so than ever.

Now, you can’t put into words how good it feels to know you weren’t entirely imagining it - that it was a good day for him as well. Maybe as memorable for him as it was for you. Maybe a sign that there could be something more to this thing after all. Something more than sex and accounting. Maybe it’s even been obvious all along. He could have sent you back to HQ months ago, after all.

Who even has a live-in accountant anyway?

You rub a palm over your face, split equally between elation and caution. “I’m just so confused, Nathan.”

You stand, and begin pacing back and forth along the floor with the flutter of emotions driving you.

Now he wastes no time in biting back, even if you think you can detect a little smile in his voice this time. “Fucking hell. You know the Venus is in Florence right? I had to pull a lot of strings to get them to open the gallery up for us at such short notice, Princess, so if you’ve bungled your geography I-“

“-Yes, Nathan. I know where it is, dickhead. That’s not what I’m confused about.” He grunts impatiently for you to spit it out. “I’m… confused that you actually listened to me.”

“Why?”

Wow. He really is clueless, isn’t he? Maybe GoldMedalAesthete74 is right. Maybe he really is an idiot.

You sigh. This isn’t really a conversation you had planned to have, nevermind by telephone, but hey. You guess it’s happening. “Nathan. I don’t think you understand how much you ignore me, or how often you tell me you don’t want me around. You’re mean. And, shit, I left in a helicopter and you still managed not to notice. Now this?” You hear a strangled, exasperated sound on the other end of the line, and it crosses your mind he might hang-up, but you continue on anyway. This has to be said. “I just, I’m getting whiplash, and I’m struggling to understand where this is coming from. You like me? A trip to Florence, Nathan? I’ve just had no inkling this is what you wanted.”

“Shit, Princess. Neither did I,” he huffs out a gentle laugh. “But hey, I’ve realised I do.”

“Right!” You toss your spare palm up in the air. “Suddenly you do. You decide to flip the switch and that’s how it is now? Meanwhile… I… I don’t know what to feel.”

He falls silent on the line. “Okay,” he says again, but this time the word is sunken. “H-How do you feel? About me?”

And there it is.

Now it is your turn to fall silent. Your lips clamp closed and you sniff nervously, wrapping one arm around you for comfort, fingers digging in against your middle.

Fuck.

You like him. You really like him.

“Look. If it’s too much?” Nathan backpedals. “Fuck the trip. I don’t care. We can do that another time. Or, take your friend or your mom or whoever the fuck it is you’re always on the phone to. Just, tell me what I can do to make it better, and it’s done.” You puff out air as he shifts the burden back to you, ever so matter-of-factly. As he suggests that the months of uncertainty can be fixed by one single moment. One single act. Still, his tone is dejected when he suggests that you simply let this go. Without even trying. “Or… tell me you don’t want this and I’ll… you can transfer back to HQ. We can… figure something out.”

His voice sounds far smaller and more humble than you’ve ever heard it in that moment.

You feel some sympathy for him then. You feel like at least, he’s genuinely trying.

“I have to decide right now? All or nothing? Jesus, Nathan.” You smooth over the cracks in your voice, making sure your next words are level and clear. “Look, I… I think… I’m gonna take a raincheck on Florence. It’s sweet. I just… I think I need -maybe we both need- some alone time. Okay? Just for the holidays.”

You clutch your phone a little more tightly, tension roping through your body. You wonder how Nathan will react. If he will become petulant or volatile as a result of not getting his way as he’s so accustomed to. However; he clears his throat on the other end of the line, and his voice comes back small. “Okay.” God you wish he would stop saying that. “And… then what, Bunny?”

You nibble your lip. Then you finally concede. You can’t help it, when the nickname sounds so soft in his mouth all of a sudden. “Then… then we can try. See what this could be. Okay?”

“Mmm,” he hums in thin agreement. “Yeah. Okay.”

You slot yourself back into the corner of your couch, bundling yourself back into your blanket. You have been surprised by Nathan a lot today, and now, you are surprised yet again by his calm. The fact that he’s not pushing you. But you’re most surprised by the crumbling of your own resolve. By how quickly he’s managing to fell your walls with so little.

Oh, fuck it.

“Hey, Nathan?” A fond smile tugs at the corner of your mouth.

“Yeah?”

“I missed you too, you know.”

He is silent for a stretched out moment, and then: “You did?” You think he sounds pleased. Surprised. Happy.

And then, with a smile twitching your lips, you make the mistake of looking across to the empty space on your couch, where, you’re realising, there is practically a Nathan-shaped hole.

You nibble on your lip again, suddenly mulling something over. Your next idea is probably a godawful one -like, heinously bad- but hey. You ride a sudden wave of giddiness. “Oh. Fuck it. Do you… do you wanna slum it with me for Christmas?” When Nathan leaves another elongated pause, it crosses your mind that he might actually say no, and you hastily caveat and backpedal on your offer - a last ditch attempt to save face. “I mean… my apartment is tiny. And you’d have to tolerate me for a whole weekend without any of your distractions. And… there’s… Well, there’s only the one bed, so-“

“-Sounds peachy,” Nathan interjects, and you feel all warm and fuzzy as you hear the smile evident in his voice. “I’ll come straight over.”

Despite yourself, his acceptance causes a grin to split your face. Honestly, you never would have thought that spending the holidays with Nathan on purpose -instead of by default after becoming a near-permanent fixture in his compound- would make you feel so happy.

One thing’s for sure, with the giddiness bursting in your chest, you’re completely done for.

You like him a lot.

Fuck.

***

In a tizzy, you spend the next 15 minutes frantically gargling mouthwash, changing your panties, and dousing yourself in perfume. Hurriedly flinging your dirty laundry from the floor into the basket. Then, you spend another 15 clutching your faithful stuffed animal to your chest and pacing the floor all over again, this time awaiting Nathan’s arrival.

It is a half hour later when Nathan makes it back to you. This time, you buzz him in. This time, when you open the door, there is an aura of cold about him, the gentle scent of damp wool and frost, and melting snowflakes on his shoulders.

He pauses in front of your doorway as a shy smile inches across your face. “Hi.”

This time, his smug smirk is altogether gone, and he looks almost bashful too as he stands before you. “Hi, Bunny,” he says fondly, his voice rough like gritted sidewalks, but warm and thawing.

At that, you surge forward and welcome him into your arms, and he gathers you up and bundles you into his chest. The cold tip of his nose is buried in your cheek, his beard damp with cold shocks against your skin, but instantly there is heat.

Your lips find one another’s, his mouth slanting against yours in a crush, yet his tongue following; fleeting and slow and sweet. When his cold fingertips reach up and wrap around the back of your neck you squeal and shiver, causing him to shake with a deep laugh, but you quickly grasp his hands in yours, rubbing each of them in turn between your palms to warm them.

Nathan looks at you do this as though he can’t believe you are real all of a sudden, the ice in his cool, calculating eyes even thawing too, you think. Giving way to a gently suffusing heat. A glinting spark.

You sense that this spark could easily catch, and so, before it does, you take Nathan’s hand firmly in yours and drag him over to your terrible excuse for a tree with a giddy smile splitting your face - a little USB light-up affair which you hastily shoved up yesterday. There is just one present nestled next to it, and you nod down at the cube of a gift. “Since you didn’t like my first attempt at a gift, this was my plan b, Nate.”

His eyes dance around your apartment - all over the walls and shelves and everywhere, scanning like he’s trying to take every piece of data in. Data about you. Then, as his attention is directed to the parcel his face twitches, and you can tell he is so ready to hate it; you can’t help but laugh at his thoroughly gloomy expression in the face of such jazzy Christmas paper. However, after he has ticked his thick dark eyebrow up in scepticism, he tears open your shoddy wrapping and flips the lid of the box concealed inside.

Nathan pulls out a novelty Star Trek mug, a festive Spock meme emblazoned on the side, and a jaunty handle in the shape of a Vulcan ear. It’s dumb but when he sees it, the man actually snorts out a laugh, giving you a pearly flash of teeth, and his eyes creasing beneath his frames.

God. He’s such a fucking dork and you suddenly don’t know if you’ve ever seen anyone more adorable. You pledge to disarm his sternness more often, if this is the outcome.

“That’s cute, bunny,” he praises, his eyes glowing darkly and warmly from beneath his lenses. His lips careen into a lopsided smile. “Honestly? I like this gift much better than the last one.” You know he’s tell you if he hated it.

You mirror his smile, but yours fades to gentle shock as Nathan reaches his palm up to cup your face, his eyes as earnest as you have ever seen them. The intensity of him knocks you aback for a moment, especially when he gently sets the mug down and loops his arms around your middle, enclosing you in another hug, his broad hands smoothing over your back as your head nestles against his sturdy form. “Thank you,” he whispers into your hair, and somehow, it’s intense enough that you get the impression he’s thanking your for far more than the novelty gift.

When your surprise dissipates, you reciprocate and hold him tightly until he draws back, suddenly overly warm in the indoors and desperately unlooping the woollen scarf from around his neck. You help him slip it away, and in the meantime his lips find yours again for a slow deep kiss which knocks the breath out of you. Then, his damp jacket is being shuffled off his shoulders as you walk him backwards, gingerly dipping his sturdy body back on to your couch.

He sits on your stuffed animal and pulls the creature up from beneath his ass. “Okay. We gotta talk. Who’s this?” he deadpans, and with a gentle, bright laugh you climb on to his lap, straddling him where he sits, your thighs spread either side of him. You surge once again onto his lips, your laughter swallowed in the cave of his mouth as you awkwardly bump noses and glasses and teeth as you settle in position over him.

Nathan holds you there tenderly yet firm, his form practically melting into the couch as your kiss grows, his lips gradually thawing and his body heating against yours. Slowly but deliberately, his tongue works you up and up, his hands now beginning to wander, disappearing beneath your top as he seeks out your bare skin.

Suddenly the heat is everywhere, but it isn’t urgent. It’s a slow build, and you grind your heat down languidly on the burgeoning thickness beneath his pants. Nathan shudders from the sensation, a strangled throaty sound stuttering out from him. He pants roughly against your neck as he breaks for air, the scrape of beard trailing along the column of your throat in the wake of his lips and tongue. “Merry fucking Christmas, Bunny,” Nathan purrs as his hands -now clawing a little more insistently at your hips- pull you down on to him, grinding you along his clothed length, and you can feel the contours of him and the warmth of him pushing against you through the fabric.

You pull back from him for a moment, breaking for air as you snatch the oxygen from each other’s mouths. You look down at him beneath you, his heavy-lidded eyes still fluttered shut and his lips still slightly puckered in search of you, a barely audible groan falling from his mouth as you tilt and drag your hips, a jolt of pleasure zipping through your core. The sight of Nathan dumbstruck beneath you, his brown eyes awed and big and lust-blown as he tips his gaze up to you is a sight to behold.

You grin, smugly, and you emit a contented hum which bottoms out into a groan and finally lilts up into a whine as his hands work themselves beneath your pajamas, grabbing palmfuls of your ass. “Hnnng. Merry fucking Christmas, Nate,” you gush as he rocks you in his lap.

His mouth tips up into a lopsided smile. Not smug this time, just appreciative, and you shiver as one hand disappears up your top, his hand weighing your breast and his thumb and forefinger plucking at your sensitive nipple, an undone moan spooling from deep within your chest. “Now, Bunny,” Nathan says darkly, somehow holding it together. “Now that you’re in my lap, tell Santa if you’ve been naughty or nice.”

Your eyes spark with mischief and you smile devilishly against his kiss, your urgency growing and your lips devouring, breaths snatched from the space between you until Nathan pulls your hair and tips your head back, his beard scraping over your jaw as he lands a kiss to the point of your chin then works along your throat and collarbone, pulling your top aside.

It feels good. All of him feels good.

Everything.

He wants you. That much is obvious. But he is letting you set the pace. He isn’t pushing. And, somehow, you also get the sense he would be just as content if you curled into his side and watched some bad tv.

When your head tips back to him, Nathan quirks an eyebrow, letting you know he’s game to progress this further, but his hand rubs small circles against your back, somehow letting you know he’s not only here for one thing. That it’s up to you if you want to be naughty or nice right now, or, maybe a little of both at once if you’re feeling that.

You lick your lips and you nod, giving Nathan the signal he needs to know where this is leading. And, even as the sturdy mass of him strains beneath you, his hand on your cheek is tender.

The way he pulls you down on to his lips, slow and sweet, is the best present of all.

“You’re my favourite person, you know?” he says out of nowhere, voice hollowed-out, and it catches you entirely off guard. You rest your hands on his shoulders, and you look at him almost quizzically.

When words of affirmation are your love language you… probably shouldn’t hook-up with Nathan Bateman. Everyone knows his words can tend to be pretty brutal, at times. That he’s more likely to affirm himself than you, more often than not.

However; this? These words? And, on top of that, he looks up at you and his eyes are telling you so many things he’s never said before today. The way he caresses your skin too is speaking volumes.

“Because I’m your only person?” you ask timidly, still sceptical.

Nathan trails his palm gingerly over your cheek, your hair, a furrow appearing in his brow. “No. That’s wrong. You’re not my favourite because you’re my only person. You’re my only person because you’re my favourite. Okay?”

A feeling like excitement and nerves blooms in your chest, catching in your throat and making your voice tremble, especially as Nathan bucks his heat up into you and sends a dull throb through to your core. “R-really?”

“Honey,” Nathan deadpans, looking at you from beneath his frames and quirking one eyebrow. “Who the fuck has a live-in accountant? I think I always wanted you around.”

You laugh joyously into his kiss, feeling happy and giddy and full, and Nathan gently rolls you off of his lap, laying you flat on your back on the couch, your pajama bottoms being peeled off next, with your cooperation.

You whine as he drags a thick finger over the dampening seam of your panties, and, when he hears that noise fall from your lips, all of a sudden Nathan’s smugness is back.

This time though, you don’t entirely mind it.

“Well, you’re one of my favourites, Nathan, but I can think of an easy way you could swing it,” you tease good-naturedly, ticking your own eyebrow up in challenge and invitation.

His eyes glow with dark promise and a quick flash of teeth shows he follows your drift. Indeed, the next thing you feel is his beard rasping along your inner thigh, his tongue soothing the scratch, and his lips humming over your heat. Your hands form claws along the couch cushion as your hips buck in search of his mouth, and, as his lips settle over your clothed clit, enveloping you through the silken fabric, you really think this might be shaping up to be one of your best Christmases yet.

In fact, you’re really glad you left him alone, so that you could spend the day together.

#nathan bateman x reader #Nathan Bateman #Oscar Isaac

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theasstour · 3 years

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐎𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐋𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐁𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 𝟕.𝟓𝐤 𝐍𝐁: 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐠 𝐮𝐬𝐞, 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐲 𝐦𝐞𝐧

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who reblogged and sent me an ask after last chapter ❣️ I might not have gotten through all the asks yet, but know that I see all of you and I appreciate you more than I will ever find the right words to articulate 🌟 Thank you for the kind words and for reminding me of how fun it is to post my stories on here! Love you sm sm sm 🥰

Tuesday, 4 November 2017

One of the worst things Y/N knew of was seeing someone she cared about go through something troubling. If she knew them well enough, it would be written out on their face and in their gestures, making it so that she could not ever look past it and pretend everything was alright. Her ability to read people, to understand their wants and to see when something was off, was something she had crafted over many years of being a people pleaser. Now, it came naturally to her to study a person’s way of acting, talking, being, and then make them happy accordingly.

She realised when she grew older that the reason she did this was so people would look past her body and like her for who she actually was. She hated herself sometimes for still giving in to this need to please people all the time. She hated the things it had made her do in the past, how she had bent herself over backwards for people who did not, and would never, give a single shit about her. Though she felt at home in her body, she felt content in it, these tendencies to constantly make up for how she looked, to make light of it or make people feel comfortable around her, still hung around. With absolutely everything she was, Y/N hated that part of herself. She did not have to make up for anything. What did she have to apologise for? For existing? It did not make sense to her, but it had made sense to those that bullied her in school and those skinny people whose worst fear was becoming fat. Y/N’s worst fear, because of this, was not being liked. She realised how it all connected now.

Y/N realised how this need to please people came into play as she was sitting in a seminar room with Hayden, Chloe, Thian, Annalise, and three others from the International Society that Annalise often went to. Annalise was whispering in Dutch to the other Dutch girl she had met, while the rest of the room was relatively silent. Hayden had put on some music to lighten the mood, but it was evident that they were unsatisfied and sad. They were eight people; a single game of Uno was being played in a room that had been made so that at least 20 people would show up. Hayden had bought five decks of Uno, only for the one they brought with them to London to be the one the group ended up using. Their eyes drifted to the door every so often, silently begging for anyone else to show up to what looked to be a disastrous start to their Uno Society.

After two hours, they had to get out of the seminar room and go back home. As they were cleaning up, Y/N walked over to Hayden and helped them put their Uno decks and everything else they brought, back in their bag.

“More people will show up next time,” Y/N assured them.

“You’re just saying that.”

“No, I genuinely think more people will show up at one point.”

Hayden smiled at Y/N, though it did not reach their eyes. “If we don’t have at least 15 people by the third meeting, this won’t be considered a society by Helmond standards and we won’t be allowed to meet on campus grounds.”

Y/N felt a small tinge of panic at that. This was not usually the society people would jump to be part of, it would take a little while for people to want to show up to an Uno Society on a Tuesday every fortnight.

“We can hope more people will come, but I doubt they will,” Hayden said.

“There aren’t a lot of people our age who play Uno, though,” Chloe said as Hayden and Y/N made their way to the door.

Y/N furrowed her brows at Chloe’s comment, but did not say a word.

“No, but I love Uno, and it’s a very social game. It’ll be fun if a lot of people show up, you know?” Hayden said, closing the door behind them before they walked down the corridor for the exit.

“Obviously, people just don’t know what they’re missing,” Thian chimed in, showing off his usually wide, happy beam. “It’s a great idea, Hay.”

“Really? It’s not bound to flop?” Hayden asked, scrunching up their nose as if they could not quite believe what Thian was saying.

“Of course not,” Annalise said.

“It’s a nice break from all the assignments,” Y/N said.

“By the way, speaking of assignments,” Chloe groaned. “Y/N, have you started on the Othello presentation yet?”

“You haven’t had the presentation yet?” Thian asked.

“No, different Introduction to English Studies seminar groups have presentations at different dates,” Chloe said. “Since Y/N and I are seminar group E, we have it last. Monday, 4th of December.”

“That’s still a while away, though,” Hayden pointed out. “You still got a month.”

“Yeah, but the presentation’s 40% of the final grade. I know I’ll ace the essay, but we only get to have a five-minute presentation on Othello.” Chloe rolled her eyes. “How am I supposed to talk about how Othello’s a sexist play in just five minutes?”

“Easy,” Thian said. “You talk about how it’s a sexist play for just five minutes. You love to talk, it’ll be easy peasy.”

“I love to gossip, this is entirely different,” Chloe complained.

“Not really,” Y/N said, cocking her head a little to the side as the group rounded a corner. “You’re essentially just gonna gossip about Othello and what’s wrong with him and the way Shakespeare wrote the play.”

Chloe stared at Y/N for a few seconds, pursing her lips as she thought. A grin spread out across her lips and she nudged Y/N’s shoulder. “You’re right.”

“It’s gonna be fine,” Annalise smiled.

“And by the time that happens, the Uno society will be history,” Hayden mumbled, making Thian pout his bottom lip and wrap an arm around Hayden’s shoulders. They all made their way back to Dinwiddy, Lancaster Complex, and Fleming Hall, three of the seven different campus accommodations. Dinwiddy was definitely of a bit better standard than Lancaster and Fleming, but Y/N was sure that, had she decided to live on campus, she would have gone for either Lancaster or Fleming like Annalise, Thian, and Hayden. She said goodbye to all of them and went on her way, walking back to Haggerston while talking to her parents on the phone. They always insisted she call them if she walked out alone at night, no matter how many people were around.

The shops she strolled by were starting to put up Christmas decorations and sales, making Y/N long for holiday. She just wanted a few days off uni. Though it was only the first year, the amount of work they were getting was ridiculous, and Y/N felt like she either spent most of her time in the library with her Literature gang, or at a café with Nathan, doing uni work. The fact that Christmas lights and decorations were already making an appearance, gave her some hope.

Getting to Orsman Road was no problem, and Y/N hung up with her parents when she reached the flat building. The mere thought of her bed made her knees buckle, she could not wait to be snuggled up in a blanket and watching the newest true crime series on Netflix. Once inside, she got her shoes and outwear off, then walked straight for the kitchen. She halted.

In a pair of worn-out black rugby shorts and a black hoodie, Harry stood pouring water into the kettle. The muscles in his legs flexed and unflexed as he moved, making it impossible to look away from his thighs. Y/N could not find the right words to express just how much she hated those tiny shorts. It was as if he knew exactly what he was doing. Except he didn’t. He was very much just trying to wear something comfortable at home and Y/N was ogling him. He looked up as she entered.

“Hi,” Y/N said, walking over to the fridge where she kept her oat and banana milk.

“Hi,” Harry answered, watching her as she walked before putting the kettle on. “Been out shagging old men?”

Y/N blinked a few times before looking over at Harry as he put a teabag into his mug. “You’re very obsessed with my sex life.”

“I’m just nosy.”

Y/N sighed, knowing this was true from experience, and went back to getting her milk out of the fridge. “No, I was at a society meeting. The first one, actually.”

“Oh?” She could see in her peripheral vision that he turned around to watch her. “What kind of society?”

“Uno.”

Silence settled in the kitchen, and Y/N could hear Nathan and Mason in the living room next door playing something on the PlayStation. Y/N could feel Harry continue to just look at her as she poured herself a glass of the oat and banana milk. It was not until the milk was back in the fridge and Y/N met his eyes, that Harry spoke again.

“Uno?”

“Like the card game.”

“That’s… a niche interest.”

She raised her eyebrows. “And you’re being judgemental.”

Harry’s eyes grew wide. “No, no, no! I-“ He stopped himself, taking a grip of the kettle and quickly pouring himself a cuppa before meeting Y/N’s eyes again, something frantic shining within his own. “It’s just a very specific interest and society.”

She raised one of her shoulders. “Which is what makes it so amazing.”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Harry said quickly, gesturing at her with his hand as if he completely agreed. Y/N wanted to laugh at how fast he was talking, as if he was desperate for her to understand that he was not being judgemental. “How was it?”

“Barely anyone showed up,” Y/N explained, sipping her milk.

Harry frowned. “Really?”

“Yeah, and at least 15 people total have to show up for it to be considered a society, or else Hayden, my course mate, can’t continue hosting on campus grounds.” Y/N sighed, looking at the ground. “Basically, if Hayden doesn’t find, like, twelve more people to join within the next two times, we won’t have a society any longer.”

Harry opened his mouth as if to say something, but just then, the sound of quick footsteps could be heard, and then Nathan’s face appeared in the doorway. A grin spread out on his face as he met Y/N’s eyes.

“Thought I heard you come in!” he exclaimed. “We’re playing GTA, wanna come drive some people over?”

Y/N smiled at that, scrunching up her nose. “As appealing as that sounds, I’m gonna have to decline.”

Nathan pouted his lips and Harry stood watching quietly. “Why?” Nathan asked.

“Have an essay that I need to finish.”

Nathan sighed heavily. “Fine. Guess I’ll let you write that bloody essay.”

“Excuse you? ‘Let me’?” Y/N rolled her eyes and Nathan laughed. She gave him and then Harry a smile, making her way out of the kitchen.

“Have a good night,” she heard Harry say as she walked through the doorway. She gave him another smile before walking up the stairs and to her room. She quickly got out of her clothes and into loungewear, taking all her make-up off and finding a fluffy blanket she could sit under in bed as she started writing her Introduction to English Studies essay. She could hear the boys shouting and playing downstairs and drowned it out by putting her earbuds in and shutting them out.

She ended up reading academic articles and writing down an essay plan until she felt her eyelids get heavy a few hours later. Putting her laptop away and finishing her oat and banana milk, Y/N took her contacts off and started getting ready for bed. The door to the room beside hers opened and closed, she could hear Harry rummaging in his room, though the sound was not disturbing in any way. The only disturbing thing about it was the fact that it was Harry, but Y/N was learning to accept that. It had only taken her two months, but she was coming to terms with the fact that Harry Styles, an ex-good friend of hers and person she had sex with once, was living and sleeping in the room right next to hers.

Friday, 17 November 2017

The pizza at Domino’s was absolutely amazing, but working for them was anything but. This was only Y/N’s first shift, and she was already dreading her next. Not only would she be bringing home with her the memories of a horrible first day on her new job, but she would also be bringing the smell of greasy pizza. She would have to do a deep clean in the shower before going to bed, she was not rubbing that smell onto her bedsheets.

With some experience working for Pizza Express before, Y/N was already well-versed working for a pizza chain. Pizza Express had been her job from 15 until she moved off to uni at 19, which she knew was what must have given her this new job at Domino’s rather quickly. As much experience as she had working at Pizza Express serving people, she had never been the one to drive around delivering pizzas. After all, she had not gotten her license until sometime last year, so it had never been a possibility. However, in the job description for this position at Domino’s, it had clearly stated that Y/N would be working mostly as a delivery driver, something that sounded chill at first, until she realised she would have to go deliver pizza to people that would be anything but friendly. Or maybe a little too friendly. Because of her inexperience in this particular field of the job, she had another employer join her for her first shift.

Isla was very quiet, maybe even a little too quiet for Y/N’s taste. She would mostly just stare out the window, sometimes chime in to help Y/N pick a quicker route, or help her make out how much she owed the customer if they paid a few quid too many. Other than that, Isla did not really offer much conversation wise. Even when the two of them picked up the pizzas for their first drive, the first time they spent together, Isla did not say much.

“Have you worked here long?” Y/N asked, giving Isla a smile so she would know that she was actually asking out of curiosity and not because she felt obliged to.

“A year.”

Y/N nodded as she sat down behind the wheel, Isla sitting down in the passenger seat. “I worked in Pizza Express at home in Nottingham before I moved here. Dunno why, I’ve always preferred Domino’s to Pizza Express. Though, Zizzi is top tier.”

Isla only nodded slightly.

Y/N had waited for a response, but realising she would not be getting one, she started the Domino’s car and started driving in the direction out of the parking spot on the street beside the tiny restaurant on Homefield Street. Y/N almost drove right into the Domino’s mopeds that all stood on the spot in front of the car. She just knew that at one point, she would be driving one of those. She followed the instructions on the GPS, up Hoxton Street, in the direction of Lavender Grove. Without any radio on, the car was very quiet. Too quiet. It made Y/N break out in sweat.

“Do you drive around with deliveries often?” Y/N asked.

Isla shook her head. “No.”

Y/N whipped her head back in the direction of the street in front of her, trying to produce spit so she could nervously swallow. Her mouth was too dry. “You work by the till then?”

“Mostly.”

Y/N smiled. “That’s the best place to work, isn’t it? Don’t have to drive around, don’t have to actually make the food.”

Isla gave a feeble smile. “I suppose.”

God, all Y/N wanted as an okay day. All she wanted was for one single day to be alright.

Isla would twine a single piece of her brown, bushy hair around her finger sometimes, then put it behind her ear, only to go back to fidgeting with it. Y/N was unsure if she was nervous to be in a car with someone she did not know, or if she was just deep in thought. Y/N wanted to get to know Isla, to make a friend at her new workplace, but she did not want to harass Isla if it meant it would make her uncomfortable. It was clear that she did not like being this close to Y/N considering the two had never met before and would now be spending a good six hours together. Therefore, to not push away what she hoped to be a future mate, she only made occasional conversation and then left Isla mostly to herself. She could sense that was what her companion wanted most of all.

In a particularly dodgy part of Lea Bridge, Y/N was delivering three pizzas to what she knew even before knocking on the door, would be to a rather creepy encounter. The man that opened the door was bald with glassy eyes and a blue tee shirt tucked into his grey joggers. At the sight of Y/N, he grinned.

“Three pepperonis?” she asked, wondering if this man just really loved pepperoni pizzas or if he was hosting a party.

“That’s me, yeah.”

“Alright.” Y/N handed him the three pizzas just as another man emerged from behind him, and it was then that Y/N noticed the incredible stench of alcohol and cigarettes. Some 80s rock was playing from a stereo and there did not seem to be much light on inside the flat. Y/N suddenly felt very sick.

“You pre-paid,” she stated, more to reassure herself that she could just leave than to make them aware that she knew they did not have to go get any money to pay her. “Have a nice night.”

“Wouldn’t be nice if you didn’t stick around,” the bald one holding the pizzas said.

“Yeah, why don’t you come inside? Have a bite with us?” the other one offered. “You look like a hard-working girl, why don’t you take a few minutes off with us?”

Y/N could feel her heart begin to beat faster, her hands begin to sweat. “No, I have to get back to work,” she said, giving them a smile before walking off.

“Wait, we didn’t give you a tip!”

“Come back, love!”

Y/N tuned them out as she walked down the stairs, keeping an eye over her shoulder and her ears on alert as she made her way back to the car. Isla was sat on her phone when Y/N sat back down in the driver’s seat, putting her seatbelt on a little too fast and gripping the steering wheel harder than she had previously. She just wanted to get away from those men, she just wanted that shift to be over.

“You okay?” Isla asked. The first question she ever asked Y/N. First time she ever took initiative to start a conversation. Y/N really appreciated it in that moment.

“Yeah,” Y/N said, sighing heavily. “Just hate men.”

Isla must have understood what Y/N was talking about because she nodded, looking straight ahead at the road in front of them. “I’m sorry you met the worst type of customers on your first night.”

“Had to meet them at one point, though,” Y/N said.

“You shouldn’t have to meet them at all.”

Y/N felt that statement reverberate through the car, lay in the air between them for quite some time after it was said. She could not stop thinking about it as she drove to the next destination, feeling disgusted and angry. Had she stayed there a second longer, she would have had to resist the urge to knee them both in the space between their legs. This was just one of the stupid encounters that night, though the rest were more so on the scale of weird than disgusting. Like a man that was clearly high thanking Y/N for his frozen milk when he had ordered three Ben and Jerry’s, or a woman with her hair a mess, make-up completely destroyed, and just her dress robes on, snatching the pizza out of Y/N’s hand before hurrying back inside. It was a strange few hours, and as she drove the car back to Domino’s Homefield Street, Y/N felt absolutely drained of energy.

Walking home after her shift at 3:30am was next to torture, she just wanted to be in bed, cosy underneath the covers, and forget about the fact that she was working tomorrow night as well. Though the Hoxton Street was washed in the yellow lights from the streetlamps and the occasional car driving by, it was anything but empty. Drunk people were walking home from pubs, while others, like her, walked home from another nightshift, and some were just out for a night stroll. She walked without listening to music, not feeling comfortable with not being completely aware of her surroundings when it was dark out. Besides, she was so tired as well, listening to music would probably put her to sleep.

Orsman Road was completely deserted, only a few people walking home from The Stag’s Head passed her smelling of beer and cigarettes. This street was darker, smaller, and less busy than Hoxton Street, so Y/N opted to walk in the middle of the road instead of in the shadows. She felt less vulnerable that way. As she reached the flat building, she got her keys out of her purse and went to unlock the door.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

She jumped, keys falling onto the asphalt. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Harry standing there with the smuggest, most infuriating look on his face. God, how she wanted to slap him until his teeth fell out. While she contemplated how to physically hurt him, Harry bent down, picked up Y/N’s keys, and put them back in her hand.

“Don’t lose those,” he said. “50 quid to get a new pair.”

Y/N only narrowed her eyes, unlocking the door for them both and striding on to the next floor. After opening the door to the flat, she got her shoes off, and walked straight for the kitchen. She needed strawberries, especially after the shift she just had. The door closed behind Harry and she heard him lock it before taking his shoes and jacket off, too. As she turned around after closing the fridge door, Harry stood by the kettle, filling it up with water.

“Didn’t know you worked at Domino’s,” he said, looking over at her briefly, nodding at her black Domino’s fleece jacket before turning his attention back to the kettle.

“Just started.”

“How’re you finding it?” he asked.

Y/N sighed, leaning her hip against the counter. “Considering this was my first shift and I have to show up again to work another nightshift tomorrow…” She pursed her lips as if deep in thought. “I’d say shite.”

Harry laughed, stopping the tap. “Tea?”

“No, I bought myself some banana and oat milk from M&S earlier, I’ll just have that. Thank you, though.” She gestured at what she had placed on the counter while he was busy with the kettle.

Harry watched her as she got herself a glass for the milk. “Can’t for the life of me remember you being a Tory.”

Y/N laughed. “Oh, you don’t remember me hating the poor?” she said, putting on a posh accent, Harry could not hold back his own laughter. “Quite a big part of my personality, don’t know how you missed it. Now-“ She put the milk back in the fridge. “-If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go spend five weeks at my £1.000.000 18 century holiday house in Surrey.”

Harry’s laughter echoed through the kitchen as he put the kettle on, shaking his head at her. “No, but how’d you like your first shift? Anything like Pizza Express?”

Why the fuck did he remember that? Why did he have to remember everything? Bloody hell…

“Not for me. There were just a lot of creepy men, and some very dodgy neighbourhoods. I’m sure that’s not all there is to the job as a delivery driver, I’m sure I was just unlucky my first time, but I can’t really afford to quit unless I have a backup.”

Harry frowned at that. “If you don’t like it and you feel unsafe, you don’t have to continue doing it.”

She nodded her head. “No, I know, but it’s still the only job I could find and that I could get at the moment. I’ll apply to others later.”

Harry’s frown deepened, crossing his arms over his black, tee-shirt covered chest. No tattoos on display. She wondered why he only had tattoos on his chest and torso.

“Yeah, alright…” he said, voice a little darker than before. “But if you feel unsafe-“

“-Harry, I practiced capoeira when I was younger, remember?”

At that, as if he was slowly unveiling a memory he had not thought about in a little too long, Harry smiled. A small, fond smile that Y/N remembered from a previous life; a life with far less troubles, far less complications than this one.

“Of course I do.”

Not “yes”. Not just “I do”. “Of course”. He had said “of course”, as if remembering was a privilege. As if not remembering would be the strangest thing in the world. Y/N hated that this man did not forget a single thing. Never had, never would.

“Well,” she said, trying to act normal after that. “Well, I can hold my own.”

“Good to know,” Harry smiled, getting a teabag from his cupboard. As he turned his body and face away from her, she saw something glisten in the lights of the kitchen. Two earrings. Two gold earrings right next to one another. In his ear. Y/N would never admit to it out loud, the sight made her mouth salivate. “But I still think you should quit if you don’t like your work.”

Y/N opened the strawberry container and took one out, taking a bite. She needed to look away from Harry, away from his two earrings, and away from him because he was making some points. She knew where Harry was coming from, she really did, but she could not go on living in London, using money every single day, and not have an income. Until something better came along, this would be her job. “How’s the pub?”

“Alright,” Harry said, pouring hot water into his mug. “I’m having my last shift there December 15th.”

Y/N blinked. “You’re quitting?”

“Yeah, I’m starting a new job in January.”

She raised her eyebrows, meeting his gaze again. “Okay, good for you. What one?”

“Tattoo artist.”

He had to be fucking kidding at this point. Y/N had to do everything to keep her eye from twitching.

“Just got my tattoo license, so I’m ready to go come January.”

Y/N did not want to admit it. She could not admit it. She physically could not. But… everything about Harry… everything he did, everything he said… It all hit different. And it did not help that Y/N, who loved tattoos, getting them, having them on her body, and seeing them on someone else’s, was now made aware that Harry could legally give people tattoos. He was going to become a tattoo artist in January. Y/N wanted to eat chalk.

Harry just looked at her, studying her face. “You okay?”

She swallowed the strawberry bite she had just taken. “Fantastic.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Did you draw your own tattoos then?”

For the second time that night, Y/N was witness to Harry’s smug smile. He raised his cuppa, cocking his head a little to the side as he said, “You’ve seen my tattoos?”

Y/N wanted to die.

“You’ve been sneaking into my room to watch me sleep, that it?” Harry asked. “You’ve probably seen the tattoo I have by my crotch then, too-“

“-Oi!” Y/N narrowed her eyes at him. “Piss off. I saw them when you were wearing that low-neck top at Footprint.”

Harry took a sip of his tea. “If you say so.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and Harry laughed.

“It’s jokes, Y/N.”

“Good. I’m genuinely scared you think I fancy you.”

Harry smiled. “You mean you don’t? Really?”

She took a hold of her strawberries and milk. “Goodnight, wanker.”

“I’m a dreamboat, what about this-“ Harry gestured at himself, flexing his arm muscles that weren’t really there. “-Doesn’t give you the fanny flutters?”

“You’re disgusting.”

Harry laughed.

“I was just interested to know about your job as a tattoo artist ‘cause I love tattoos,” Y/N explained.

Harry’s eyes travelled down to Y/N’s hand where the ‘M’ was tattooed, it lingered there for a moment too long. For some unknown reason, a tingle started up in Y/N’s thumb, making its way up her arm and to her breasts, then her stomach. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to her ribs where he must have seen her ‘saudade’ tattoo. Though it was not visible right then, it seemed as if Harry was seeing it all the same, sensing it somehow. At last, his eyes met hers, and Y/N felt something in her throat stop working. The tingle that had laid in her stomach just seconds earlier exploded, slithering all throughout her body and making her hyper aware of how knowledgeable Harry was of the tattoos on her body; of her. He must have paid more attention to her than she thought he had. Something about that made it hard to breathe. Bloody hell, she hated how fucking fit he was. She hated how she reacted to his glance, to his attention.

“I can tell,” he said, voice a tinge darker than before.

She was surely about to explode. Blinking a few times, she held her strawberries up, nodding her head to Harry in a silent goodbye, then made her way towards the door.

“Oh, Y/N,” Harry said, making her look over her shoulder at him. “Do you want some Ginger Nuts? I’m having some with my tea-“

“-No thanks. Goodnight.” Y/N walked straight out of the door and to her room, needing to stick her head out her window to cool down in the Regent’s Canal breeze before sitting down in her bed again. How could he be considerate, respectful, smart, pretty, and sexy at the same time? Some otherworldly powers had truly been at work these last few years to make Harry Styles into everything Y/N was attracted to.

She did not even want him as a boyfriend, she never had, there had never been any romantic feelings between them before and there never would be, but he was just so… so… frustrating. In every single sense of the word. He was just… very attractive. Very pleasing to look at. Everything that got to Y/N. And Y/N wanted to scream at Harry for making it so hard to ignore him, and at herself for falling for it.

Wednesday, 29 November 2017

Y/N was originally going to travel home to Nottingham that Friday so she could stay home that weekend. She had not been home since September, and though they only had two weeks of uni left before Christmas break, she wanted to go home this weekend. She missed her parents terribly and wanted to see them so badly, she could simply not wait until Christmas. So, because it was the last Wednesday of the month, Y/N travelled back up to Nottingham.

Every last Wednesday of every month, Davi would invite all of his Brazilian family who had settled in Nottingham after he had, as well as Lottie’s parents, over for feijoada. Brazil has many region-specific dishes, yet the one that best translates into a nationwide dish is the beloved feijoada. The name stems from the word feijão, which is Portuguese for bean, and also the key ingredient of feijoada, which is essentially a bean stew mixed with beef and pork. Though, depending on what region of Brazil you are in, you will find different ingredients added to the feijoada.

In Rio de Janeiro and Minas Gerais, feijoada is almost always cooked with black beans, while in Bahia, red or brown beans are preferred. In Bahia and Sergipe, they also usually add extra vegetables to the feijoada such as plantain, kale, potatoes, carrots, cabbage, and pumpkin. However, in the rest of Brazil, feijoada is simply beans and meat with no additional vegetables. It is served with white rice, shredded kale with bits of fried bacon, crispy pork crackling, and slices of oranges that are meant to aid the digestion of the heavy meal. Which is what Y/N had grown up eating.

Typically, it is served at noon on Wednesdays and Saturdays, as this hearty meal is a thick mixture that will have you full in no time. The only activity Y/N would recommend after it, is bed and a good book. Maybe even a little nap. Their big family often used to eat it during the weekend as it meant more time spent with the family, more time spent chatting and being social, but Davi who worked in a bakery, had often worked Saturday and Sunday afternoons, meaning that it would fit best for the family to keep the tradition of hosting the meal on Wednesdays at Davi and Lottie’s house. Which was why Y/N was on her way home that Wednesday at the end of November.

Closing Vidas Secas by Graciliano Ramos that she had just been reading, Y/N got up from her seat to get off the train. Graciliano Ramos was Y/N’s favourite writer of all time. Though she loved English Literature and especially loved studying it, she always found his works to be better than most. He was the only modernist writer she could stand. São Bernardo was her favourite of his novels. A story about a man who, having been born poor, gets rich using any ruthless means he can and ends up utterly alone. It had stuck with Y/N her entire life. The main character’s ability to love others, his selfishness, and arrogance, make up one of the most complex characters of world literature, in Y/N’s opinion.

In the last chapter of São Bernardo when Paulo Honório reflects on his life alone at night, Y/N found some of the best few pages she had ever read. The closing words ‘I ruined my life stupidly’ express the agony of a man whom Y/N learned to despise throughout the book, but who, thanks to the mastery of the author, leads us with him through his tragic life choices towards self-destruction. Y/N got goosebumps just thinking about it.

Stepping off the train with her small bag and book under her arm, Y/N walked straight for the train station exit. She recognised her mother’s brown hair in a bun at the top of her head, a pair of colourful flare trousers on along with a white buffer jacket. Lottie jumped up and down at the sight of Y/N and ran for her daughter, throwing her arms around her in a tight embrace.

“My baby,” she said, kissing Y/N’s cheeks and forehead. “Oh, my Y/N.”

Y/N hugged her mother back, burying her face in her mother’s neck. She did not care that she could hear Vidas Secas fall into the tiled floor or that her bag would get dirty where it lay, all she cared about was her mother’s embrace and the smell of home around her. She was fluent in two languages, yet Y/N could not find a word that could quite capture how happy she was to be home just now.

“Okay, my dove,” Lotte said, taking Y/N’s bag off the floor. Y/N bent down and picked up her book, bringing it to her chest. “Let’s go home.”

The two of them walked out to the car park, and Lottie quickly started driving them in the direction of Y/N’s childhood home. The familiar ride and the familiar city outside the car windows made her relax, sinking far into the seat until she felt enveloped in safeness and contentment. It didn’t take them long to reach the semi-detached brick house, all their family members’ cars parked out front and visible in the windows overlooking the street. Y/N took her own bag this time, and her mother led the way up the stairs to the house so she could open the door for her.

There was no time for Y/N to go upstairs with her bag and book, because she was bombarded with hugs and kisses the second she stepped inside. Her grandfather, avô, her grandmother, avó, her papai’s two sisters and her aunties, tia Gilma and tia Lara, their husbands and her uncles, tio Jaren and uncle Finnley – who was British and had met Lara after she moved here -, and her seven cousins, or primos. They all came rushing to her, with her British grandmother and grandfather grinning and waiting for her to be done hugging and kissing everyone. Being with them and smelling feijoada everywhere, made Y/N almost tear up. Blimey, ever since moving away to University, she had become so incredibly sappy.

“Amorinzho!” came like a scream from the kitchen. Davi came out into the foyer with his apron still on and the biggest grin on his face. He threw his arms around Y/N. “Eu tenho saudade de você.”

She had missed him, too. So much. She felt safer, more at ease, almost more herself now that she was reunited with her parents close.

So, she told him that as she whispered, “Eu também senti sua falta,” back. Her papai hugged her a little tighter at that, grinning at her with tears in his eyes as he squeezed her shoulders.

“Y/N!” avó shouted from where she now sat in the living room, her grey hair in a long braid down her back and a big knitted cardigan wrapped tightly around her small frame. “Venha comer!”

“I’ll come eat in a second,” Y/N said. “I just need to put my bag in my room.”

“I’ll do that for you, my sausage,” Y/N’s grandfather said, stroking her cheek before he bent down and brought the bag with him up the stairs to her room. Since her mother had been an only child, her parents, Y/N’s grandparents, had always been very caring and constantly present as Y/N and Marcela had been their only grandchildren. Not that her avós had not been present, because they really had, her entire family had, but her grandparents’ life had no meaning if it were not for Lottie, Y/N and Marcela.

Y/N walked past all her family and to the kitchen where her papai stood making her a plate of feijoada. He handed it to her and she smiled at him before helping herself to some rice. Just then, Lottie walked into the kitchen as well, hugging Y/N from behind before she walked over to make her daughter something to drink. Silence stretched out in the kitchen as conversation started back up again in the living room, everyone talking about everything and nothing, in English and Portuguese. But, something that was unusual for her parents, they did not say a single thing. Though this might not be unusual for some, it was extremely unusual for someone who came from a generally very talkative family.

“Charlotte,” Davi said, looking over at Lottie. “We should…”

“Not yet.”

Y/N looked over her shoulder at her parents. “What?”

“We should tell her.”

“She just got home, Davi,” Lottie reasoned. “We can tell her later. Let her enjoy her feijoada.”

“No, what’s going on?” Y/N asked again, turning her body to face them now.

“No, amorinzha,” Davi said, squeezing Y/N’s shoulder. “Your mother is right; we can talk about it later. It’s not appropriate to do it now.”

“What’s going on? What’re you talking about?” Y/N looked at her papai, then at her mum, both of them sharing a look with one another that Y/N did not understand. Over the years, she had become a master at deciphering what her parents were discussing when they shared looks, though she never managed to quite understand the proper subject of discussion, she could detect the mood. She understood this was more of a serious matter.

“Tell me,” Y/N said, feeling her heart begin to beat a little harder, a little faster, the more time went by without any of them saying anything.

“Fine,” Lottie sighed. “Put your plate down first.”

Y/N did so reluctantly, not taking her eyes off of her parents. If it was serious enough for her mother to want her to put her food down so she would not drop her plate, then Y/N was on the fence if she even wanted to know what was going on or if she wanted to live in blissful ignorance of it.

“Your pai and I have decided to sell the cabin.”

Y/N’s heart stopped beating. Her body felt numb, the chatter in the living room deceased to exist as she just looked at her mother, and then at her papai. Her mum, and then pai. Suddenly, as if slapped with a brick, Y/N’s brain roared to life and her body came as hot as coal. She looked at her mother who had been the one to speak, her mouth falling open and shutting again as she continued to process what she had just been told.

“You’re… you’re going to sell the cabin?” Y/N asked them, just to be completely sure that what she heard was correct.

“Yes,” Davi answered.

“You’re selling the cabin?” She could not believe it.

“Y/N-“

“-You’re selling our Newport cabin? The one in Wales?” she asked again, her voice rising now. They did not have any other cabins, but Y/N just had to know she was not mistaken. They couldn’t… They couldn’t just…

“Y/N, we never go there anymore,” Lottie reasoned. “We want to spend the money we use on the cabin on something else, we don’t know what yet.”

“So, you’re just going to sell the cabin where your daughter was murdered?” Y/N asked, voice filled with so much rage she barely recognised herself when she spoke. “Where Marcela was most likely stabbed? You’re selling that cabin?”

“We’re never there because she was… she was killed…” Davi cleared his throat. “Spending time inside that cabin when we know what happened inside it, does not feel right.”

“No, selling it isn’t right,” Y/N said. “What if there’s more evidence inside? What if there’s somewhere they haven’t looked?”

“Baby, they have cleaned out the cabin and there’s nowhere they haven’t looked. There’s nothing more they can investigate,” Lottie explained. “We don’t want to own that cabin anymore.”

“Kit murdered Marcela in there,” Y/N said. “Her murderous ex-boyfriend is running around somewhere because no one investigated that cabin thoroughly enough.”

“Selling it doesn’t mean they are going to stop investigating Marcela’s case, amorzinho,” Davi pointed out.

“We don’t… We still don’t know if Kit did it,” Lottie mumbled. “It was most likely him, but there could have been someone else who killed Marcela, Y/N.”

“Marcela’s body hasn’t been found, there’s no trace of Kit’s blood or remains on that property. That murderer is on the loose, something inside that cabin can tell us he killed her, I am sure of it.”

“Y/N, Kit hasn’t been seen since the murder either. Maybe he was killed, too,” Lottie said.

“Mum, Kit was a rubbish person, why are you sticking up for him?” Y/N groaned, running her hands over her face.

“We decided, Y/N,” Davi mumbled, rubbing his daughter’s back. “It’s happening.”

That was all Y/N needed to hear. She took her plate in one hand and the glass with water her mother had made her in another, and she walked straight past everyone in the living room and up to her room. She felt like a child stomping past everyone like that, but she just needed to be with her thoughts. There was absolutely no way they were selling that cabin. Not that cabin. Y/N was sure there was evidence in there somewhere, the police and the investigators had just not looked thoroughly enough. That was all. And if they had done a shite job, well… that just meant Y/N had to do it for them. She had to go to that cabin and look for herself once and for all. After all, who else would? It did not seem like anyone cared anymore.

NEXT UPDATE: Sunday, 21th March, 9PM GMT!

Huge thanks to my AMAZING beta readers! 🏛️ @aileenacoustic 🏛️ @devil-in-bw-the-sheets 🏛️ @sunflowerstache 🏛️ @fromyourstrulyh 🏛️

FIC PAGE | COME TALK !!!

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles smut #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #harry styles fic #1dff #:DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD COME TALK PLSSSS :DDDDDDDDDDDDDD

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mellow-em · 3 years

Text

Bittersweet Temptations

CHAPTER 2

[special dt @bluewingedangel <3]

Your neighbors, Nathan and Elena, have been friends with your parents for years. Whether it’d be family gatherings or vacations, they were around; they were family. But when you return home from your final years of college, what will happen when you find that it isn't just them living in the house next door anymore?

_____________________________________

The afternoon sun brought in a relaxing mixture of natural light from the windows, but I wasn’t even remotely focused on it.

My right leg was bouncing hastily under the kitchen table while I prodded my salad with a fork. I tossed a particularly small carrot around in the bowl, swirling it around the sea of other vegetables.

“Are you gonna eat that or play around with it sweetie?” The sound of my mothers voice raced right through one ear and out the other one.

I only sighed in response, and leaned the side of my head on my hand, not bothering to look up at either of my parents that sat across from me.

They urged me to consistently have family meals with them today, in an attempt to dine on the experiences I had away at college. If they’d asked me to do this at any other time, I wouldn’t mind.

But my head was clouded by something else; or should I say by someone else.

Last night refused to escape my line of thinking. Even after it all went down, I went back to bed to try and fall back asleep, but it was absolutely no use.

The cunning quirk of his lips as he smirked back at me was an image that glued itself to the front of my brain. I reeled around in bed until sunrise, unable to silence my thoughts regardless of any persistence. So as of now, I was beyond exhausted.

“y/n? Are you alright?”

I jump faintly in my chair, with my fathers words pulling me away from my cogitation of the man from the pool, “I’m um.. I’m fine, sorry.”

I gave them a toothless smile as reassurance, but by the exchange of looks they both gave each other, they didn’t seem too convinced.

I shifted uncomfortably, and stabbed the carrot I was messing with. I slowly bring it towards my mouth, finally having the compulsion to take a bite.

Until the man’s wink decided to project in front of me, as if I was experiencing the whole ordeal all over again.

I abruptly dropped the fork into the bowl, resulting in a reverberating clash that not only startled my parents, but it startled me back into reality again.

“Jesus y/n, what’s gotten into you?”

I’m asking that same question, mom.

“Nothing, I uh- think I’m just tired,” the excuse flew out of my mouth in a panic, “I’m just.. I’m gonna go shower for the party later.”

I hurriedly sprung from my seat, and scurried up the stairs to the bathroom.

“Well that was smooth, dumbass,” I muttered out in the open, while slamming the door behind me.

That son of a bitch is driving me crazy, and I haven’t even had a single conversation with him.

I take a few steps into the bathroom, placing both of my hands on opposite sides of the sink, leaning over with my body weight. With my head bowed down to the direction of my feet, I suspired deeply.

This was stupid. The brief interaction was embarrassing, yes, but with how I reacted today during lunch, especially when the party was happening later on today..

I just needed to stop thinking about what happened last night.

Act like it didn’t happen.

It didn’t happen.

____________

Turmoil carried on in the form of muffled conversations, and distinct bass from the speakers on the lower levels of the house. Even being upstairs in my room, the walls weren’t thick enough to block the noise that derived from the party.

Of course, my dad’s annual excuse backfired, and instead of the party being fairly small, it was as big as the rest of the parties we've had in the past. Although I really shouldn’t be surprised, knowing this really has carried on for 10 years at most.

As of now, I could only assume that the booze was already out for everyone, and by the end of the night, I could guarantee that almost half the people here will be drunk. It reassured me though, especially when I’ll probably end up being one of those people.

I could use a little alcohol in my system; to let myself go a little bit.

While fixing the straps of my white sundress, I looked at myself in the mirror, making sure any scraps of exhaustion were not visible on my features. Despite longing for a few hours of rest, I knew for a fact that I wasn’t going to get much yet again.

With satisfaction, I back away from my vanity, and start for the door that barricaded me from the chaos.

The exchanges of laughter became much more pronounced as I slowly opened the door, and traveled down the hall. My feet carried me towards the stairs, shaking from the rumble of the speakers seeping through the walls and floors.

It was a blessing that the noise didn’t affect our neighbors enough for them to make complaints; but that was mostly because they were all here.

With each step down the flight, more of the party overtook my vision. Guests were dispersed amongst every room as far as I could see, gathering around each other in hopes of starting conversation over the music. It had been fairly crowded to say the least.

Immediately after I make it to the ground floor, I’m bombarded by my mother.

“Hey honey, Nathan and Elena are outside if you want to say hello to them!” her slightly raising her voice didn't really help much, with us being right next to the speakers. But I nodded letting her know I understood.

Turning away from her, I then faced the crowd of people in front of me. I start to weave my way through, making slight pauses along the way to thank them for coming. Most of the people around me had a slight stench of beer already, making me scrunch my nose; that smell is definitely going to linger afterwards.

Eventually making it to the door, I slide it open and step out, letting the freshness of the outside air fill my senses. I quickly noticed the difference between the outdoors and the impeded aura from inside the house. It felt like I was finally able to breathe.

After shutting the sliding door behind me, I strolled away towards the yard.

I made sure to make a slight detour to the cooler to grab myself a beer though, rashly cracking it open as soon as I got my hands on one. I take a swig while observing the guests around me.

As soon as I saw a familiar head of blonde hair a few yards away, I could feel myself smile widely. I hadn’t seen Nate or Elena in four years, and being back home now is making me realize how much I missed them.

The both of them had moved into the neighborhood about a year after my family, and that was over 15 years ago. Ever since then, they hit it off more than you could imagine.

They had all gotten so close to one another, that they’d have annual dinners together, game nights and tag along on all of our family trips. They would even bring in their ideal vacation spots up to us, which evolved into us traveling to entirely different countries most of the time.

While Elena and my mom went to any beach they could find, and my dad found the bar, Nathan really wanted to drag me along to the historical landmarks and teach me about everything he knew. It made our relationship blossom, and now I considered him my second father.

Plus, because of him I began to develop an endless love for history.

I liked it so much that I made the decision to go to college for it. Nathan’s reaction when I told him before I left was something for the cover of a photo album, and I just knew already that a million questions were going to arise when I got to them.

I stepped down from the deck, and walked towards them with my lips still curled in a smile.

As I made it closer to them though, my gaze became hazy. With my brows contorting, my confused demeanor became more visible with every footstep I made closer to Nate and Elena.

There was another man wrapped into their conversation. He was taller than the other two, especially Elena. I noticed his hair slicked back ruggedly, from above the others’ heads. Though, I still couldn’t get a proper look at his face yet.

I turned my direction slightly to discreetly see who my neighbors were conversing with. My curious nature was overriding my body.

I should have just listened to that universally cliche phrase.

Curiosity did kill the fucking cat, and I wish it would just kill me now.

From here, I had a clear view of his face. He stood there listening to Nate’s banter, with a cigarette wedged between his lips.

The lips I had been staring at the night before, along with the rest of him.

Shit shit shit shit shit.

By this point I would’ve been repeating my annual habit of staring in place. But fortunately, I turned on my heal sharply to try and escape.

“Oh my god y/n?” My breath hitched while Elena's voice rang out towards me.

Well great.

I held that particular breath in as I turned my body once more to face her. My warm smile returned to my face, but a layer of embarrassment and panic riddled beneath the surface.

“Elena, it’s so good to see you,” I went over and wrapped my arms around her carefully, keeping her baby bump in mind, “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you too,” she returned the hug, leaning close to my ear, mumbling, “especially when I’ve had to deal with him all alone. I swear sometimes I really question whether the pregnancy hormones are hitting me or him harder.”

I look over at Nate for a quick second, stifling a laugh while I let go of Elena. The two of us continued laughing faintly, certainly gaining the attention of Nate.

“What are you two laughing about? What’d I do this time?” Nate looked genuinely perplexed, which made it funnier.

“Oh nothing, Nate,” Elena and I looked at each other, smirking as she spoke.

Even with Elena and I’s pleasant interaction, that uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach just wouldn’t quit. I just knew he was watching my every move.

Especially, when in the corner of my eye, I watched his travel with me as I went to give Nate his hug.

“It’s good to have you back, Crash.”

Hearing the nickname took me away from my thoughts on the man behind me for a moment, and made my smile lift.

“It’s been too long, Aku.”

We stayed this way for a few more seconds, until I feel him pat my back. I let my arms fall away from him, and return to my spot in front of them.

I then feel my head slowly turn over to the unknown one of the three; well to me he was unknown.

“So who’s this?” I cross my arms in front of me, anticipating an answer from one of them.

But silence continued to radiate around us.

They all stood there, exchanging looks with one another, making me raise one of my brows. While awaiting a response I decided to take a long sip of my beer, feeling the cold liquid slide down my throat.

That is, before Nate finally spoke up, “Y/n, this is Sam,” he paused, and I could see the hesitation written all over him, “Sam Drake.”

I almost choked on my beer as soon as I heard the last name. I thought for a solid minute that my eyes were going to fall out of their sockets.

“Is this your-” I pointed between the both of them.

“He’s my older brother.” Nate finishes my sentence, as he scratched at the back of his neck.

My face fell even more if it was even possible.

Wait.

Nate was in his early forties to begin with, so that would make Sam…

I looked at Sam’s face intensely again, specifically at the wrinkles that were tainted across his face. Now that my brain was functioning properly, unlike last night, I noticed how many there really were.

Great. Not only was I checking out Nathan’s BROTHER, but the man that was more than twice my age.

Fuck.

#sam drake x reader #sam drake #samuel drake x reader #samuel drake #uncharted fanfiction #sam drake fanfiction #uncharted #naughty dog

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bicycle4two · 3 years

Text

say you wanna, say you wanna be || Sam Drake x Reader || Chapter 4

Summary: Sam isn't looking for a girlfriend and, frankly, you don't think you'd be a good one anyway, but you two aren't some one-night stand and it's been a long time since either of you thought of each other as a convenient booty call. This is something more, something the two of you didn't realize would be. It's uncharted territory. And there is no other choice but to figure out how to navigate through it together.

Pairing: Sam Drake x Fem!Reader

Tags(ish): developing relationship, implied/non-explicit sexual content, romance/fluff/hurt/comfort, age difference (though reader’s age is not stated), switching povs (second person reader, third person sam), no y/n but reader has a nickname

C.1 || C.2 || C.3

Chapter Four:

Here’s the thing.

Sam always knew that he and his brother were destined for something great. And, well, he can’t say that greatness didn’t fall on them. Yeah, sure, he spent thirteen years in jail. Who hasn’t? But despite that little hiccup in his life, Sam thinks that he’s done pretty well for himself. He’s discovered a lost city or two, with and without his brother, held some artifacts that were rumored to only be from stories, and tried one of the cigars from Sully’s collection. He even has a place to call his own now, his name on the mailbox downstairs, a doorman who greets him.

Honestly, it’s all he’s ever wanted growing up. More, even. Back in Panama, all he thought he wanted, besides, well, getting out, was to find Avery’s treasure with Nathan. It was that thought that kept him going most days. The idea of finding four hundred million worth of treasure! That was the dream. He and Nathan could finally settle down, or, rather, their version of it. Because they weren’t going to have a normal life. That was never in the cards for them growing up, but it was a nice thought, not having to worry about food or a place to stay.

And Sam hasn’t had to worry about that for a long time. He felt empty after Libertalia, that his story was only just beginning while Nathan’s was coming to a close. There are still things he wants to see, to do.

Time, he realized long ago, was something that he could lose so easily and he wasn’t going to let that happen again.

So he went on more adventures, climbed higher mountains, picked up little trinkets (a habit he got from his little brother, starting his own little collection) along the way to bigger, better things. (It’s just a shame that some things were destroyed along the way, like statues and buildings, but what can he say? It runs in the family.)

But tonight, after a long flight and an uncomfortable chair, all Sam wants to do is go to her and crash on her bed.

Because although Sam has a place to call home, a big apartment that’s filled with his stuff, clothes, souvenirs, a fish…it feels empty. Cold. Even if he had all the money in the world, Sam can’t shake off that feeling that he shouldn’t have too much. That in just a blink of an eye, all this could be gone. Because that has happened before—moving from place to place, packing what you can immediately get your hands on.

Sam wants riches, searches for them all over the world, but deep down he knows he doesn’t know what to do with them. That even if he dreams of more, he only knows how to live with enough.

So, he only has one pillow, a blanket. A towel and an extra, shampoo (the kind that has body soap mixed with it. 2 in 1! What a deal) and deodorant. Clothes, he knows to get the sturdy kind, the kind that won’t rip easily, that stains won’t be too obvious on. Shoes, too. He gets the ones that have good traction, that won’t chafe his feet, won’t deteriorate when wet.

The fish, Jim Hawkins—Jimmy was an attempt to liven up the place. To make it seem homey, to keep him company. But there’s only so much you can do with a fish and Sam can’t deck out Jim’s aquarium any more than he already has. He’s afraid that something would fall on the poor thing, that maybe there’s more inside Jimmy’s castle than meets the eye.

“Welcome home.”

“I’m ho…ome?” Sam drops his bag to the floor, more from being too tired to carry it than shock. He’d resigned to seeing her tomorrow, that it was too late to go over now, but there she is, curled up on his couch, toes peeking out from under a throw blanket. It’s hers. Sam recognizes it easily. It’s the same one she has thrown over her arm chair, the same chair Sam likes to lounge on when he’s found a good book to read.

“How was your trip?” She looks so cozy on his couch. Hands wrapped around an orange mug he’s never seen before, book on her lap. She doesn’t look like she going to get up and Sam can’t blame her. He sort of wants to curl up next to her, somehow squeeze his large frame in the remaining space. “Get me anything nice?”

“I, uh,” Sam’s swallows, blinking. “I’m not dreaming, right? Like, I didn’t get knocked out when I fell off the mountain?”

“You fell off what?” She’s moving to stand up, mug thankfully placed back on the table despite her haste, and Sam doesn’t want her to do that.

“No. No, don’t get up.”

She gets up anyway, blanket falling to the floor, and, oh god, she’s wearing pajamas, oranges printed all over her cotton shorts. She’s by his side in seconds, hands reaching up to his face, bringing him down to her height so she can get a better look at him.

“Ouch,” Sam says, the movement too fast for his aching body. His muscles are sore and the trip home didn’t do them any favors. But she thinks that it’s her fault, that she’s hurt him and her hands are in the air, her eyes wide with both surprise and concern. “It’s not you. It’s just…,” Sam hates to say it, makes him feel old, but, “My back. I hit the ground pretty hard.”

“I feel dumb for asking…but are you okay?” Her hands are back on him, her touch gentle and giving comfort Sam didn’t know he needed. She doesn’t seem to know what to do first, how to check for injuries, but the thought is enough, her being here is enough, makes him feel better.

“Well, I’m alive,” Sam brings up his hand to push her hair away from her face. It’s soft, slightly damp from a shower. Oh. He probably needs one of those. “Nothing a hot shower can’t fix.”

“Can you…,” she hesitates, sucks her bottom lip between her teeth and Sam bends down on reflex, damn his back, and kisses her. She relaxes, sighs, and pulls away, blushing. “Uhm, I, huh?”

“Can I…?” Sam prompts, smirking.

“Now I’m embarrassed to ask.”

“C’mon, princess, don’t leave me hanging. What is it?”

“Can you, uh, do you need help?”

“Do I need help?” Sam grins. “In the shower? Well, there’s only one way to find out.”

…

Sam mentioned it to Nathan before, when they were in Italy, trying to find their way into the Rossi Estate. When you’re locked up with no hope of being let out, it’s the little things you miss the most.

And Sam didn’t think that there was much to miss anymore now that he was out. He can ride his motorcycle anywhere he wants, go to his own bathroom any damn time he pleases, shower, eat, sleep, drink without permission. He can call Nathan and Sully and Elena without request, without reason. He can stay indoors or go outside without a schedule. He can live. The simple joys of being alive, Sam is able to enjoy them now, in much a greater magnitude than he has ever before.

Citrus, he remembers telling Nathan, he had missed the smell of citrus. The novelty of fresh fruit. The refreshing scent, the taste. The sweetness on his tongue.

“Clementine,” Sam gasps out without thinking, his mind stuck on things he missed and maybe this last trip had gone on longer than he liked.

He’s brought back to earth when the movement stops, even when he adjusts his grip, tries to get her going again, to move her hips the way he knows they both like. He opens his eyes to look at her when she doesn’t budge and she’s frowning at him, there’s a wrinkle between her eyebrows. An angry look.

“That’s not my name,” she says and it looks like she’s going to get off of him and, goddammit, why does she keep doing that?

“What?” Sam’s confused, blood not quite in his head.

“You called me Clementine.” Her tone is upset. Hurt. Sam’s never heard her speak like this before. “Who the hell is that?”

“Shit,” Sam breathes out. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“Yeah. No shit.” And there she goes, lifting herself off of him as quickly as she had sunk onto him half an hour ago. Sam lets out a grunt. His ribs are bruised yet she flattens her hands on his chest to support herself. She’s doing it on purpose. She was careful before. “I didn’t think you’d be the type to do this, but I guess I was wrong.”

Sam’s cold without her, for more reasons than one, and he knows that if he doesn’t say something, anything, now, she’s going to be out that door before he can even finish saying Hail Mary. And no amount of prayer, to any sort of god out there, is going to bring her back.

So, Sam swallows down his pride, and says, “It’s you.”

“Yeah, I heard you say that before. ‘Just you.’ How can I-I be so stu-stupid?” Her voice wavers and shit she’s crying, isn’t she? He made her cry.

“And I mean that. Hey, come here.” Sam doesn’t want to hold her too tightly, afraid to hurt her, but he has to know that she isn’t going to leave, that she’s going to stay and listen to him. She turns to look at him, tears flowing down her cheeks, nose red, lips quivering, and Sam’s heart just about breaks. He did that. He’s never felt more like an asshole. “It is just you. It has been since the start. I promise.”

She doesn’t say anything. Just waits. And Sam feels like he’s back in school, standing in front of his class, giving a presentation.

“I, uh, did I ever tell you that I was in prison once?” Sam manages to get out. He always knew he was going to have this conversation with her, knew that with how their relationship was going, he couldn’t keep her in the dark much longer, but he had hoped that he would at least be wearing pants for this.

“No,” she breathes out, wiping her nose with a tissue she got from his bedside table. Huh. Was that tissue box always there? Anyway. “But I figured.”

“The tattoos?”

“No,” she says again and by some miracle there’s a smile on her lips. It’s small, gone with a blink of an eye, but Sam knows what he saw, has all of her smiles memorized. “Someone like you just has the talent of getting into trouble.”

And Sam can’t help it. He lets out a laugh because it’s true. She knows him.

“Well, I can’t deny that. But anyway,” He clears his throat. Was talking always this hard? “When I was in prison. In Panama—that’s important. This was when I was in Panama. I was there for thirteen years and, Jesus, time moves differently there. It’s like the days can’t go by fast enough but next thing you know a year has passed by, two, three, and you’ve lost your youth because some asshole decided to get all stabby with the guard.”

The words are spilling out, like he can’t get them out of him fast enough. Because he needs her to know, to understand.

“It wasn’t my fault. Well, okay, I was there on purpose at first, but those thirteen years were like a punishment for what that asshole did. I was supposed to die there. We were escaping, we were almost there, almost free, but I got shot and I fell. The guards found me and got some ‘doctors’ to patch me up. They made sure that if I was going to die, I was going to die because I rotted in that hellhole.”

Sam can see that she’s listening, that she’s hanging onto every word so he continues, because now that he’s started, he can’t stop.

“I was only in my twenties. There was so much I wanted to see, to do. Nathan and I had plans, dreams. We were going to go all over the world. But I was stuck there. Alone. And no one knew that I was alive. It’s like I stopped existing. Sometimes.” The words are stuck. But Sam forces them out. “Sometimes I, uh, I wished it were true, that it would be better if I was just gone. That I had just died back there.”

She’s crying again and Sam wipes her tears for her, brings her closer to him. Because these tears aren’t because of him anymore, but for him. And isn’t that something? Having someone cry for you.

“You don’t realize how much you have until everything is practically ripped away from you. I didn’t have any privacy. I…I couldn’t take a leak when I needed to. You just end up thinking, cuz there really isn’t much to do but think, about what you had. How life was good. And I, I just missed everything. I missed Nathan, of course, he’s my little brother. But, it’s the small things, too. Like riding my bike into the sunset. Grass beneath my feet. A glass of cold water. And…”

“And?” She asks, eyes focused on the gunshot scars on his abdomen, fingers tracing their shape. It tickles.

“And the smell of citrus.” He makes her look at him because this is important. The most important thing. “I missed the smell of citrus. The taste. And when I was in Japan, I thought about it again. The things I missed back here, back at home. And it’s citrus—you. I missed you so much, you wouldn’t believe it. I could have called Nathan. Elena, even. To come over here but I called you because,” Sam clears his throat once more. “Because I wanted you here. I had hoped you would be here when I came back. And you were.”

She’s quiet, eyes searching. And Sam’s poured out his heart and soul and now he’s got nothing else to do but wait and see what she does with it. Is this what being honest is like? Being vulnerable? It’s torture. Sam hates it. But he can also think of worse things and that keeps him rooted in his spot, trying to keep his face as honest as he can. Years of hiding is finally coming to bite him in the ass.

“You must have been so lonely.” Is what she says, hands back on his gunshot wounds. She’s transfixed. Almost like she’s been wondering about them forever. And maybe she has. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“Eh. It’s all in the past,” Sam says with a shrug. Because it is in the past. He’s made his peace with it. Mostly. Some things are harder to shake off than others but he’s okay now. He’s built from strong stuff, a sturdy breed. “But, y’know. You’re, uh, killing me here.”

“Killing you?”

“Cuz I don’t know what you’re going to do,” Sam admits. It’s all truth from here on out, huh? “I can’t read you right now. Are you gonna leave? Punch me in the face? Report me? Please don’t report me. I’d really hate to go back to jail. Nathan would kill me. And I still have a few years left to go, y’know?”

She smiles and Sam realizes that he was rambling. He takes a breath, feels himself calm down. Damn. He needs a cigarette. Maybe two. Are his hands shaking? They’re definitely shaking.

“I think you have more than a ‘few years,’” she says, fingers tracing scars. Sam twitches from her touch. Is this what it feels like when he touches her back? “Especially if you stop smoking.”

“I’ve heard it all before.”

“You should start listening.”

“Ah. Someday.” Sam takes her hand in his, mostly to stop her stop her from tickling him, but also to bring them back on topic. Because she still hasn’t said anything. Nothing to give him an idea where they go from here, if there is somewhere to go from here. “So?”

“So…” She leans close, talks in a whisper, like if she speaks any louder, something might shift, break this bubble that they’re in. “So, you have to tell me what you want, Sam.” It’s an echo of what he said to her months ago, a vulnerable, fragile moment just like this. “So I know what to give you.”

But this time is different because she’s always been more generous than him, always been willing to give.

And Sam’s always been someone to take what he wants and he’ll be damned if this time is any different.

“It would be nice if you stayed.”

“Stay? I can do that.”

...

Chapter 5

Read on AO3

...

Sam’s apartment was inspired by @missdictatorme ‘s post

#samuel drake #sam drake #samuel drake x reader #sam drake x reader #sam drake fanfiction #fanfic #uncharted fanfiction #uncharted #uncharted 4 #a thief's end #self indulgent writing

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bi-bard · 2 years

Text

Are there still beautiful things? - Duke Crocker Imagine (Haven)

Title: Are there still beautiful things?

Pairing: Duke Crocker X Reader

Song Drawn: seven

Word Count: 801 words

Warning(s): mentions of troubles

Summary: Old memories bring back old connections as a familiar face rolls back into Haven.

Author's Note: I have known that I was going to make "seven" about Duke since I first started this series.

----------------------------------

I let out a small sigh as I looked up at the boat that Nathan had told me about.

I left Haven years ago. I wanted to pursue a life outside of the little town that too many people seemed to get stuck in.

I was doing well. I had a job and a nice apartment. I was happy.

And then something happened.

I was doing some work from my apartment and got stressed. I let out a small yell of frustration and the lamp on my desk almost exploded. I would've passed it off as a coincidence but then it happened again when I watched a sad movie. As soon as a tear fell, my TV started freaking out.

I got online soon after. I traced occurrences like this back to Haven years ago. So, whether I wanted to or not, I had to go home.

My first instinct was to find Duke. We were best friends... we were everything to each other.

Nathan told me about how Duke was staying on a boat.

I was walking up to the boat when I caught sight of someone doing a handstand on the deck.

I furrowed my eyebrows as the legs dropped.

"Hey," I yelled up. In a few seconds, a head popped over the edge to look at me. I smiled at him. "Duke."

"I'll be damned," he replied. "(Y/n)?"

"In the flesh," I held my hands out to the sides.

"Hold on," he called before running off.

He was soon hopping onto the dock and jogging over to pull me into a hug.

"God, I missed you," he mumbled in my ear.

"I missed you too," I replied before I stepped back. "Gosh, look at your hair."

"What's wrong with my hair," he asked.

"Nothing," I chuckled. "It's just longer than I remember."

"It's the style."

"I'm sure," I rolled my eyes. I looked at the boat again. "So, do I have permission to come aboard for a drink?"

"Yeah, of course," Duke nodded before leading me to the boat.

Soon, we were sitting in chairs on the deck of his boat. We shared some coffee and told stories from when we were younger.

"I remember when your dad came out looking for us," I said. "He was so angry because we had been out too late for two kids."

"When he had been the one to tell us to stay put until he came to get us," Duke added as he leaned back in his chair. "He was... something else."

"That's an understatement," I muttered.

There was a moment of silence between us.

"I have to ask... you don't seem very... fond of him," I started.

"I'm aware," he nodded.

"Why keep his boat," I asked.

"Well, you know me," he shrugged. "I've always wanted to be a pirate."

I rolled my eyes, "That's the secret behind the hair, then?"

"How long are you gonna go on about the hair?"

"As long as it bothers you."

He chuckled and then fell silent for a moment. He was just looking at me.

"What," I asked.

"Why come home?"

I froze for a second and looked at the ground.

"(Y/n)?"

"I... I have one," I muttered. I cleared my throat and looked back at Duke. "A trouble."

"Holy shit-"

"I didn't know where else to go," I added. "I'm sorry."

"You don't need to be sorry-"

"No, I just absolutely threw that on you and I know what your dad did," I rambled. "I figured it out as soon as I started looking into troubles on the internet. I shouldn't have- I should just- I'm sorry."

I got up, put my cup down, and went to leave as fast as possible.

"Hey, hey," Duke grabbed my arm so I would stop. He put his cup down and sighed as he stood up. "Come here."

He grabbed both of my arms so I would look at him.

"You have nothing to be sorry about," he said. "I am so happy that you're back. Your trouble is new and it's scary, but that doesn't make me hate you. I want you here. That's all I've been able to think about since I watched you drive out of town."

I looked down for another moment.

"Let me help you," he mumbled.

After another moment of silence, I looked back into Duke's eyes.

"Your dad is rolling in his grave," I muttered.

Duke smiled at me, "Good."

I chuckled. He leaned forward and kissed my forehead.

"You'll get through this," he promised. "You're not on your own."

"Thank you," I grinned and hugged him. "Thank you so much."

It felt like nothing had changed. In a matter of moments, we became each other's everything again. And it felt like everything had been set right.

----------------------------------

Masterlist

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folklore/evermore Writing Challenge (and Masterlist)

#duke crocker imagine #duke crocker x reader #duke crocker fanfiction #imagine #fanfiction #x reader #haven imagine #haven fanfiction #haven x reader

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softboywriting · 3 years

Text

Don’t Go | Nathan Bateman | Ex Machina

Summary: One difficult boss, one contraband cat, and a whole lot of emotional turmoil. That’s your life these days. When you leave for a few months to get things settled back home before moving into the facility officially, Nathan doesn’t cope with your absence well. Upon your return you have to deal with Nathan being moodier than ever, hiding your cat Baxter in your room, and sorting out just what your relationship with Nathan is. [Light Angst] [Swearing] [Insecurity] [Daddy Kink if you squint] [Fluff] [No use of Y/N] [Sexual/Flirting Situations] [F!ReaderxNathan] [Assistant!Reader]

Word Count: 5.2k

|Masterlist In Bio|

Four months. You're gone from Nathan's facility for four months while sorting out fully moving to Alaska with him, closing your leased apartment, and finding a home for your cat. Everything was squared away finally. All of your furniture and non personal items were sold and you were ready to move into his place in the middle of nowhere. Of course you couldn't find a home for Baxter, your cat, and you refused to put him up for adoption, so he was coming with you.

Nathan didn't want a cat he explicitly said don't bring him but here you are in the helicopter with your bags and totes full of what you have left of your old life, and strapped in the back is Baxter in his tan cat carrier. You had to get special medication to help him stay calm but it was worth it. Surely Nathan won't kick him out once you've snuck him in. You'll just keep him in your room.

You never see Nathan. He didn't help you carry everything in, he never saw Baxter, he didn't even leave a message. It's not until after you've unpacked the essentials and gotten Baxter settled into the bedroom that Nathan calls to you on the intercom system.

"Meet me on the deck."

You jump, startled by the sudden break in silence. You slip out the door quickly to keep Baxter inside and head for the outdoor deck where the punching bag is hung. You round the corner of the kitchen and stop dead, eyes on the man on the deck, back to you.

"Nathan?" You call out, walking forward carefully. It can't be. This man has hair. Quite a bit actually. But it looks like Nathan from the back. That is surely his ass.

Nathan turns around and oh, it's definitely him. He looks so different without the buzzcut, he looks softer, sweeter. "About time you came back."

"Did I miss a day of work?" You roll your eyes. He may look softer but that snippy attitude was ever prominent. "Don't act like you missed me."

"You worked? I barely noticed." He quips, stepping down and unwrapping his hands.

You fold your arms. "So you just remembered to go shopping for groceries, to get your hand wraps, and to get the mineral water from the specialty place on your own? You just remembered that you had to eat every day? You don't need an assistant?"

"I'm an adult. Of course I can do all of that without you."

"So you definitely didn't use those alarms and reminders I set?"

He scoffs.

"Oh no, you did." You click your tongue. "Because they're linked to my tasks app and every time you shut one off I got a notification. And look!" You gesture to him. "You're not starved to death or bloody knuckled from training with no wraps!"

Nathan rolls his eyes.

"No come back?"

"Fuck off." He sneers, grabbing his glasses off the table.

You walk around the table and run a hand over his hair. "What's this?"

"Hair?" He pushes your hand away.

"You've never had hair. Ever." You shove your hand back into his hair. It's short, but long enough you can grip the top. Curly, thick, dark. It's beautiful. It must grow like a weed, and with his genetics, you're not surprised it's this long in only four months. "Why now?"

Nathan growls, shoving you back away from him gently. "Quit touching it!"

"Then answer my questions!"

"Fuck you!"

"Fuck you too, Nathan!"

He narrows his eyes at you, glaring daggers. This is how it always is with him. Constant fighting about stupid shit because he doesn't know how to express himself around another human being eighty percent of the time. You're sure it's why he hired you, so he didn't go feral out here on his own. The other twenty percent of the time he is bearable and you actually really like that twenty percent.

You let out a soft sigh and relax your shoulders. Yelling at each other isn't going to get you anywhere right now. You'll take the initiative and soothe the room. "Did your clippers break?"

"Yeah." He grumbles, no longer looking at you, but to the bar behind the dining table.

"And you didn't buy a new one when you went for groceries?"

"I didn't go."

"What?"

"I didn't go for groceries."

You close the gap and step in front of his line of sight. "Nathan, what have you been surviving on?"

"What was left. I've got some MREs in the office for emergencies. Well, I did." He runs a hand through his hair and turns away. "I'm fine. I'm alive, obviously."

"So you just dismissed my alarms? Why didn't you go? I know the flight is a pain in the ass but it's better than starving. Is there nothing left?"

He walks out of the room, toward the kitchen.

"Nathan!" You groan and let out a yell of frustration. If he ate everything and didn't replenish anything, then you're going to have to call the pilot back tomorrow and ride another two hours into the city, go shopping, then ride two hours back.

"Fuck!"

_____________________

After a grueling day of travel and shopping you start making dinner. You've not seen hide or hair of Nathan since you found out he's been barely living for the last four months. You can't fathom why he wouldn't go out, why he wouldn't even get you to bring him something. Sure you were in Seattle for the time you were gone but you probably could have managed to get on a plane and bring him some protein bars. It just kills you, knowing he just let himself suffer. But why? To prove a point? What was it?

"Dinner is almost ready." You say, pressing the talk button on the kitchen com system. He probably isn't listening but it's worth a try. The man must be desperate for a real meal.

As soon as you get everything plated, on the table and glasses of wine poured, Nathan appears. You can only assume he watched you on the cameras, so he knew exactly when to show up. He is always checking in on you with those cameras. It was alarming at first, when you arrived about a year ago now. But these days it's alright, a sense of security, knowing that if something were to happen he would be there in a heartbeat.

"Steak, spinach salad with bleu cheese, and a potato." You say softly, presenting the food like a gameshow host with your hand as he sits down.

"I can see what it is."

"Mmhmm." You stuff a fork full of spinach in your mouth. "Can you see the poison then?"

A small smile plays at the corners of his lips and you don't miss it for a millisecond. "Must be tucked into the cheese crumbles."

You grin around the rim of your wine glass. "Soaked the steak in it actually."

"Clever." He mutters dully, biting a piece of said steak off his fork.

You eat a few more bites in silence, just staring awkwardly at each other. You have so many questions about what he was doing while you were gone. But you know he won't answer them, not now at least. He will have to be exhausted or perhaps less sober. That actually is another question. Has he been sober for all this time? Or did he ration his alcohol?

"Good food?"

"Fucking amazing." He says, voice barely above a whisper.

"Oh?"

"Yeah." He rubs his last bite of meat around in the bleu cheese. "You can cook like no other."

You feel a flush rise in your chest. "I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"Don't get used to it."

"Oh I won't."

Nathan stands and takes his plate to the kitchen. "Did you get my shaver?"

"Yes." You follow close behind and drop your plate in the sink beside his. "But I like it."

"What?"

"Your hair. I like it." You lean against the counter and he runs a hand over his head. "It looks... different."

Nathan rolls his eyes.

"It's up to you, obviously. I'm sure you keep it shaved for whatever reason." You shrug and look away from him. "The shaver is in your bathroom."

"Thanks." He mutters and heads off into the house. He's going to the lab no doubt.

_____________________

Finally two weeks later. Nathan is wasted. Gobsmacked, shit faced and three sheets to the wind. You got an allegory for it, that is this man right this second. Your chance is now, you can get his ass on the spot and start interrogating him. Well. That is if you can get him out of his lab.

"Nathan, I have something for you." You coo softly into the com beside the door to his lab. "Something you'll like."

"Go away."

"Come on!"

"Unless you're out there in some red panties and stockings then I'm not coming out."

You flush and close your eyes. He did not just say that. Surely he cannot mean that he actually wants to see you like that. God that's hot. Does he really want to see you like that? No. He's your boss.

"What if I am?"

"You're not."

"I could be."

"You aren't. Fuck off."

"You wanna see me all undressed hmm?"

Nathan groans and opens the door, glaring you down. "You lied. Fuck off."

"No, I never said I was out here undressed. But now I have you." You shove your way into the lab office and plop down on his sofa. "You're not gonna get rid of me."

Nathan stands at the door and sways on his feet. He seemingly is perplexed how you managed to overcome him and slip into his space. "You're a pain the ass."

"Mmm and you're a thorn in my side." You lay back on the sofa, and prop your legs up on the armrest. "C'mere, I wanna talk."

"You wanna talk? What do I look like? One of your gal pals?"

"Maybe with a little mascara, some eight inch pumps...yeah."

"I'll give you eight inches alright." He sinks into his desk chair and grabs a bottle from the desk to press to his lips. "What do you want?"

You sit up and brace your elbows on your knees. "I want to know why you didn't leave here in four months."

"I didn't need to."

"Nathan, you were living on MRE rations like a bunker crazed maniac. You barely called me, and when you did it sounded like you were doing fine. What happened?"

"You left."

"Yeah?" You chuckle softly. "I had to settle things back home. I told you that, you knew where I went."

Nathan takes his glasses off and sets them aside. "I think...I think I rabbit holed into my insecurities and loneliness."

You raise your eyebrows. This is going deeper than you imagined it would. "Okay. How so?"

He tips the bottle up against his lips. "I thought, well maybe you wouldn't come back. Why would you? You got out, I let you go willingly. I felt like I just deserved to suffer alone." He shakes his head.

"Nathan, why didn't you tell me this sooner?"

"And make me look like a desperate fucking idiot? How would that look? Desperate lonely billionaire misses assistant so much he begs her to come back."

"So you did miss me."

"Fuck." He rubs his palm into his eye and lets out a yell of frustration. "You're the only person I've had proper physical contact with in like three years, I've gotten attached to you, and you just don't even understand how messed up I am!"

You stand and walk over to him. "Nathan, do you have feelings for me?"

He stares up at you, and sets his bottle aside. It's sloshes, mostly empty. "Don't play with me."

"No one's playing."

"You hate me. I'm so mean to you, and I yell at you and piss you off everyday."

You chuckle softly. "Oh yeah, that's all true. But when you're not being difficult, that's when you're incredible. You're so hot and cold I should have run away but somehow I still wanted to come home."

"Home?"

"Yeah." You run your hand over his hair and his head slumps forward. He hasn't shaved it off. It's been a few days. "You're insufferable but I can't get enough. I love how you talk, how you think, how you are always making sure I'm comfortable and happy even if you think I don't notice. I love how you look at me, glancing to make sure I'm still there, to make sure I'm real. I know how you need me."

"Don't want you to leave." He mutters, eyes heavy.

"I'm not leaving." You kneel down, arms across his lap and he looks at you, hand going to your cheek.

He strokes his thumb over your lower lip. "Be my good girl."

"Nathan," you whisper and your heart threatens to explode and you're flushing, heat pooling between your legs. "You're really out of it."

He smiles lopsidedly, pressing his thumb between your lips and you open your mouth automatically.

You lick the pad of his thumb and give a quick suck before pulling back and standing up. "You're way too drunk."

"Come back here."

"I'm going to bed." You lick your lip, the taste of his thumb is salty. If he weren't wasted you would consider exploring this further. You've wondered if there would be more between the two of you. It felt natural. But he's your boss. This is your job and as much as you would like to be more with Nathan you know this has to end here. He's not a relationship guy.

Nathan pushes up from his chair and slumps over onto the couch. God he's fucking gone. He won't even remember this in the morning. It's for the best.

"Good night."

_____________________

You make your way to Nathan's room with a bottle of water, two Tylenol and a banana. He's going to be so hungover it's not funny. You hadn't realized how much he was drinking until you found the empty bottle of vodka in the kitchen trash can and the rest of a small bottle of whiskey in the office trash and you had only bought both just the other day. Not to mention all the beers he sucked down while in the lab, a good six of the eight pack. Oh boy is he going to be hurting.

"Nathan, hey," you call softly, sinking down beside him on his bed. "It's almost noon."

"Lea'me 'lone." He grumbles into his pillow, wrapping his arms around it tightly.

You run a hand up his back, settling between his shoulder blades. "I brought water and a snack."

He turns his head, face smushed into the pillows as he looks at you. "What happened last night?"

"You got very drunk and drank literally everything we had. I'm not sure how you're alive."

"Did I do anything?"

"Nothing I wouldn't expect of you."

He shoots you a leery glare. "The fuck's that mean?"

You shake your head. He doesn't need to know he started spilling his guts and coming on to you more than playfully. "Nothing. You were a dick."

"I'm always a dick sweetheart. I told you that when you started."

"You did." You rub his shoulder and he groans. "Come on, get up. Have your banana, pills and water. Get a shower. You've got a video call in an hour."

"Oh fuck off." He presses his face into the pillows. "Attend for me. I want to sleep."

"It needs to be you. It's an HR meeting about hiring new staff to run diagnostics on Blue Book backlog data."

Nathan grumbles unintelligibly.

"I'll make your favorite lunch."

"Mm'not hungry."

"I'll join you in the shower."

He pushes up fast, nearly knocking the Tylenol from your hand. "No take backs."

"Nathan! I'm not actually going to shower with you! You're my boss for God's sake. I just said it for shock value to get you to roll your hungover ass out of bed. Shit."

"Yeah but no take backs." He grins and swallows back the pills you hand him. "Come on, it's not like you haven't seen me naked."

"Uh no, I most certainly have not."

"Oh yeah you have." He smirks, eyes holding yours in a challenging gaze. "You liked it too."

"What?!" You shove him and stand up, throwing the banana at his lap. "Eat your snack and get your shit together. I'm going to take a hike."

Nathan rips his banana top off to peel it and takes a bite. "You're not gonna set up the meeting stuff?"

"You just turn on your webcam when they call, Nathan."

"What if I need help?" He says teasingly. "You're my assistant after all."

You pinch the bridge of your nose. "Would you like me to wait until they call? You want me to stand beside your desk and click the button to answer with a video camera on? Is that it?"

"You could sit on my lap." He pats his legs. "Keep it nice and warm for me."

You twist your face quickly into an expression of distaste before a flush begins to heat your skin. This is just Nathan. He isn't flirting. He's being an asshole to get a reaction from you. He's like a child. Don't reward bad behavior.

"Oh you're thinking about it." He murmurs, voice dropping lower than usual. It's almost sultry. You've not heard this tone but maybe once before. "You wanna fuck your boss don't you?"

"Absolutely not." You grip the side of the door a little harsher than you mean to. Just another step and you're out of the room. Away from his eyes. Fuck. His eyes. What is that look for? It's so...commanding.

Nathan presses the door closed and you lean against it. "You're a horrible liar."

"You're projecting."

"Am I? Or were you on your knees in front of me last night?" He raises his eyebrows. "Oh you think I don't remember? That's cute."

"You know that isn't what happened."

"I know you let me put my thumb in your mouth. I know you licked it, sucked it, willingly." He catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger. "You really want me don't you?"

You narrow your eyes. "Maybe I want you, but I have morals. You're my boss, I'm not going to just fuck you for no reason and I intend on keeping it that way."

Nathan drops his hand from your face. "You'll come around. You can be my employee and still fuck me. I'll allow it."

"Yeah, whatever." You pull the door open and he steps back. "Go shower. You've wasted enough time."

_____________________

Days later you go for a supply run and come home late in the afternoon. As you haul the bags from the cart you use to get them from the helicopter to the front door you see Baxter on the sofa in the living room. He's curled up, the fireplace is on, he's living his best life. Wait. Baxter. No.

"Bax what are you doing in here?!" You set the bags down and hurry to the fireplace to snatch the little gray cat up from his warm nap spot. "How did you-"

"You're back." Nathan says sleepily from the couch. He sits up and runs a hand through his hair. God it looks so good, it's gotten longer you swear and fuck the curls are just maddening. "You wanna tell me something?"

"I'm sorry. I couldn't leave him with anyone and he is like my child. I couldn't just abandon him." You cradle Baxter against your chest. "I'll leave, if I have to. You can fire me."

Nathan chuckles softly. "Fire you? For having a cat?"

"You said he couldn't come with me. You specifically said no pets under any circumstances."

"Yeah, but maybe I can make an exception for this guy."

You set Baxter down as he begins to squirm. He hurries over to Nathan and winds around his legs.

"Come here." Nathan pats his lap. "Come see daddy."

Baxter jumps up and curls up on Nathan's lap, head butting his hand for attention. It's the most bizarre thing. Baxter has never taken a liking to anyone this fast. It's as if he's been living with Nathan for weeks.

"He never likes people like this. What did you do to him?"

Nathan strokes his hand down Baxter's back and massages his ears. "I didn't do anything. I gave him affection."

"How did you find him?"

"He's loud." Nathan laughs, looking at you with a soft smile. "You were on a walk in the woods and I heard him crying one day-"

"Wait what? You've known about him before today?"

"Yes." He gives you a look that says you're not fooling anyone. "I've been seeing him for days now. Almost two weeks."

You groan and press your back against the fireplace. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I wanted you to tell me. I wanted to see how long you thought you could lie to me."

"I didn't lie. I never said he wasn't here."

"Very true."

"So he was meowing? That's how you found him?"

"Mmhmm." Nathan chuckles again. "You must have forgotten to feed him before your walk. Because as soon as I gave him food he was happy."

"Fuck. I probably did." You sigh and laugh softly at yourself. "I'm terrible at hiding things."

"Yes you are." His eyes catch yours and you glare at him. "What's the look for? You jealous?" He pats his leg where Baxter isn't stretched out. "You wanna sit on Daddy's lap too?"

You cover your face with your hand. "For fucks sake you're a freak. No, I would not like to sit. I'd like help with these groceries." You point to the long forgotten bags by the door.

Nathan peeks over the back of the couch.

"Come on," you shoo Baxter off his lap and as you turn away to go get the bags, Nathan pulls you backwards down onto his legs. "Nathan."

He chuckles deeply against your back. "What?"

"I'm not sitting on your lap."

"Mmm, yes you are."

"Nathan," you sigh softly and stand up just long enough to turn around and straddle his legs, facing him on the couch. It stuns him silent for a second as he stares up at you in bewilderment. "This what you want?"

He grins big, hands running up your thighs. "Just remember that you escalated this, not me."

"I just sat down."

"Oh no sweetheart, you sat down with a purpose." He pulls you flush against him. "I thought you had morals."

"I do." You lean in and his lips part instinctively. "I haven't done anything against them."

Nathan grips your ass and you collapse against him, foreheads together. "You're pushing it."

"I just wanna see you weak, Bateman."

He narrows his eyes and shoves you off his lap. "Little late for that." He mutters as he retreats into the house and you climb up off the floor. If he thinks you're not going to push him to admit he wants you more than sex then he has something else coming.

_____________________

Two days later you're making breakfast and out of the corner of your eye you see Nathan walk in. You pay no mind. It's not unusual that he comes and grabs a water or a cup of tea before breakfast. You turn, plates in hand to put the eggs on and the moment you see Nathan you drop them.

He shaved. Holy fucking shit he shaved his beard very close and his hair is still grown out. He doesn't have his glasses on and who...who the fuck is this? How does one person literally shapeshift?

"Oh fuck, are you okay?" Nathan looks down at the shattered plates. "What happened?"

"What- you! What happened?!" You gesture wildly to his face. "Who are you?!"

He laughs, straight up laughs at you. "Is it that bad?"

"Bad? I wouldn't call it bad." You run a hand over your hair and look around for a tea towel to pick the glass up with safely. "It's not bad." You can't help but continuously glance at him.

Nathan grabs a large bowl from the cabinet on his side of the kitchen and you both kneel down to clean up the glass. "You like it."

"It's different."

"Good different."

"Yeah." You sit back on your heels and take another good look. "I almost couldn't believe it was you."

Nathan drops the last piece of glass into the bowl and brushes his hands off on his sweater. "It's been a while since I went this short. Ten years maybe."

"Damn."

He smiles and it's like he's a different man. You cannot stop staring. It's all familiar, like if you were seeing his brother, or maybe twin. It's the same teeth, same turn of his lips, but that beard being nearly gone makes him so...fucking attractive. Not that he wasn't attractive before, you dug the buzzcut and beard combo, you dug the beard and grown out hair combo. But this is...this is hard.

"Hey, your eggs are burning."

"What! Fuck!" You scramble to your feet and sure enough the sunny side up eggs are hard yolked and brown around the edges.

Nathan dumps the bowl of glass in the trash and places the bowl in the sink. "Let me make something."

"I- what? You?"

"Yeah." He wraps his hand around yours on the pan handle and moves it back off of the burner. "I can cook y'know. I did it a lot before you moved in."

You step back and let him carry the pan to the trash. "Is it April fool's day?"

"No? It's November."

"You're being nice to me."

"Am I?"

"Yes?" You fold your arms across your chest. "Suspiciously nice."

Nathan turns and quirks one eyebrow up. "Suspiciously nice? I don't think I'm being suspiciously nice. Maybe...considerate."

"Not a word I would associate with you either."

"Well, I can just have a power bar and get out of your way if you like." He folds his arms, mimicking your pose.

You chew on your lip. "Are you okay? Seriously, you've never offered to cook and you've managed to not insult me for a solid ten minutes. You even helped me clean up the glass. You're not...you."

"I had a good night's sleep."

"So you've been a dick because you haven't slept properly since I met you?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe? Okay y'know what." You raise your hands and let out a little laugh. "I get it. You are trying to get me to sleep with you. You have been for weeks and I can't just sleep with someone without being in a relationship. You've changed your appearance, knowing I'd like it. You're being nice, acting like you're some normal guy as if you think I'm into that. You just want to get in my pants so bad that-"

"Or maybe I am trying to be a better person because I realized I'm going to run you out of my life if I keep being the way I am." He runs a hand over his hair and tugs. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come on so strong."

You're floored. He's left you speechless. Never has he said he's sorry, for anything.

"You don't have to say anything. It's fine. I understand that I'm a lot to handle. You have been so patient, and understanding in this last year, and you go toe to toe with me and you don't stand for my shit, so I think you must have been put in my life to force me to make a change. I've been trying to get in your pants, yes, but I don't just want that. I want you."

"Oh."

"I've been thinking about this since you left, and even since you came back. It's consumed me for the last five months and I-" He bites his lip and looks away from you. "I'm in love with you."

Your eyes widen. "You....Nathan..."

"It's fine, I understand if you don't love me. I've been awful and selfish and-"

"You're really in love with me?"

"I don't waste words, you know that."

You step forward and reach out to touch his cheek. The beard is so short, still there, but not bushy in the least. "I love you too. Even if you're a pain in the ass and a little egotistical."

"So I don't have to be disgustingly nice?"

"I didn't fall for disgustingly nice Nathan."

"Thank fuckin God." He grabs your hips and pulls you against him. "Felt like I was playing house."

You giggle and he groans. "Nathan."

"I love your laugh." He grips your hair and tilts your head back, kissing your throat. "I love how you say my name."

A little moan escapes your lips as he scrapes his teeth along your neck. "Hey, easy, relationship first and sex later."

"Mmm. What do you want sweetheart? A date? Gifts? Long walks in the moonlight?" He leans back and looks at you. "I've got a proposal for you."

"What's that?"

"Be my girlfriend. No, be my wife." He bites his lip and cradles your face. "Yeah, you'd be a damn good wife."

You raise your eyebrows. "Not sure I like the implications of that."

"You don't like the implication that you'll be the richest woman in this country, own half of Blue Book, have everything you could ever want, and be a goddess to a god?"

"A goddess to a god huh?"

He smiles and presses his head against yours. "That's right. Besides, we already have a kid."

"We do?"

"Mmhmm. Baxter. I'm his daddy and he knows it."

"Oh hell. Shut up." You roll your eyes.

"I'm your daddy too." He hauls you against him, hands on your ass. "You like it, admit it."

"No!"

"Yeah you do." He kisses across your jaw and down your neck. "It's okay, it's just us you can admit it." His tongue lavishes against your sensitive pulse point. "Come on, tell me you like it."

"Nathan," you moan softly and he rolls his hips against you. "Please."

"Just say it."

"Never."

He chuckles and pulls back, leaving your neck damp and aching. "I'll get it out of you. I know you wanna say it but you're too shy." He bumps his nose against yours and your head swims "I will bide my time."

"Yeah, a long time." You press your lips to his and he hums softly. "I'll think about your proposal."

He chases your lips as you pull back. "I'll be waiting."

"Relationship first." You run a hand over his hair and push him back. "Gotta show me you truly want more than what's in my pants."

"Absolutely." He pushes his sleeves up. "I'll be the best husband."

"Let's stick to boyfriend for now."

"Husband sounds better." He grabs a clean pan from the rack over the stove. "So, breakfast?"

You hop up on the counter and watch as he moves about easily. "I'll take whatever you got."

"I've got a lot." He smirks and you roll your eyes. "But let's start with breakfast."

"Yeah, let's."

End

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failedintsave · 3 years

Text

Ok fine, fine ok. It's Nategaar hours around here today, and I need it to stay out of my current project so here's me purging it from my system til it resurfaces with vengeance in probably like a day.

You Spin Me Round

The rattling of the window panes was audible even over the bass of Murderface's boom box, rain blowing almost horizontally in tropical storm gales. But seasoned Floridians weren't afraid of a little stormy weather, as proven by the groups of drenched partygoers who continued to filter through the door of their crowded apartment.

Nathan weaved his way through the sea of bodies, returning from the keg with four Solo cups balanced overhead, trying his best not to spill everything down his arms. He squeezed into the corner where most of his band stood gathered around a wooden cable spool he'd taken from his dad's hardware shop, the tabletop littered with a scattered deck of cards, an overflowing ashtray at it's center.

"Who the fuck are some of these people?" He grumbled as he approached, passing out beers to waiting hands.

"Shit, man, idunnoe. I invited some chicks from deh show, and I know Magnus told some folks to come back, but deh rest?" Pickles shrugged. "Stuffs closin' fer deh weather I think, people lookin' fer something ta do."

He grunted, handing a cup over to Murderface next to him before reaching across the table to pass the last beer to Skwisgaar wedged between two fawning groupies.

"Shoulda put someone at the door to take money for cups, they're draining the keg." He took a slug of foamy beer, glaring down into the contents. "And there's no room to play games or do anything."

"Juscht play drink-the-beer, who needsch a game for that?"

"Auuuggh that's boring. And besides, I'm really good at that game and we'll run out of beer faster."

"He ams gots a good points."

Pickles rubbed his chin in consideration before snapping his fingers, a proverbial lightbulb going off over his head. "I gaht it."

He scurried off, slipping easily through the throng of bodies towards his room. They watched him disappear, barely a glimpse of fiery red hair visible over the shoulders of their so-called guests. After a few minutes he reappeared with a Cheshire grin and a green bottle of whiskey. He held up his first two fingers, a single die pinched between them.

"Alright, I've gaht a game fer us. First step, we empty dis bottle." He cracked the top and handed it to Nathan. "As you were deh inspiration fer dese shenanigans, you may do de honors."

"Perfect." Nathan tipped the bottle back and took a long pull, passing it off to Murderface to share around the circle as Pickles continued.

"Next t'ings, we need a couple extra players, ot'erwise dis will get real predictable quick." He stood on tiptoes, waving over a few familiar faces from their show. He flagged Magnus down, but the guitarist didn't move.

"What do you want?" He shouted across the room.

"Come play a game!"

"What game?"

"Russian roulette, whaddya think? A party game!"

"What game?" Magnus repeated, moving slightly closer.

"Spin deh bottle!"

That stopped Magnus in his tracks. "Nope. Not this again. Fool me once, shame on you. Hard pass."

Murderface sputtered as he handed off the bottle down the line. "Hold on, what wasch that?!"

Ignoring him, Pickles threw his arms up at the goateed guitarist. "Why not?!" Magnus shook his head and turned back, melting into the crowd. "Ah yeh fuckin' killjoy, fine den!"

Nathan frowned, tracking the bottle's progress around the circle. "Uh, Pickles. Why exactly did you think we'd wanna play that? Together? Do we look like middle schoolers?"

"It's fun! Dere's stakes!" He slapped the die onto the table, smirking around at his audience. "Me an' Tony an' de guys made up dis version back in deh day."

Skwisgaar wiped his mouth on the back of a slender wrist, handing the liquor down to the woman next to him. "Sos you always play deh kissingk games wif your bands?" To Nathan's ear he didn't sound put off, merely curious.

Murderface, meanwhile, was less impressed. "That'sch totally gay! We can't play thisch together, what'sch wrong with you?!"

"Eh, it's just a goof we made up, touring ain't all blowjobs and snortin' coke off tits, sometimes ya just wanna have fun." Pickles reached out and poked Murderface in the belly. "Wouldja lemme finish explainin' deh rules before ya quit?"

The bottle made it's way back to the drummer and he tilted his head back for several long chugs, holding the glass up to the light and sloshing the liquid around. He nodded and handed it off to Nathan again with a wink. Frowning, Nathan took another long draw. He wasn't going to be the first of them to back down from this idea, even if it was stupid.

"Okey, so here's why dis game is different. Dere's two parts." He indicated the die and the bottle with a flourishing gesture. "First you roll de dice. On a one, two er three, it's normal rules. Little smackaroonie. No big deal. Four an' five, ya elevate it a little bit. Makeout, pull some hair, whatever."

"Oooookaaay I think maybe Murderface was right about this." Nathan looked around at his bandmates. True there were almost twice as many girls at the table than them, but he wasn't sure he cared for the odds.

"Schee?!"

"Oh waaaaah, you buncha babies! Yer the one who said you were bored! Let's see whet you can come up with!"

"I'll plays."

Nathan's head jerked to face Skwisgaar across the table. The blonde wore an amused smirk as he focused on Pickles, a faint flush on his cheeks from the alcohol. He cocked his head to the side, accepting the drummer's challenge, golden waves cascading over his shoulder as he moved. Of course that smug bastard would play, this game sounded like a routine Thursday for him.

With a heavy sigh, Nathan's eyes shifted back to the drummer. "Alright. So what's six?"

Pickles grinned impishly. "Oh we call six 'Make It Look Good.' Thirty seconds on deh clock or til ev'rybody else makes ya stahp."

"What the actual fuck, Pickles."

"Ah-ah! Lemme finish! You have options!" He ticked off on his fingers. "One through three you can skip fer a shot. Four an' five you chug a beer. And six…"

The group around the table leaned as one, craning their necks expectantly in the drummer's direction. His eyes flashed as he snickered.

"If you want outta six, yeh gotta run a naked lap around the apartment building."

Thunder boomed outside as if to punctuate the final rule.

"Schon of a bitsch. We need more schotsch if we're doing thisch. I'm gonna get fucked up."

Pickles produced a second bottle and slammed it down on the table in front of him.

"Where were you keeping that?"

"Don't ask questions, are we playin' or what?"

The initial bottle finished it's second loop, landing in Nathan's palm again. With a grunt, he slugged the last of the booze and slammed the bottle onto it's side in the center of the table.

"God I wish there was room to play pong right now…" he picked up the dice and rolled.

The game didn't go nearly as badly as he'd expected, and after several rounds of making out with hot girls and taking shots to avoid kissing his bandmates Nathan was really starting to enjoy himself. Defying statistics, the only six rolled so far had been between two of the girls, and they'd all cheered like hooligans.

And then the fickle dice gods reconsidered their influence.

"Alrights, my toirns." Skwisgaar, who hadn't yet opted out of any of his rolls but was starting to get fairly tipsy regardless, snatched up the dice and shook it in Nathan's face, squinting one eye and grinning. He dropped it, four pips staring back up at him. Laughing, he gave the bottle a rapid spin.

It whirled and Nathan found himself holding his breath, eyes glued to the bottle, a little confused about what he was hoping would happen. Slowly, slowly the neck of the bottle came to rest pointing at Pickles.

"Uh-ohhhh, ya think the keg is tapped? Ya might be outta luck pal." The drummer laughed, pumping pierced brows at the blonde.

"Pfffft, shuts up." Skwisgaar leaned past one of the giggling girls, seizing a handful of Pickles' shirt and hauling him forward into an open-mouthed kiss. Nathan stared as they pulled apart, his skin heating and head swimming with whiskey.

"Well okey den," Pickles stroked his chin, nodding sagely. "Now I see whet all deh fuss is about, nyeheheh."

Swaying upright again, Skwisgaar clumsily flung his hair back over his shoulder. "Whats can I says, I ams a master ats everyt'ings I dedicates my times to."

"Scho like, two thingsch."

"Ams better den no t'ings."

"Hey!"

Nathan zoned out, staring at the table for the next few turns, snapped back to attention by Murderface's repeated 'No, no, no no!' as Pickles rolled a three and landed on him.

"A'right, yer turn Nate." The drummer smirked, sliding the bottle and the die across the table.

"Ugh, are we still playing this? When is it over?"

"Aw aments Nat'ans havingk any funs?"

He raised his eyes to the willowy guitarist across from him. Skwisgaar's thin arms were crossed over his chest, hip popped jauntily to the side. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his high forehead from the dense mugginess of the apartment, a teasing smile playing over his lips, bruised pink from being crushed against Pickles'. With an effort, Nathan tore his gaze away and redirected it towards the table.

"Fine. Whatever." He started the bottle spinning with more force than necessary, rolling the dice as it rotated.

Six.

Shit.

The rest of the table was already hooting in glee as the bottle spun down, slowing, taking an agonizingly long time to stop. Finally it came to rest at twelve o'clock.

Pointing at Skwisgaar.

The table erupted.

"OH SCHIT! Can't drink your way outta thisch one!"

"Nyeeeeheheheheh! Now's tha real show!"

"Oh dear sweet lord." Nathan covered his face with his hands, cheeks burning already.

"Hey you have an advantage, everything he does looks good."

"Why t'anks you, what was you names again? Monicas?"

"Yeh could always take the second option agin?" Pickles offered, biting back a laugh as he patted Nathan's shoulder.

His heartbeat throbbed in his ears, and something like pre-show jitters fluttered in his stomach, arms and legs tingling.

"Huehuehuehhue, ams lookingk pretty nastys out dere." Skwisgaar's drunken chuckle was underlined by another peal of thunder, window panes jumping in their casings. "Yous gonna gets blowed away."

Fuck that.

He dropped his hands away from his face, narrowing his eyes at the smirking blonde. "Fine. You dildoes want a show?"

His audience yelped as he reached down, grabbing the edge of the wooden spool and throwing it aside, playing cards and ashtray scattering to the floor, bottle toppling to the ground and shattering. Nathan lunged forward, relishing the shocked widening of blue eyes before impact.

Fighting against muscle memory of past football tackles, he grappled Skwisgaar against his broad chest, wrapping his arms beneath the other man's flailing limbs, his palms cradling bony shoulder blades. He walked the blonde backwards into the corner, pressing him into the wall.

"Timer! Start deh count!"

"No don't, I've scheen enough already, augh!"

As Skwisgaar recovered from the initial shock of being sacked, the natural showman in him awoke. Fire coursed over Nathan's scalp as calloused fingers threaded into his hair, holding his head steady as Skwisgaar turned to deepen the kiss. Nathan's clenched jaw unlocked and his lips parted before he could overthink it.

"...seven, eight, nine..!"

The sound of their onlookers counting faded into the background, drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears. He pushed a knee forward between Skwisgaar's thighs, catching a long leg as it wrapped behind his and hiking it up to his hip, leaving the blonde standing one legged like an albino flamingo.

"...fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen..!"

Skwisgaar bit down on Nathan's bottom lip and something in him broke, a cage door swinging open on its hinges. A growl rumbled in his chest as he reached down and grabbed the guitarist's other leg, hauling it up to his waist, lifting the other man from the floor as easily as he would carry groceries up from his car.

"... twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six…!"

Fingers clawed into the material of his shirt, scratching against his back. The sudden urge to carry Skwisgaar away from the party, to drag him back to his cave like a neanderthal, blindsided Nathan and his muscles locked. Sensing the end of their performance, Skwisgaar sighed into his mouth, the pressure of his lips softening as he started to pull back.

"Thirty! Dat's time!" Pickles howled a laugh. "Holy shit guys, dat's game. Ain't nobody gonna top dat act, even if you hadn't broke deh bottle!"

Nathan opened his eyes as they broke off, the heated blue gaze in front of him driving any and all coherent thoughts from his brain. Gingerly, he released one of Skwisgaar's legs, then the other, white boots touching down on the floor, toe-heel, toe-heel. Standing once again under his own power, a slow, crooked smile stretched across Skwisgaar's face, a breathy chuckle shaking his shoulders once. It took every ounce of willpower Nathan possessed to tear his eyes away from the curve of those full lips, and he turned to face the other two members of his band.

Murderface had his eyes squeezed closed, cracking one to peek. "Isch it over? Are they done?"

Frowning, Nathan grunted through his nose like a bull, stomping forward to snatch the second bottle of liquor from the bassist's hands. Glass crunched beneath his boots as he retreated wordlessly to his bedroom, passing Magnus on the way out.

The older guitarist shook his head, curly mane swishing. "I coulda told ya… every time Pickles tries to pl--"

"Just. Don't." Nathan pushed through the hall, evicting the gaggle of strangers standing around in his room and slamming the door behind him.

Hours later, after the storm had slowed to only a downpour and the party had fizzled out, Nathan lay awake on his back, staring at the ceiling. From the second his door had closed behind him, his brain had flipped from a crawl to light speed, hurtling through thousands of moments from the last couple of years, all of them centered on interactions with his lead guitarist. Slender fingers brushing against his own as he passed the tv remote, blonde hair tickling against his arm as they drove with the windows down, the nervous fluttery feeling in his belly at the sound of a dorky, throaty chuckle.

Nathan ground the heels of his palms against his eye sockets hard enough to see stars. How long? When did these thoughts start popping up? And when had he started stomping them down, locking them away without acknowledgement? Sure, Skwisgaar was hot, he wasn't blind, he could admit that much. But this wasn't that, this was...he didn't know what this was.

But he needed to find out.

Swinging his legs over the side of his bed, he crept out to the door directly across the hall. He started to knock, then paused, not wanting to wake anyone else in the apartment. Nathan turned the knob and cracked the door enough to wedge his face into the gap.

"Hey. Psst. Skwisgaar, you in here?" Another thought struck him, an irrational jealous pang vibrating through him. "Uh, you alone?"

The red glow of a digital clock was the only source of light in the guitarist's bedroom, a faint silhouette shifted on the bed, backlit in flashes by the blinking 12:00.

"Nat'ans?" came a groggy voice from the covers. "What ams you doing up? What times am it?" He rolled to check the useless clock and groaned in exasperation.

"Can... can I..?" He didn't wait for an invitation, stepping inside and closing the door behind him, leaning back against it and clutching the door knob like an anchor.

As his eyes adjusted he could see Skwisgaar sit up, scrubbing a hand over his face as he tried to wake up. Nathan chewed his bottom lip, the flesh tender in an not-unpleasant way. For the second time tonight his mind blanked on him completely.

"What's de matters?"

He swallowed. "Uh."

"Nat'ans?"

"Uhhhh."

Skwisgaar waited, studying him in the dark, giving him time to organize his thoughts. It was something Nathan had always appreciated about the Swede, having (mostly) learned a second language, he understood the occasional difficulties Nathan ran into expressing himself verbally.

"I uh. Earlier."

"Ja."

"I didn't. I didn't think that."

Skwisgaar shifted on the bed, turning to fully face Nathan, still waiting patiently.

"That it would…"

"Hm?"

Nathan inhaled deeply through his nose, forcing the last words out in a rush. "Wouldbelikethatthefirstime."

He waited, certain that Skwisgaar would brush it off, dismiss it as nothing, a game. Or worse, that he'd laugh. Nathan held his breath, ready to bolt in embarrassment. This was stupid, he was stupid, what had be been thinking, it had been a game, it meant nothing.

"Ams you sayingk you wants a do-overs?"

He could hear the smile in the other man's voice, cadence low and teasing, but without cruelty. Playful.

"I-I uh." He'd used up his words for the day, instead opting for a jerky nod.

A ghostly white hand reached out in the dark, forefinger crooking, beckoning him.

"Come heres den." As Nathan shuffled forward he could see Skwisgaar's eyes shining like a cat's. "Ams a firm believer dats practice make perfects."

#skwisgaar skwigelf #nathan explosion #pickles the drummer #william murderface #dethklok #metalocalypse #nategaar #the tickets were confusing how did i board this ship?#this game is a version i played in my early 20s #you know the days when everyones dumb and extra h*rny 😳#anyway that's the fic let them all kiss ok bye

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moonknightly · 4 years

Text

and you keep me holding on : santiago “pope” garcia x reader (four)

Word Count: 5.3k

Excerpt: “He cries and he screams and he curses every higher power he can think of until his voice is strained with the effort. He bargains, he pleads. He prays, and then he curses again.”

Warnings: Blood, violence, gun violence, cursing, meh

[SERIES MASTERLIST]

OCTOBER 20TH - DAY FOUR

The precinct is busier than usual when Santi walks in the following morning. There are twice as many people, twice as many noises, twice as many reasons for Santi to be annoyed.

So many FBI agents. So many sounds. It’s complete sensory overload.

He stops after taking only a few steps off of the elevator, shaking his head, trying his hardest to push his irritation down. He’d been livid when Cameron announced that she was no longer letting the squad work on the case, and he hadn’t been the only one to let their anger show, but if Santi is being completely honest, he knew it had been coming.

It didn’t make it any easier, though. It felt like giving up in a way, even though that was the last thing he was willing to do.

Giving up would never be an option.

And fuck, the idea that it would one day be expected of him made his blood boil.

Santi takes a couple of deep breaths. He lets his eyes fall shut for just a moment, willing himself to stay calm. He shakes his head once, twice, and then starts to move towards an empty desk Cameron was letting him use. He can hear bits and pieces of the different conversations going on around him as he walks, but he can’t bring himself to actually pay attention to what’s being said.

He plops himself down into his chair, and before he has even a moment to make himself comfortable, he feels someone come up behind him and stop just a few feet away. He twists in his chair, spinning it around to face whoever has decided to sneak up on him and was surprised to notice that it wasn’t one, but two people — both agents.

“Need something?”

Santi doesn’t mean to sound so sarcastic, and while one of the agents chuckles a little bit, the other looks rather unimpressed with his attitude.

The second one — the one wearing a glare that quickly morphs into a arrogant smirk — shoves his hands into his pockets and tilts his head curiously at Santi.

“Maybe.”

Yeah, he fucking hates this guy.

Santi waits for the agent to continue, but several seconds pass in silence and he can’t stop himself from slowly raising an eyebrow in question.

“Okay…” Santi mumbles, dragging out the “y”, still waiting.

“I’m Agent Barnes, and this is Agent Graves.”

Santi glances towards the other agent, Graves, who smiles gently at him and gives him a quick nod. He definitely likes this one better.

Barnes rocks back and forth on his heels, still smirking to himself as he says her name under his breath. “We’d like to talk to you about her disappearance, if that’s alright with you.”

Santi can’t help but flinch at the cold way in which Barnes says her name. He can tell the sudden movement piqued Barnes interest, but he isn’t about to explain himself, doesn’t feel the need to.

“Sure, I’d love to talk about my wife,” Santi responds, eyes narrowed and lips upturned into something that resembles a grimace.

Barnes takes a few steps forward and comes to lean against Santi’s desk while Graves stays where he’d been standing. Pope folds his arms across his chest.

“When was the last time you saw her?” Barnes asks, looking down at Santi, his eyes staying trained on his face. Santi holds his gaze, taking it like some sort of challenge almost.

He absolutely loathes the bastard.

“On the sixteenth. She stopped by after she left the hospital and I walked her downstairs.”

“And at what time was that?”

“At about eight,” Santi answers, shrugging his shoulders gently. He hadn’t been looking at the clock, he’d been looking at her.

“And why didn’t you go home with her?”

“I had a lot of paperwork and she was tired. I needed to stay and there was no reason for her to.”

Barnes nods his head once, seeming to think over the information Santi just gave him in a way that makes him roll his eyes again.

“And what time would you say you made it home that night?”

“You know, I’m starting to feel like this is an interrogation, not an interview. Look, I’ve already told all of this to-”

“It’s just a simple question.”

Santi is frustrated, because all of the times, all of the facts, they’re all written down in her file, and he’s positive that the agents had already looked through the notes.

“About fifteen minutes after midnight.”

The passive expression Barnes is sporting quickly morphs into a smirk — one that honestly makes Santi want to deck him but also makes him so sick to his stomach at the same time.

“How long does it usually take for you to get home?”

“Twenty minutes, give or take.”

“That’s funny.”

Santi furrows his eyebrows, ready to slam his hand down onto the desk and demand Barnes just get to the fucking point, but before he can even blink the agent is continuing on with his words.

“You scanned out of your office at eleven that night. Only twenty minutes home...”

No. There’s no fucking way he’s about to-

“That leaves almost an hour that you have unaccounted for.”

Santi is completely and utterly floored at what Barnes is implying. He can only stare in shock for several seconds, jaw slack, tips of his ears turning bright red as heat flooded his body.

“You think that I killed my wife.”

It isn’t a question, but rather a statement — a statement that Santi never imagined he would find himself saying. He scoffs and shakes his head in disbelief.

“We don’t-” Graves starts to say, but his partner quickly cuts him off, silencing him with a simple wave of his hand that only pisses Santi off even further.

“I didn’t say that,” Barnes says, voice lacking any distinguishable emotion.

Santi scoffs again and quickly stands, feeling like it gave him some sort of advantage even though he was several inches shorter than the other man.

“I would never do anything to hurt my wife.”

“I’m not saying that you did, but maybe,” Barnes starts, that damn smirk returning full force. “Maybe you and Nathan...”

“Okay, now you’ve gone too far,” Santi fumes, taking a step closer to Barnes, getting ready to wind his arm back so he can just-.

“Garcia,” Cameron calls out from where she’s standing, about ten feet away.

Santi hadn’t noticed her approach.

“Do you hear this bullshit? Did you hear-”

“Santiago,” she interrupts, effectively silencing him. She rarely calls him by his full name, and when she does, it was used as a form of comfort that Santi didn’t even know he needed until just now. He swallows the lump in his throat and glances towards his feet, trying to push his anger away, giving way to the shame at the fact that someone could ever think he’d hurt her.

“I wouldn’t hurt her. You know I wouldn’t do that.”

Cameron places her hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle yet firm squeeze like she’s done so many times recently. “I know.”

Of course she knows. Santi loves her more than any person had ever loved another. She is, and always will be, his entire world, his reason for getting out of bed in the morning and his reason for breathing, and Cameron can’t understand how someone could even insinuate that he might be involved in her kidnapping. Santi has a temper and that’s no secret to anyone, but he would never, ever do something to hurt his wife, not even in the midst of the most heated argument would he imagine laying a single finger on her.

“I wouldn’t.”

Santi looks towards Cameron with such hopelessness and desperation trapped in his irises. He’s pleading with her, begging her to just believe him. He’s convinced that she agrees with Barnes.

“We all know.”

She squeezes again, and after her words have a few seconds to settle in, it seems to be enough, at least for the moment.

Santi’s shoulders seem to relax, just a fraction, and he sucks in a sharp breath. He nods his head once, solemnly so, and mumbles something that sounds like an excuse under his breath before retreating towards the locker rooms. No one follows, he doesn’t want anyone to. He just needs a few seconds to himself, a moment to push the nausea and the nerves and the worry away, even though he knows they would only return.

What Santi really needs is for this to all just be some sort of twisted, fucked up nightmare.

What Santi really needs is her.

OCTOBER 21ST — DAY FIVE

Cameron makes Santi take the rest of the day off. He tries to argue with her, giving her the same reasons he had before, but nothing seems to convince her to let him stay. Ideally, she didn’t even want him to leave Jay’s apartment the next day either, and this time, he decides to just shut up and listen.

She wants him to sleep in until noon, watch as many movies as he possibly can, call his mother back, and actually eat something more than a few bites of whatever fast food or microwavable meal he’d been forced to buy.

Normally, Santi wouldn’t complain about doing any of those things, but today is different. He needs something to focus on that will keep his mind quiet. He feels that he needs a distraction today more than any other day so far.

Because today is their two year wedding anniversary, and he is losing his mind by doing nothing.

It’s just after six p.m., and he’d woken up at five in the morning with no possible chance of getting back to sleep. The TV is turned off, and Santi has no desire to stand up and find the remote, and even if he does turn something on, he knows he won’t be able to properly focus on it. The bagel he’d made that morning is still sitting half eaten on the coffee table, and he didn’t even bother to make himself lunch.

Nothing Cameron wanted him to do came even close to being done, but Santi just can’t bring himself to do anything other than play a word game on his phone.

But he knows that he needs to call his mother back. He still hasn’t spoken to her, and she’s still calling him a few times each day, leaving message after message each time she’s met with the familiar “beep” of his voicemail. His father had started to do the same, even going as far as to send him a text message that read “If we didn’t know any better, we would think you’re missing too”. He deleted it right after opening it.

He just needs to get it over with

Santi sighs gently, closing out of his game and pulling up his contacts, scrolling until he found his mother’s name. He hits the call button, his stomach flipping as he waits.

She answers after the first ring, the worry in her voice sounding in Santi’s ears, the guilt of not answering any of her hundreds of calls suddenly weighing on his shoulders. He didn’t mean to cause her any sort of panic or grief, but what did he think ignoring her calls would do, especially in a situation like this?

“Hey Mamá,” he mumbles into the phone, voice hoarse from not having used it all day.

The relief in his mother’s voice after she hears him speak instantly makes that guilt grow into something that nearly swallows him whole, and his chest tightens as he listens to her cry in what he hoped was ease after finally hearing from him and not hurt because she just now heard from him.

About five minutes pass before the conversation moves from Santi’s apparent inability to answer his phone to what he knows his mother has been calling about, and what has been the only thing on his mind for the last five days.

“Have you found anything?”

Santi feels a lump form in his throat, and he suddenly loses the ability to speak properly. This has been his reality for the better part of a week — talking about her and thinking about her every second of every day, which really isn’t any different from normal except for the fact that it now made his heart ache rather than fill him with joy.

He briefly tells his mother what happened in Princeton and Allentown, though he assumes she’d already heard. If you turned on the news for even two minutes, you would see her name and her picture flash across the screen, accompanied by Nathan’s, which never failed to make Santi’s rage blossom all over again.

“At least I know she’s alive,” Santi mutters after a brief pause where neither of them could find the right words to say, thinking back to the picture from the other day. “The amount of blood...Mamá, I was so fuckin’ scared that she was de-”

Santi’s voice cracks, and he can’t bring himself to finish his words. Saying that he’s afraid out loud is probably the most candid he’s been since the start of it all. He still hasn’t let himself cry, not really, but the one tear that fell down his cheek is all it took for the dam to break loose.

He pulls the phone away from his ear, but he doesn’t hang up. He simply lets it fall to the couch beside him as he brings his other hand up to his mouth, covering it as a broken sob passes his lips. His mother continues to listen on the other end, and her heart shatters for her son as well as his wife. She recounts an almost silent prayer just as Santi curses God’s name, and she can’t even bring herself to chastise him for using such language. She would’ve done the same if she were feeling even half of what Santi is.

All of Santi’s emotions continue to pour out of him in a violent downfall, like a storm that held no mercy, leaving a gaping hole in his chest that threatens to swallow him whole. He cries and he screams and he curses every higher power he can think of until his voice is strained with the effort. He bargains, he pleads. He prays, and then he curses again. His mother listens the entire time.

Several minutes pass like this, and once he’s sure that there are no more tears left for him to cry, after he feels like he would pass out if he shed even one more, he picks the phone back up slowly, though he stays completely silent. After several seconds, his mother says his name gently.

“I’m here,” he mumbles, no emotion left in his voice at all.

His mother seems to be thinking about her words, choosing them carefully as to not upset him any further. “Maybe you should think about coming home for a few days.”

Santi doesn’t respond, and after another moment spent in silence, she speaks again. “You know, I just don’t think you should be alone tonight…”

“You remembered,” he grumbles quietly, his voice hardly audible.

“Of course I did Santiago, but regardless of whether it’s your anniversary or not, maybe you just-”

“You know what Mamá,” he interrupts, cutting her off. “I, uh — I actually have plans tonight.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, Jay just got this new video game and we were gonna order a pizza or somethin’ for dinner,” he lies, though there was absolutely nothing in his tone to give him away. “I won’t be alone, promise.”

She seems to accept his answer, and doesn’t question him any further. She even sounds slightly enthusiastic about it, saying that it sounds like the kind of distraction Santi needs. He has to physically bite his tongue in order to keep himself from scoffing.

They say their goodbyes shortly after, and Santi throws his phone onto the couch cushion beside him, a deep sigh escaping his lips as he stares at the floor for what feels like an hour when it was probably only two minutes.

He and Jay don’t have any plans.

There’s no video game, no pizza. He feels slightly bad for lying to his mother, but a larger part of him just wants to save her the worry and trouble.

He quickly stands from the couch and switches out his sweatpants for a pair of jeans, but can’t find the effort to change out of his old PT sweatshirt, the one she always stole from him. He runs his fingers through his hair, not bothering to style it. He hasn’t shaved in a few days and he’s sporting a decent beard that he knew she would love.

He grabs his wallet and the spare key Jay’d given him, picked up his phone and sent him a text, also lying to him about his location and his plans, and set out the door.

Not ten seconds pass before Jay is texting him back, telling Santi they’d caught a case and he wouldn’t be home until later that night anyways.

Santi doesn’t think twice about it, and simply shoves his phone into his pocket before heading to the subway.

Their apartment is dark when Santi arrives a half hour later. He doesn’t bother to flip on the light in the entryway, and takes a moment to just stand there, his back against the wooden door, fingers tracing each groove.

It almost feels normal, like any other day. It feels like Santi had just gotten off work for the night and he’s taking a moment to decompress before he would make his way to the bedroom, where he would find her curled up under the sheets, her head on his pillow as she waited for him to come home to her.

But she always made sure that the lamp in the living room was on for him, and she had a habit of leaving the TV running until he got in. Neither are on, and only silence and darkness and solitude surround him.

Santi kicks his shoes off by the door before pushing away from it, taking a few tentative steps into the apartment. The room is slightly illuminated from the glittering lights of Manhattan, just enough for Santi to see around the outlines and shapes of things. It’s strange — everything looks the same, smells the same, but it feels so completely different. So completely foreign.

Lifeless.

A few things are out of place, like the blanket they kept on the back of the couch, now on the floor, and the couple of books they kept stacked on the coffee table are shifted a few inches to the left. Santi folds the blanket and puts it back in its place, moves the books back, and then walks slowly into the bedroom.

The smell of her perfume instantly hits him upon entering, and he has to grip the doorframe to keep himself from stumbling backwards. He sways on his feet, and closes his eyes for just a moment, taking a deep breath to, hopefully, steady himself as he reaches to his right to flip on the light. He keeps his eyes tightly shut for another moment before slowly opening them to finally take in his surroundings.

The bedroom is far worse than the main living area. The pillows from the bed are tossed to the floor, the sheets and comforter twisted together in a knot that Santi knew he would struggle to get out. There’s a small strand of yellow police tape on the floor that Santi doesn’t understand why it’s there, as they had only blocked the front door with it. Both of their bedside drawers are still pulled open, and he can see that the bathroom light is still on.

The bathroom.

Santi moves without intending to do so, and he feels his feet carry him towards their ensuite almost as if he’s on autopilot. He reaches the threshold in just a few short seconds, and at first, his brain doesn’t exactly process what he’s seeing, doesn’t fully make the connection and he only stands there, confused and bewildered.

No one’s been by to clean up yet, and blood still covers every surface Santi chooses to set his eyes on, only now, it’s dry, and more brown than it is red. The shower curtain had been taken away by the crime scene techs, as had the bathmat and the various hand towels that had been covered in crimson. Santi is almost positive that there isn’t as much glass on the floor as there had been before, which made sense — the techs would have taken some of it as well. But the floor and the walls and the counter...it looks like the kind of murder scene one would see in a grotesque horror film.

There’s even a handprint on the side of the tub that Santi knows belonged to himself. He’d used the tub to hold himself up, to keep himself from collapsing further after falling to his knees. He looks towards the cabinet under the sink to find a second handprint, right where he knew it would be. He had caught himself there, too.

He stands in the doorway for what must have been five minutes at least, staring at the blood and the glass and the wreckage, and he feels absolutely nothing. If anything, he feels completely and utterly numb to it all. Part of him can’t believe that what he’s looking at is real, and the other part won’t allow his brain to connect the dots.

He knows it’s her blood, in their cozy little apartment in Manhattan, and yet, he still feels like he’s standing in the middle of any old crime scene, where any old victim had been murdered by their enraged boyfriend. He’d seen it so many times before, back when he was a detective. It doesn’t seem any different now.

He tries to make sense of it in his head, tries to use sound logic and the knowledge of what he’d learned in his psychology classes throughout college to figure out why he’s feeling the way that he is, but nothing made sense. He just feels so entirely disconnected.

Another few minutes pass before Santi is finally able to turn his gaze away from the carnage. A small bout of nausea hits his stomach, but he chooses to ignore it. He’s learned that if he doesn’t pay attention to it, the less likely he is to lose what little his stomach holds at any given time. He wipes a stray tear away from his cheek, one he wouldn’t have noticed if the cool air from the vent hadn’t hit his face, and steps away from the bathroom.

His next destination is the closet. Nothing in there has been touched or moved to his knowledge, and for some reason, he feels comfort in that. He sighs gently and grabs an empty bag from the corner. This time, he’s more careful when choosing what clothes he would bring with him, because he has no plans on returning to the apartment anytime soon, not without a stack of moving boxes and a U-Haul at the very least. He decides right then and there that he’s breaking the lease early and finding somewhere else to move immediately. Just having the apartment in his name makes his skin crawl and he wants out, wants nothing to do with it. And not only that, but as well as he knows his wife, he knows that if-

When they find her, she won’t want to be anywhere near the apartment.

But he also knows that there’s a part of her that will want to keep it just to prove a point, to show that she’s more than what had been done to her, and the thought of that makes him smile just a tiny bit.

“Stubborn ass,” he mumbles under his breath, a small, sad chuckle following just after.

He needs to get out of there.

Santiago gathers all of the clothes he figures he’ll need and turns to leave the closet when his eyes catch a familiar flash of gray, just like they had five nights before.

Nevada is still where Santi had dropped him, just lying on the floor, forgotten. She would’ve been so upset had she seen him just tossed aside like that, and that thought also causes Santi to grin to himself. She loves that damn wolf more than anything, would often swear that she loves him more than she loves Santi but he’s always thought it was so adorable how attached she was to the stuffed animal that he doesn’t even mind. She’d always treated Nevada as if he were a living, breathing thing.

He walks over to him, gently kneeling down to take him into his hands, his smile growing slightly as he feels the matted “fur” against his fingertips.

Santi slowly flips Nevada over, finding that her rings are still shoved onto the tail, just like they had been before. At first, he didn’t think that he would find them there, and he can’t exactly explain to himself why. He gently pulls them off, letting the cool metal settle in the palm of his hand.

All he can do is stare at them for several seconds, and it feels as if a rock settles and grows in the pit of his stomach the longer he he holds them. He closes his fist around the two rings, mumbling something that sounds like a promise — a promise that he’ll find her, and that he’ll bring her justice no matter the outcome — before shoving them into the pocket of his jeans.

He glances at his own wedding band for a moment, sitting on his ring finger, the silver glistening in the light, just like it had every single day since they said “I do”.

Two whole years to the day.

He’d planned to take her away for the weekend to celebrate their anniversary. It was supposed to be special, romantic, just the two of them alone in Boston without a care in the world. He’d had it planned for months now.

Does she know what day it is, wherever she is? Does she remember, or even realize how many days have passed?

Fuck that. Santi hates himself for even wondering, because it made him feel so completely selfish.

And he hates himself even more when he reaches to slide his wedding band off of his finger.

He failed her, he doesn’t deserve to wear it. He doesn’t deserve to call himself her husband.

When-

If they find her — which also makes Santi hate himself, because he’s beginning to pay attention to the numbers and the statistics and he’s starting to look at it as a recovery instead of a rescue — will she even want to still be married to him?

Will she still love him? Or will she hate him for letting this happen to her?

He slowly drops his hand, leaving the band on his ring finger. He’s sure he’ll never be able to take it off. Even if he never sees her again, he was sure the band will remain on his finger until he’s rotting in the ground (like he deserved, but he pushed the thought away, not wanting to wallow in his own self loathing).

He will always be her husband, unless she explicitly tells him that it’s no longer what she wants.

Santi shakes his head and tries to turn his brain off. He doesn’t want to think about that right now.

He shoves Nevada into his bag, zips it close, and makes his way out towards the foyer. He turns off every light in the apartment before leaving, locking the door behind him without looking back once. He can’t stand to be in there any longer, not liking where his mind is headed while standing in the middle of all that had once been theirs.

He arrives back at Jay’s shortly after, expecting him to still be gone on whatever case he’d been talking about, surprised when he finds the other detective standing in the middle of the living room. It looks as if he’d been pacing, his hands on his hips and a blank expression on his face that Santi can’t read.

“What’s up?” Santi asks, throwing his bag onto the floor by the door, deciding he would worry about finding a spot to put it away later.

Jay stays silent for close to a minute, seeming to be lost in thought before he finally speaks, voice low and eyes looking everywhere but at Santi. His tone sounds cold yet so full of emotion at the same time.

“Nathan emailed you a video tonight. Your account is being monitored and we intercepted it before you could see it.”

Santi’s blood runs cold, and he feels frozen in place. He wants to ask Jay what it is, but he can’t make himself speak, doesn’t remember how to use his voice. Instead, he just swallows the lump that had formed in his throat and looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue.

It takes Jay several seconds to speak again, and when he finally does, Santi is sure that he would’ve preferred for him to just stay fucking quiet.

“Santi, Nathan shot her.”

Jay has tears in his eyes, and Santi still can’t move. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t fucking move move. Can’t speak, can’t think, can’t process the other man’s words. He can’t do anything.

“They’re working on tracing the email but we...the FBI said they have enough reason to believe that she’s-”

Jay can’t bring himself to finish his sentence, but Santi understands. He understands perfectly, though he wished he didn’t.

Nathan shot her, and they have enough reason to believe it was fatal.

But it doesn’t sit right with Santiago.

Something about it feels off, feels wrong. He was sure he would’ve felt something in his gut, like people say they do in books and movies when someone they care about is hurt or in trouble. But then again, he hadn’t felt anything out of the ordinary when she had been taken. But if she had been killed, he was almost certain he would have felt something — some instinct in the back of his mind, anything.

“She’s not,” Santi snaps, voice hard with emotion though it broke on the last word at the same time. “She’s not dead.”

“Santi,” Jay chastises sternly, exasperation evident in his voice.

“She’s not dead.”

“You didn’t see the video!” Jay yells, sliding his hand down his face as the pain and anger takes over his entire body. “You didn’t see it and you should be thankful that you didn’t have to.”

It’s obvious that what Jay had seen in the video traumatized him, and was enough to make him think for himself that she’s dead, but Santi just can’t accept it. He doesn’t know if it’s the denial talking, or if what he’s feeling is actually real, but after repeating himself for a third time, he feels the world come crashing down around him, he feels everything stop.

Santi’s knees give out, and he crumples, eyes rolling into the back of his head. Jay catches him before he can hit the floor.

Everything is black.

Santi’s heart, his world — it’s nothing but black.

#santiago pope garcia #santiago pope garcia x reader #triple frontier #triple frontier x reader #triple frontier fic

189 notes · View notes

pricemarshfield · 3 years

Text

i dig you

A fluff & angst Amberprice fic. Chapter 1/2. Read on AO3 here.

Chloe still seems shocked every time Rachel sits next to her at lunch. She hides it well, snarks at anyone who questions them, teases Rachel about the plays she still brings to read and reread again and again.

But Rachel's pretty insightful, and she notices when Chloe's eyes widen, when she shifts like she's not quite sure what to do, when her smile dims a little when Victoria loudly questions why Rachel's still hanging around the soon-to-be-dropout.

She's not sure what to do about it. If she just tells her no, Chloe, I do want to be here still, she's sure Chloe'd find a way to take it the wrong way, question why she needed to bring it up, deny she ever doubted it in the first place. One or all of those things. She loves her, but her abandonment issues run deep. Rachel could punch Victoria, but she'd definitely get kicked out for that, and she doesn't want to risk law school.

So she makes an effort to include Chloe in everything. Chloe sits in on rehearsals, ignoring Mr. Keaton's increasingly desperate attempts to get her to join or at least take the intro elective class. They get high in the junkyard, find a little room and make it their own with graffiti (with actual spray paint, thank you, not a Sharpie). Rachel watches Chloe's weird movies, Chloe watches Rachel's Broadway bootlegs, they listen to punk and drive around in the truck, fabric of the seat replaced so they can't see the deep, dark red stain from when she got stabbed.

It doesn't change anything. Chloe still looks at her like it'll be the last time they hang out every time they have some minor disagreement, texts a hundred times in a row begging her not to leave her every time she gets drunk without Rachel there to reassure her in person. It's...a little exhausting, if she's being honest. She loves Chloe, she wants to help her! But it's...sometimes she's just trying to have fun with some other group, and it's been three parties of that in a row.

"You texting your girlfriend?" asks some well-meaning newbie to the Vortex Club. Rachel opens her mouth to deny it, already dreading having to make herself heard over Victoria's snide commentary and Nathan's barely-veiled homophobia, but then her phone goes off again, and again, and one more time for good measure.

"I do have to take this," she says, and pretends she can't hear the conversation that kicks up before the door's fully shut behind her.

The cool, fresh air outside is refreshing, and she takes a couple deep breaths before calling Chloe.

"Rachel," Chloe says, voice slurring enough that Rachel's heart immediately kicks into a higher gear.

"Hey, Chlo," Rachel says, a nickname she has not used once in her life. "What's up?"

"Wher're you?" Chloe asks instead. Rachel doesn't hear the sound of the train, so probably not in the junkyard? But it could just not be passing.

"At Blackwell," Rachel says, which isn't, technically, a lie. She's on school grounds, and she says it casually enough that Chloe doesn't immediately push. "Do you want to come over? We could put on a movie, light some incense."

Chloe laughs, and the sound is light and easy before it cuts out abruptly. She can't hear anything on the other end.

"Chloe? Are you okay?"

"I'm fucking fine," Chloe says, and she keeps her voice quiet, so that means she's at her house. Rachel's tipsiness from earlier in the night has long since faded, she's probably good to drive, and she really, really doesn't want to leave Chloe alone. There's an edge to her voice that Rachel doesn't trust, reminds her of the fragility in her mom's voice the last time she visited before apparently disappearing off the face of the earth.

Rachel hopes she's in rehab. But she thinks Rose would tell her if that was the case.

"Okay," Rachel says. "I'd still like to hang out, if you're free."

"'Course I'm free," Chloe says. "i don't have any fuckin' friends, do I." It's not said like a question.

"You have me."

"Right," Chloe says. "Just the best of friends."

Rachel's already in the parking lot, trying to remember where the hell she'd parked the car. (Her dad's: knowing how much evidence they have on him working with Damon, he's been inclined to give her everything she wants, especially now that she's already met her mom. Rose still tries, too.) "Yeah. We're best friends, Chloe. You're the person I care about most in this shithole town."

"Yeah," Chloe says. "Yeah, when are we leaving, again? Thought you wanted to leave more than anything?"

"I did!" Rachel says, then corrects, "I do. I had to heal up after getting stabbed, remember?"

It's shitty and manipulative, but it works; Chloe's irritation switches to concern. "Yeah. I remember."

"But I am feeling better now," Rachel says. "I'm ready to go when you are."

"Now?"

"Sure," Rachel says. "Tell me where you are."

"Step-dick's house," Chloe says, quieter now. "Do you mean it?"

"Of course I mean it," Rachel says. "Do you still have all the clothes I packed you?"

"Yeah," Chloe says, voice hitching a little like she's about to cry. "I do."

"Awesome," Rachel says, excited despite herself. "Then I'll see you soon."

---

Rachel wants to be ready for the grand adventure with her friend at her side, but Chloe's house is more than a couple minutes' drive from Blackwell, which gives the logical parts of her plenty of time to ask her what the fuck she thinks she's doing.

They have no money. Rachel's barely gotten her first credit card, and it has, like, 1500 dollars on it. Which is a lot of money, but she's already spent some of it on alcohol, on their half-decent fakes, on Venmoing Frank for their weed or the other things she's tentatively tried. So they have about a thousand, which will cover gas to LA, at least, and probably food, and do they really need hotel rooms?

But of course they need hotel rooms, they can't just park by the side of the road in the middle-of-nowhere freeways. Those are like...fifty bucks? A hundred bucks? They can share a bed, that should make it cheaper.

So. A thousand will get them to LA. Then they'll...get jobs, Rachel guesses.

She's got this idea of herself working at a diner, wearing some cute outfit with pops of red, serving coffee and making small talk with the chefs while she waits for her big break. But that's only good for the modelling; she wants to go into law one day, too.

Maybe she can transfer to a school there? Showing she's independent enough to live on her own (with Chloe, of course, but without her parents there) has to look good on an application?

Or reckless and irresponsible, like her dad keeps calling Chloe.

All-in-all, Rachel's doubting everything in her entire life as she pulls up to Chloe's house. Chloe isn't outside, and she's about to throw some pebbles at her window when the front door opens with barely a creak.

"Did you oil the hinges?" Rachel asks, trying to keep the tone light. "Handy."

Chloe beams at her, wearing Rachel's old tarot shirt. Fuck, her tarot decks, she wants to bring those. All her things. At least some clothes. Probably some food, too?

"Do you have all the stuff you wanna bring?" Rachel asks. "We might need to stop by my place."

"That's what you said last time," Chloe says, but looks at Rachel, wearing her party outfit--only a tank top and some high shorts, which are cute but not great for the only outfit to have in a big life change--and shrugs.

Rachel breathes a sigh of relief. "Plus, they'll get mad if we steal the car. And gas is gonna be expensive enough."

"Don't care," Chloe says. "I'll take the truck."

Chloe, who is visibly swaying on her feet, is absolutely not good to drive. Rachel thinks for a second--if she drives her dad's car back, Chloe can be in the passenger seat, but then they'll have to walk with all her bags back to the truck. If they take the truck, Rachel can leave the keys and a note explaining where it is. They'll be mad, but whatever.

"Can I drive your truck, actually?" Rachel asks, and Chloe shrugs again. It won't be the first time behind the wheel of the truck, but it will be the first time on actual roads, not the paths they'd cleared in the junkyard. "Thanks, Chloe."

"Sure," Chloe says, tossing her the keys and yanking at the handle on her side. Rachel opens her door, reaches over to unlock the passenger side so Chloe can climb in. "What are we getting?"

"Clothes," Rachel says. "Maybe my tarot decks."

A couple of the plays she has physical copies of. Any and all drugs left in her room. Her flashlight that Chloe made for her. The important things.

"Okay," Chloe says. "You mean it? We're gonna leave?"

"I do," Rachel says, and she should kiss her. She should. She has before. She wants to. But she looks at Chloe, eyes still wide with disbelief that Rachel will follow her, will help lead the way out. If she pushes this, and she's wrong...

Rachel grabs her hand instead, smiles at her. Chloe squeezes it, and they keep holding hands the whole way to the Amber house. Rachel hopes she won't ever let go.

#amberprice #rachel amber #chloe price #life is strange #my fics #OKAY done crossposting sorry for spam everyone

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ghostsoapgirl · 4 years

Text

Touch - Duke Crocker x Reader (she)

Taglist: @fiore-della-valle @iamtheholyghost @dukewuornos @cookiedoughmeagain @mythoughtsaretroubled @parker-haven-wuornos @afoxnamedmulder

Touch - Duke Crocker

Rating: T

Words: 3K

Working at The Grey Gull was the best decision She could have made. Coming to Haven was a close second, but the Gull was beginning to feel safe. She’d only been there a week, but Duke and Audrey had a way of making her feel less anxious. When she first arrived in Haven, she had hidden from the world, wearing long sleeves, hoodies, gloves, whatever she could to cover any inch of visible skin. Working with Duke though, that changed her. He taught her how to avoid people and still be able to be comfortable in the clothes she decided to wear. She still wore the gloves though, too afraid not to.

Of course Duke eventually asked about her trouble. Why come to Haven if you weren’t troubled. It’s not like people were taking vacations to Haven, Maine, spook central. She tried explaining it but that wasn’t enough for Duke Crocker.

“I don’t believe you can drop a man with emotions.” She wanted to laugh, she really did. Except she knew just how well her trouble worked.

“I’m telling you Duke, you don’t want to experience it.”

“Except I really, really do.” He gave her that crooked smile with that wicked glint in his eyes and she caved. She felt Duke’s eyes on her the rest of the night but she said nothing. The minute the doors of the Gull were locked, Duke was standing in front of her reaching for her gloved hands.

“Wait, Duke.” She took a deep breath, trying to put into words exactly what was going to happen when she touched him. “When I touch you, not only will you feel what I feel, but you’ll feel it ten times as strong as I do.”

“That can’t be all bad,” he interrupted her. She figured he wouldn’t listen to what she was saying until he experienced it, so she motioned for him to sit down while she removed her gloves. Once he was sitting, she tried to think where to touch him. She settled for his arm, right below where his sleeves were rolled up.

“I’m not saying this won’t hurt, but it won’t be pleasant at all.” Before Duke could rattle off some sentence like ‘I can take it” she placed her palm flat against his skin, fingers wrapping around right below his elbow. His eyes went wide, his breath catching in his lungs, face white as a sheet. She held it there for only a second before Duke’s eyes closed and he slumped over in the chair. She removed her hand, hastily putting her gloves back on before adjusting him to where his head was resting on the table.

She grabbed a glass of water and a cold rag from the kitchen. Some of the people she had touched since the troubles returned woke up nauseous or just straight up puked the minute they regained consciousness. Duke was beginning to stir as she returned to the table. She placed the glass of water directly in front of him, placing the cold rag on his neck. She made sure the only contact she had was through her gloves. She didn’t know what would happen to someone if she touched them with bare skin back to back, and she wasn’t about to find out with her new boss.

“I told you, it’s not fun.”

“Fuck, that’s what you feel? All day?” He was sitting up now, the rag falling from his neck as he took a swig from the glass of water. All She could do was nod, trying to hide the embarrassment rising on her cheeks. He must have noticed because he began to reach for her, stopping short of her wrist, “Why do you carry so much anxiety?”

“I constantly have to worry about if I’m going to make people pass out, just from my touch Duke. I have to constantly be vigilant. If I focus really really hard, I can handle passing glances with only minimal emotional transfer. What you just felt is what happens if I let my guard down for even a second.”

“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do, to help with the anxiety?” She couldn’t help the smile rising on her face. Of course he would want to help her. Pure, selfless Duke always thinking about others. She knew, from stories, that he hasn’t always been this was. Apparently Nathan and Audrey had been really good for him.

“I just, I can keep the wall up as I call it, during the day. But when I’m done with work, and we just relax and have a drink, that’s when it’s really hard. Just promise me you won’t touch me without warning? I couldn’t handle it if something happened to you because of me.” Duke nodded, drinking from his glass of water again. “I’m gonna head back to the hotel. This has been an interesting day.”

As she was grabbing her things to leave, she could feel Duke’s eyes following her every move. Ignoring it was easy at first as she had to gather everything up but when she began to head to the door, she couldn’t ignore it any longer. “Did i do something wrong?”

“No, of course not,” he replied quickly, shaking his head as if to gather his thoughts. “I just, uh, if you’re planning on staying in Haven, you should really have a proper place to live.”

“I’ve been looking, but surprisingly the market isn’t that great here,” she ended on a laugh, her bag beginning to slip off of her shoulder. “I live on a boat,” Duke stated. When he didn’t continue she nodded, a soft “I know” leaving her lips. “I live on a boat, and I have like 4 spare rooms. You could rent one of those if you wanted? It's got a kitchen and a couple bathrooms and everything?”

“Knowing what I can do,” she gestured to her gloved hands, “you not only want me to work with you, but you want to share a living space with me?” WHen Duke simply nodded, she shook her head as she readjusted her bag strap. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’ll check out of the hotel in the morning.” With that, Duke offered her a ride to what would be her new home. As Duke helped her into the truck, she made sure he only came into contact with the covered parts of her arms.

Duke showed her around the boat, showing her which room and bathroom would be hers. He was pleasantly surprised when the extra rooms all had sheets and blankets with them. She honestly expected just a mattress and a random throw blanket he had lying around. Once he was done showing her the rest of the boat, he decided he was going to head to bed. She figured he was exhausted from the night's events. Knowing she should get some sleep instead of exploring, her curiosity got the better of her. She changed into loose pajama pants and a tank top before heading to the kitchen to make a drink.

Exploring the boat was actually scarier than she expected it to be. She didn’t remember which floor she was on now but she knew she’d gotten turned around. The hallway she was in was dark so she ran the hand not holding her drink against the wall looking for a light switch, or honestly a switch of any kind. She followed the wall until she found the steps leading up. She ascended them in darkness, her heart beating so loud she assumed the neighbors could hear it.

When she was back on level ground, she reached around, sure she had to be in the common or kitchen area. Instead of a counter or couch, she touched a bare chest, not able to silence the scream that tore from her throat. Whoever she had touched dropped to the ground in a heap, no more than a strangled noise making it from their throat.

Trying to quell the panic rising in her chest, she eventually found a counter, setting her drink down and flipping any switch she could get her fingers on. The lights came on just as the person on the floor began to stir. Her panic ebbed away as she realized the person was none other than Duke. She ran to him, kneeling next to him and reaching for him. She caught her hands at the last second, sitting down on the cold floor and tucking them into her pajama bottoms to prevent any further urge to touch.

Duke was sitting up now, leaning against one of the couches she was looking for. He pushed the hair out of his face, gathering it into the band around his wrist and tying it low on his head. When he was done he just looked at her and laughed.

“Remind me to never, ever scare you again.” His laughter was breathless and it did weird things to her stomach that she tried desperately to ignore.

“I’m so sorry Duke,” she began apologetically. “You were supposed to be asleep and I was just looking around. I wasn’t snooping, just getting a feel for the place.”

“I don’t know if you’ve ever been on a boat before, but there's absolutely nothing you can’t hear on here.” She laughed, not able to help the nervous energy rolling off of her. Duke got to his feet, offering her a hand and then thinking better of it. She used the couch and the space he had given her to get back to her feet before offering an awkward goodnight and heading towards what she hoped was her room.

From that night on, she never walked the boat without making sure Duke knew first. It had been a couple of months since that night and luckily, they had had no more accidental touching and passing out. She worked full time at the Gull and when she wasn’t working she was either with Duke on the boat, or Audrey and Nathan working on cases. In the past month they began to realize that her trouble wasn’t all bad. If she focused hard enough, she could use her trouble to calm other people. It came in handy the most when other troubled people were dealing with anxiety, fear or even grief. She’d worked a few cases so far, and almost every case she was able to keep the person calm long enough for Audrey and Nathan to explain what was going on and how to fix it.

She had just got back from helping with someone’s fire trouble when she found Duke sitting on the deck of the boat, two drinks in hand. He offered her one without a word. She accepted, setting her bag down before flopping in a chair next to Duke. They had developed a close enough friendship that silences like this were comfortable. SHe enjoyed just being near him, his presence having some sort of calming effect on her. She noticed the more time she spent with Duke, the less anxiety she actually felt.

On extremely busy nights, leading to some of the worst anxiety she had experienced, they would just sit on the boat and share a drink in the quiet of the night. By the time they said their goodnights, she didn’t feel even an ounce of anxiety. SHe told Duke as much, when the thought popped into her head.

“You still avoid me like the plague,” he offered, his beer tipped towards her. She couldn’t figure out what was different tonight. He wasn’t drunk. They’d been there before. He wasn’t angry or sad from what she could tell, but there was something lurking behind those brown eyes that she couldn’t put her finger on.

“Duke, I don’t avoid you. I just, you don’t understand what it’s like.” She tried desperately to keep the irritation from her voice, but the look on Duke’s face said she didn’t succeed.

“You’re right, I don’t. But that isn’t for lack of trying.” SHe could hear the tone in his voice changning and the last thing she wanted after a long day was to argue. They’d had their fair share of arguments over the past months but never over her trouble. Or his trouble for that matter.

“Duke, it’s been a long day. I’ve told you everything I know about this trouble. I don’t know what more you want.” She rose from the chair, her beer discarded on the floor, preparing to head to bed, that being her last word on the subject.

“If you don’t have anxiety around me anymore, why do you pull away anytime I almost touch you?” He reached for her then, proving his point as she recoiled like she’d been burned.

“Duke. I literally wear my heart on my sleeve. I can’t have any emotion without worrying if someone is going to feel it, to know how i feel all the time, or worse. What if I’m having a bad day and we touch, Duke? I can’t be the reason you drop stone cold in the middle of a work day.”

“Sometimes I just wanna know how you feel.” His voice was so quiet she almost didn’t hear it. Their beers were long forgotten next to their seats, too focused on the conversation at hand. “You never talk about how you’re feeling. So sometimes the urge to know is just there. I eventually pull away because I can see what the thought of me touching you does. I just,” he trailed off and she had no idea what she could say to make the situation better.

“You wanna know how I feel?” she decided on, and Duke just nodded so she pushed forward, afraid she would chicken out if she didn’t get it all out right now. “Promise me I’ll still have a job once you know?” He tried interrupting but she put her hand up, “Just promise me Duke.”

“I promise.” She didn’t wait for him to say anything else, just reached out and touched his arm. It was just a bare touch at first, just so he could get a taste of the emotions warring inside of her. When he didn’t pull away she pressed her hand firmly against his arm. She held it there for two, three seconds before pulling away, afraid of what would happen if she kept her hand on him.

Duke was still sitting upright when she was done, eyes kind of glassy but still open. She said nothing, just sat back down in her chair and watched as Duke processed all of the emotions she just threw at him. After several minutes of silence, she couldn’t take it anymore so she just started talking.

“I know the more you're exposed to it, the less it affects you. Probably why you didn’t pass out this time. And I wasn't terrified or anxious. I can’t promise those emotions won’t make you pass out.” Duke was staring at her and now she felt fear. She’d kept to herself for the past few months because if he knew how she felt, that she was in love with him, their friendship would be over. He’s in love with Audrey and She knows that, knows that she can never have him. But the longer she spent with him, the harder it was not to love him. Duke tried to act like he was this bad guy, but she saw beneath that exterior to the heart of gold within. And well, once you’ve seen Duke Crocker’s heart, it was next to impossible not to love him.

“That was,” he looked around as if trying to figure out what he wanted to say. He stood abruptly, grabbing her hand, tugging until she was standing with him as well.

“Duke, don’t.” But he just shushed her, holding onto her hand like his life depended on it. His eyes were no longer glassy but she could tell he was still feeling what she felt. She tried to put a lid on her emotions, lessen what he was feeling but when he was touching her, holding her hands, it was next to impossible. SHe knew he could feel the love rolling off of her in waves and she would have to deal with what happened next.

“Can you feel me?” His voice was strained but determined.

“I’ve never tried. Been too afraid.”The curiosity had always been there, if her trouble worked both ways. She’d never tried it, for fear of overwhelming the poor soul who agreed to help her.

“Try now.” She could hear the desperation in his voice so she focussed, digging through the emotions she was feeling. From what she could tell, they were all hers. She didn’t feel anything unfamiliar. SHe continued searching, trying to find something that didn't belong to her. Right when she was about to give up, a wave of affection hit her. She didn’t know how or why, but she knew that belonged to Duke.

“Duke,” she tried to speak but more emotions began to flood her senses, more affection, love, admiration and so many others she couldn’t name. She basked in the feelings, not even trying to hide the smile on her face. “Are those?”

“Mine,” he interrupted. “They’re mine.” A laugh bubbled out of her throat, a little wet with the tears she was holding back. She wanted to say so many things, but Duke released her hand, cupping her jaw and forcing her to meet his eyes. “I know,” he said as if he could understand her. And she guessed, like this, with all of the contact between them, that he could understand everything she couldn’t say. “When I’m projecting what I feel, it doesn’t overwhelm my senses as much. Kinda puts us on an even playing ground.” She couldn’t help the smile on her face, or the sparkle in her eyes.

“I need to know,” she broke off before she could finish, the smile falling from her lips at what she was about to say next. Duke said nothing, still holding her hands, giving her the time she needed to gather her thoughts. “What about Audrey?”

“Audrey,” he questioned, like she had no reason to worry about her. “I’m not in love with Audrey. I thought I was but then I met you. It’s like I was waiting for you.” She didn’t even try to hide her sigh of relief. She was smiling again, and now Duke’s face matched her own. “I don’t know when it happened, but it did. I’m in love with you.”

She couldn’t believe Duke was the first one to say it but she was so grateful he did. “I’m in love with you too, even though that goes without saying,” she gestured to where their hands were still laced together. “I know, the more we touch, you’ll eventually get used to the wave of emotions, hopefully,” she ended in a laugh.

“I’m willing to find out if you are.” Before she could even speak a reply, Duke’s lips were on hers, his hands snaking around her back to come to rest just below her butt. He lifted and out of instinct she wrapped her legs around his back so she didn’t fall. She knew there was no way he was getting them down the stairs like this, but she didn’t care at that moment. Duke continued to kiss her as he laid her down on one of the many tables on the deck. He pulled back with a smile before trailing kisses down her neck, pushing her shirt to the side to reach her collar bones.

“As much as I love where this is going, I would really love it if our first time was not on a dock where anyone could see us.” Duke just laughed before stepping back, offering a hand to help her up. He continued to hold her hand, even going down the ladder, only letting go when he ushered her into the room and locked the door behind them. She had no idea where her trouble would take her, but she was glad Duke was the one she would be finding it out with.

#my writing #my work #duke crocker #Duke Crocker x Reader #Duke Crocker x You #Duke Crocker Imagine #Haven Imagine

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